“For the love of Dartos!” He cursed as Sonder stood and collected all of the coins on the table with a laugh.
***
“Well done,” Connal said, clearly relieved the game was over.
“Oh not at all,” Sonder said. “That was pure luck. They're hardly worth provoking. Now though,” he pressed his newly won gold into the young man’s hands, “it’s your turn.”
“Now?” Connal asked, terrified.
“No better time,” Sonder said, pulling out the chair for his new friend. “You just keep your mouth shut though,” he said softly. “The hairy one is not to be trifled with.”
Connal nodded and dropped Sonder’s eight sided die back into the grubby brown bag and waited for his turn to draw a new one. Sonder called for more ale, feeling giddy as Jonuh came around and handed him another mug with a flash in his eye. Sonder was only half paying attention to Connal as the game began again. He followed Jonuh's silhouette with his eyes as long as he could before his lithe form disappeared in the crowd.
Sonder was about to turn his gaze back to the table when he noticed something unusual. There, in the farthest, darkest corner of the Pretty Priestess, sat an honest-to-gods priest. Sonder’s ale-laden mind could not produce his name at the moment, but there was no mistaking the man, even though he wore a dark cloak that obscured the Lantonian robes that Sonder knew were underneath. While it was certainly not forbidden for a priest to drink, the Way teaches that drinking in large congregations contributes to laziness and delinquency, and therefore pubs and taverns were required by law to be built outside of city limits and were only frequented by, well, degenerates such as Sonder. If this priest of Lantos were caught away from the Godskeep at this hour, and at a tavern on top of that…he risked a hefty penance or even a fine. Perhaps that was why the priest sat so sour-faced, not even looking at the ale the serving boy had placed before him.
Sonder heard a cry go up around him as some player or other rolled a good number. He ignored them, half considering strolling over to the priest, if not to discover his purpose, then at least to see the look on his face when the once future Keeper found him sitting in this den of sin. He changed his mind, however, when the priest was approached by a woman in ragged, faded black robes, also with her hood raised to conceal her face. The priest, apparently a gentleman, stood to his feet at her approach, and then both parties took a seat and began conversing. They did not speak for long. After no more than two minutes, the priest stood, bowed quickly, and hurried out the door, holding his hood to his face to make sure no one would see him.
Another cry went up at the table.
“Sonder? Milord?” Connal was saying. “Did you see? I…I lost.”
“Hm?” Sonder turned his attention back to the lad.
“I lost,” Connal said thickly. His eyes were unfocused. Too much ale, Sonder thought. He realized his own world was a bit unfocused too. How many have I had?
“Ah well,” Sonder said, clapping Connal on the back in consolation.
“But I lost your gold.”
Sonder raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Not all of it surely?”
The look on Connal’s face said, Yes, all of it. Sonder sighed, but gave Connal a bracing smile.
“Come lad,” he said. “It's time we return.”
Arm around his shoulders for support, Sonder led them through the throng of reeling patrons. As they lumbered through the door, Sonder turned his gaze to the dark corner where the woman in the ragged cloak still sat with her back to him. She had not moved. Perhaps she was awaiting another wayward priest. Sonder did not have much time to ponder as Connal was leaning more and more into his shoulders, groaning. He seemed to be regretting his decision to come with Sonder tonight. He was moaning, “Mum’s going to kill me” over and over, his breath sour and potent.
“We’re not going to your mum’s,” Sonder grunted. “The Holy Guard sleep in the barracks at the top of that bloody hill.”
The climb up the Holy Road was as unpleasant as ever, and doubly so with Connal using Sonder's person as a crutch. The slope, mercifully shallow as it was, nonetheless had Sonder’s calves burning by the time they reached the top. He needed to train more, evidently. Years upon years of studying sacred texts may have sharpened his mind, but it had done nothing to guard against the sharp pains in his legs and arms as he half-dragged the large man up to the Godskeep.
At this time of night, the gate that opened the immense, triangular walls of the Godskeep would be closed and barred with the guard posted, likely old man Eerin. Friendly as the old guard was, Sonder would prefer to avoid any chance of altercation, especially given his current ale-laden state. What would his father say if the guardsman reported he had demanded entrance at such an ungodly hour, dragging a clearly inebriated young man with him? He didn't fear his father's words so much as his actions. He would not put it past the Keeper to have Sonder turned out, and while leaving the Godskeep was his eventual goal, Sonder wasn't ready for that quite yet. They would have to go around the long way. With some effort, he turned their steps just before they were in sight of the guards standing sentry atop the battlements of the gatehouse, stumbling through the rose bushes and other shrubbery that outlined the walls of the Godskeep. They came to the postern door, small, unguarded—but locked.
“We go through there?” Connal asked, dubious and drunk.
Wordlessly Sonder produced a key and ushered him inside. “See that building there?” Sonder pointed. “That is the barracks. The Holy Guard doesn't approve of night wanderers, so you'll need to be a good lad and keep quiet.”
“Do they know I'm coming?”
“No,” Sonder replied. He thought of the rows of empty beds therein and chuckled quietly, “But don't worry. There's plenty of room.”
As silent as two slowly sobering young men could be, Sonder and Connal made their way across the inner bailey to the barracks of the Holy Guard. As Sonder had hinted, the Holy Guard was woefully understaffed. Its ranks had once numbered in the thousands, and had thus warranted the massive structure that had housed them. Second in size only to the Hall of Ceremony, the barracks was several stories high, and had been designed in clean, utilitarian fashion to allow sleeping quarters for its soldiers. Bunks had been crafted into the walls themselves, three deep and spaced so tightly that they reminded Sonder of a crypt.
Using the same master key he had used on the postern door, Sonder let himself and Connal into a side door of the barracks, and led him to the building's central hallway. Their footsteps were easily muffled by the sounds of snoring and the mumbling of the men who slept in the bunks to either side, and Sonder had no trouble in finding an unoccupied bunk for Connal. Once the lad was situated in his bed and on his way to his first ale-induced slumber, Sonder left him to head toward a less populated sleeping area where he preferred to spend his nights.
He took a flight of slightly crumbling stairs to the fourth story of the barracks, where, so his readings told him, the highest ranking officers had once lived when the barracks had still been used to its full capacity. Here there were no bunks embedded within the walls, no sepulchral compartments in which to sleep. Instead, Sonder crossed the wide, open chamber to one of the six four-poster beds at the other end, and, in one fluid motion, kicked off his boots and let himself fall face-first onto soft, down pillows. He had discovered this little haven after spending several sleepless nights in the guards’ regular quarters, and, after some careful questioning of the veteran members of the Holy Guard, had discovered that the fourth floor was kept in good condition on the off chance that a high ranking military official ever visited, and was rarely occupied. If he ever felt guilty about sleeping above his station, Sonder reminded himself that someday, when he was a mercenary, he would be forced to spend his nights sleeping on the cold hard ground with nothing but his sword for a bed-mate, so he might as well take advantage of such comforts while they were still available to him.
As he was drifting off to sleep, his mind swarmed with glimpses and thoughts of the black-robed woman and the Lantonian priest in the tavern. Maybe she was there to give a confession? Any wrongdoing could be forgiven by the gods if they were confessed to a priest. Maybe she was seeking his blessing. Unbidden, Sonder’s mind called forth the memory of a prayer all followers of the Way were taught as children. He spoke it softly:
“Bless us Sun, and bless us Moon
Bless us Stars, within this room
Where I lay my head to sleep
For Your Way, I shall keep
For Your Way, I shall keep.”
A flash of blinding pain shot through him, as he felt the grasp of some fiery hand grip the back of his shoulder. It was blinding, white hot. Daggers of pain radiated from the vice grip of the fingers clutching at his back. It burned hotter than anything, sharper than anything he had ever felt before. He gave a yelp of pain.
The sensation stopped.
Where he had just felt that flaming, agonizing touch a moment ago, Sonder now felt the cool breeze blowing in from the open window. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
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