The Cleric Quintet: Canticle
Canticle

 
"They are singing to it!" Druzil cried in amazement, not certain of whether that was a good thing or not. The religious fanatics of Castle Trinity had taken the potion to heart; even the not-so-faithful, such as Ragnor and, by Aballister's estimation, Barjin, had been swept up in the zealous flow. "Though not very well, I fear." The imp put his wings over his ears to lessen the sound.
Aballister, too, did not enjoy the discordant wails that resounded throughout the castle complex with a zeal that walls and doors could not diminish, but he tolerated the clerics better than his worrisome imp. The wizard, too, was not without his reservations, though. Ever since the battle in the dining hall four weeks before, Barjin had forcefully taken the project as his own and had led the chorus of chants to the Most Fatal Horror.
"Barjin has the wealth," Druzil reminded the wizard, as though the imp had sensed Aballister's thoughts.
Aballister replied with a grim nod. "I fear that my insult has been turned back on me," he explained, moving slowly to the window and looking out over the Shining Plains. "By naming the chaos curse the Most Fatal Horror, I sought to demean Barjin, to weaken Percival position, but he has weathered the torment and resisted his prideful urging better than I had expected. All the followers believe his sincerity, to Talona and to the chaos curse." Aballister sighed. On the one hand, he was disappointed that his ploy had not stung Barjin, at least not outwardly, but on the other hand, the priest leader, sincere or not, was surely preparing Castle Trinity for the coming trials and thus was furthering Talona's will.
"If the followers believe our mixture is a simple magical concoction, no matter how potent, they will not so readily give their lives to the cause," Aballister reasoned, turning back on Druzil.
"There is nothing like religion to rouse the rabble."
"You do not believe the elixir is an agent of Talona?" Druzil asked, though he already knew the answer.
"I know the difference between a magical concoction and a sentient shield man," Aballister replied dryly. "The elixir will indeed serve the Lady of Poison's cause, and so its title is a fitting one."
"Barjin has put all the forces of Castle Trinity behind him," Druzil quickly responded, his tone ominous. "Even Ragnor does not dare go against him."
"Why would he, or anyone else, want to?" Aballister replied. "The chaos curse soon will be put to proper use, and Barjin has played a major role in that."
"At what price?" the imp demanded. "I gave the recipe for the chaos curse to you, my master, not the priest. Yet it is the priest who controls its fate and uses you and the other wizards to serve his own designs "
"We are a brotherhood, sworn to loyalty."
"You are a gathering of thieves," Druzil retorted. "Be not so swift in presuming the existence of honor. If Ragnor did not fear you, and did not see profit in keeping you, he would cut you down.
Barjin-" Druzil rolled his bulbous eyes "-Barjin cares for nothing except Barjin. Where are his scars? His tattoos? He does not deserve his title, nor the leadership of the priests. He falls to his knees for the goddess only because doing so makes those around him praise him for his holiness. There is nothing religious-"
"Enough, dear Druzil," soothed the wizard, waving one hand calmly.
"Do you deny that Barjin controls the chaos curse?" Druzil retorted. "Do you believe that Barjin would show any loyalty to Aballister if he did not need Aballister?"
The wizard walked away from the small window and fell back into his wooden chair, unable to argue those points. But even if he admitted that he had miscalculated, he could do little now to stop events from following their course. Barjin had the elixir and the money, and if Aballister meant to recapture control of the potion for himself, he might have to fight a war within the triumvirate. Aballister and his wizard comrades were powerful, but they were only three. With Barjin whipping the hundreds of Castle Trinity soldiers into religious fervor, the wizards had become somewhat secluded within the complex.
"They have added rituals and conditions," the imp went on, spitting every word with distaste. "Did you know that Barjin has placed warding glyphs on the flask, so that it might be opened only by an innocent?"
"That is a typical priestly ploy," Aballister replied casually, trying to alleviate Druzil's worries.
"He does not understand the power under his control," Druzil retorted. "The chaos curse needs no
'priestly ploys.'"
Aballister gave an unconcerned shrug, but he, too, had not agreed with Barjin's decision concerning those glyphs. Barjin thought that allowing an innocent to serve as an unintentional catalyst was fitting for the agent of the chaotic goddess, but Aballister feared that the cleric was simply adding conditions to an already complicated process.
"Barjin quiesta pas tellemara," Druzil muttered.
Aballister narrowed his eyes. He had heard that obviously unflattering phrase in many different contexts these last few weeks, most often aimed at him. He kept his suspicions to himself, though, realizing that many of Druzil's complaints were valid.
"Perhaps it is time for the Most Fatal Horror to go out and perform Talona's will beyond this pile of rocks," Aballister said. "Perhaps we have spent too long in preparation."
"Barjin's power is too consolidated," Druzil said. "Do not underestimate him."
Aballister nodded, then rose and walked across the room. "You should not underestimate," he pointed out to the imp, "the advantages in convincing people that there is a higher purpose to their actions, a higher authority guiding their leaders' decisions." The wizard opened the heavy door, and the unholy canticle drowned out Percival next words. More than Barjin's handful of clerics were singing; the canticle was a hundred screaming voices strong, echoing off the stone walls with frantic urgency. Aballister shook his head in disbelief as he exited.
Druzil could not deny Barjin's effectiveness in preparing the force for the tasks ahead, but the imp still held reservations about the Most Fatal Horror and all the complications that title implied. The imp knew, if the wizard did not, that Aballister would not have an easy time of walking away with the elixir bottle.
* * * * *
"More like this one," Cadderly said to Ivan Bouldershoulder, a square-shouldered dwarf with a yellow beard hanging low enough to trip him if he didn't watch his step. The two were beside Cadderly's bed-Cadderly kneeling and Ivan standing-examining a tapestry depicting the legendary war wherein the elvish race had been split into surface and drow. Only half unrolled, the huge woven cloth still covered the bed. "The design is right, but its shaft might be a little tight for my darts."
Ivan pulled out a small stick, notched at regular intervals, and took some measurements of the hand-held crossbow Cadderly had indicated, then of the arm of the drow elf holding it. "They'll fit," the dwarf replied, confident of his work. He looked across the room to his brother, Pikel, who busied himself with several models Cadderly had constructed. "You got the bow?"
Engrossed in his play, Pikel didn't even hear him. He was older than Ivan by several years, but he was by far the less serious of the two. They were about the same size, though Pikel was a bit more round-shouldered, an attribute exaggerated by his loose-fitting, drooping robes. His beard was green this week, for he had dyed it in honor of the visiting druids. Pikel liked druids, a fact that made his brother roll his eyes and blush. It wasn't usual that a dwarf would get on well with woodland folk, but Pikel was far from usual. Rather than let his beard hang loose to his toes, as did Ivan, he parted it in the middle and pulled it back over his huge ears, braiding it together with his hair to hang halfway down his back. It looked rather silly to Ivan, but Pikel, the library's cook, thought it practical for keeping his beard out of the soup. Besides, Pikel didn't wear the boots common to his race; he wore sandals-a gift from the druids-and his long beard tickled his free-wiggling, gnarly toes.
"Oo oi," Pikel chuckled, rearranging the models. One was remarkably similar to the Edificant Library, a squat, square, four-storied structure with rows of tiny windows. Another model was a displaced wall like those in the library, supported by huge, heavily blocked arches. It was the third and tallest model that intrigued Pikel. It, too, was of a wall, but unlike anything the dwarf, no novice to masonry, had ever seen. The model stood straight to half the dwarfs four-foot height but was not nearly as wide or bulky as the other, shorter, wall. Slender and graceful, it was really two structures: the wall and a supporting pillar, connected by two bridges, one halfway up and the other at the very top.
Pikel pushed down hard on the model, but, fragile though it appeared, it did not bend under his considerable strength.
"Oo oi!" the delighted dwarf squealed.
"The crossbow?" demanded Ivan, now standing behind Pikel. Pikel fumbled about the many pockets in his cook's apron, finally handing over a small wooden coffer.
Pikel squeaked at Cadderly, pointed to the strange wall, and gave an inquisitive look.
"Just something I investigated a few months ago," Cadderly explained. He tried to sound nonchalant, but a clear trace of excitement rang in his voice. With all that had been going on lately, he had almost forgotten the models, though the new design had shown remarkable promise.
The Edificant Library was far from a mundane structure. Elaborate sculptures, enhanced by the ivy, covered its walls, and some of the most wondrous gargoyles in all the Realms completed its intricate and effective gutter system. Many of the finest minds in the region had designed and constructed the place, but whenever Cadderly looked upon it, all that he could see were its limitations. For all its detail, the library was square and squat, and its windows were small and unremarkable.
"An idea for expanding the library," he explained to Pikel. He gathered up a nearby blanket and slipped it under the model of the library, folding its sides to resemble the rough surrounding mountain terrain.
Ivan shook his head and walked back to the bed, knowing that Cadderly and Pikel could continue their outlandish conversations for hours on end.
"Centuries ago, when the library was built," Cadderly began, "no one had any idea it would grow so large. The founders wanted a secluded spot where they could study in private, so they chose the high passes of the Snowflake Mountains. Most of the northern and eastern wings, as well as the third and fourth stories were added much later, but we have run out of room. To the front and both sides, the ground slopes too steeply to allow further expansion without supports, and to the west, behind us, the mountain stone is too tough to be properly cleared away."
"Oh?" muttered Pikel, not so sure of that. The Bouldershoulder brothers had come from the forbidding Galena Mountains, far to the north beyond Vaasa, where the ground was ever frozen and the stones were as tough as any in the Realms. But not too tough for a determined dwarf! Pikel kept Percival thoughts private, though, not wanting to halt Cadderly's mounting momentum.
"I think we should go up," Cadderly said casually. "Add a fifth, and possibly sixth level."
"It'd never hold," grumbled Ivan from the bed, not so intrigued and wanting to get back to the business of the crossbow.
"Aha!" said Cadderly, pointing a finger straight up in the air. Ivan knew by the look on Cadderly's face that he had played right into the young man's hopes. Cadderly did so love doubters where his inventions were concerned.
"The aerial buttress!" the young priest proclaimed, holding his hands out to the strange, two-structured wall.
"Oo oi!" agreed Pikel, who had already tested the wall's strength.
"There's one for the faeries," grumbled a doubting Ivan. "Look at it, Ivan," Cadderly said reverently. "One for the faeries, indeed, if that phrase implies grace. The strength of the design cannot be underestimated. The bridges displace stress so that the walls, with minimal stonework, can hold much more than you might believe, leaving incredible possibilities for window designs."
"Sure, from the top," the dwarf replied gruffly, "but how might it take a giant's ram on the side?
And what about the wind? There are mighty cross-breezes up here, and mightier still if you go building higher!"
Cadderly spent a long moment considering the aerial buttress. Every time he looked upon the model, he was filled with hope. He thought that a library should be an enlightening place, physically and mentally, and while the Edificant Library was surrounded by impressive grounds and mountain views, it remained a dark and thick-stoned place. The popular architecture of the time required massive stone foundations and did not allow for large windows. In the world of the Edificant Library, sunlight was something to be enjoyed outside. "Scholars should not sit squinting by candlelight, even at midday, to read their tomes," Cadderly argued.
"The greatest weapons in all the world were forged in deep holes by my ancestors," Ivan countered.
"It was just the beginnings of an idea," mumbled Cadderly defensively, suddenly agreeing with Ivan that they should get back to the crossbow. Cadderly did not doubt his design's potential, but he realized that he would have a hard time convincing a dwarf, who had lived a century in tight tunnels, of the value of sunlight.
Ever sympathetic, Pikel put a hand on Cadderly's shoulder.
"Now for the bow," Ivan said, opening the wooden coffer. The dwarf gently lifted a small, nearly completed crossbow, beautifully constructed and resembling the bow depicted on the tapestry. "The work's making me thirsty!"
"The scroll is nearly translated," Cadderly assured him, not missing the reference to the ancient dwarven mead recipe he had promised in return for the crossbow. Cadderly had actually translated the recipe many weeks before but had held it back, knowing that Ivan would complete the bow more quickly with such a prize dangling just out of his reach.
"That's good, boy," Ivan replied, smacking his lips. "You get your bow in a week, but I'll need the picture to finish it. You got something smaller showing it?"
Cadderly shook his head. "All I have is the tapestry," he admitted.
"You want me to walk through the halls with a stolen tapestry under me arm?" Ivan roared.
"Borrowed," Cadderly corrected.
"With Headmistress Pertelope's blessings?" Ivan asked sarcastically.
"Uh oh," added Pikel.
"She will never miss it," Cadderly replied, unconvincingly. "If she does, I will tell her that I needed it to confirm some passages in the drow tome I am translating."
"Pertelope knows more of drow than does yerself," Ivan reminded him. "She's the one who gave you the book!"
"Uh oh," Pikel said again.
"The mead is blacker than midnight," Cadderly said offhandedly, "so the recipe says. It would kill a fair-sized tree if you poured only a pint of it along the roots."
"Get the other end," Ivan said to Pikel. Pikel pulled his mushroom-shaped cook's cap over the tangle of green hair, which made his ears stick out even farther, then helped Ivan roll the tapestry up tight. They hoisted it together while Cadderly cracked open the door and made sure that the hall was empty.
Cadderly glanced over his shoulder at the diminishing angle of the shining sun through his window.
His floor was marked in measured intervals to serve as a morning clock. "A few minutes to noon,"
he said to the dwarves. "Brother Chaunticleer will begin the midday canticle soon. All the host priests are required to attend and most of the others usually go. The way should be clear."
Ivan gave Cadderly a sour look.
"Tut-tut," muttered Pikel, shaking his furry face and wagging a finger at Cadderly.
"I will get there!" Cadderly growled at them. "No one notices if I am just a few moments late."
The melody began then, Brother Chaunticleer's perfect soprano wafting gently through the corridors of the ancient library. Every noon, Chaunticleer ascended to his place at the podium of the library's great hall to sing two songs, the respective legends of Deneir and Oghma. Many scholars came to the library to study, it was true, but many others came to hear the renowned Chaunticleer.
He sang a cappella but could fill the great hall and the rooms beyond with his amazing four-octave voice so fully that listeners had to look at him often just to make sure that no choir stood behind him.
Oghma's song was first tins day, and under the cover of that energetic and rousing tune, the brothers Bouldershoulder bounced and stumbled their way down two curving stairways and through a dozen too-tight doorways to their quarters beside the library's kitchen.
Cadderly entered the great hall at about the same time, slipping quietly through the high oaken double doors and moving to the side, behind a large arch support.
"Aerial buttress," he couldn't help but mutter, shaking his head in dismay at the bulky pillar. He realized then that he had not entered unnoticed. Kierkan Rufo smiled at him from the shadows of the next nearest arch.
Cadderly knew that the conniving Rufo had waited for him, seeking new fuel for Headmaster Avery's ire, and he knew that Avery would not excuse his tardiness. Cadderly pretended not to care, not wanting to give Rufo the satisfaction. He pointedly looked away and pulled out his spindle-disks, an archaic weapon used by ancient halfling tribesmen of southern Luiren. The device consisted of two circular rock crystal disks, each a finger's breadth wide and a finger's length in diameter, joined in their centers by a small bar on which was wrapped a string. Cadderly had discovered the weapon in an obscure tome and had actually improved on the design, using a metal connecting bar with a small hole through which the string could be threaded and knotted rather than tied.
Cadderly slipped his finger through the loop on the string's loose end. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the spindle-disks rolling down the length of the string, then brought them spinning back to his hand with a slight jerk of his finger.
Cadderly sneaked a look out of the comer of his eye. Knowing that he had Rufo's attention, he sent the disks down again, quickly looped the string over the fingers of his free hand to form a triangle, and held the still-spinning disks in the middle, rocking them back and forth like a baby's cradle. Rufo was leaning forward now, mesmerized by the game, and Cadderly didn't miss the opportunity.
He released the string from his cradling hand, gathering the spindle-disks too suddenly for the eye to follow, then flicked them out straight at his rival. The string brought the flying device back to Cadderly's hand before it got halfway to Rufo, but the startled man stumbled backward and toppled. Cadderly congratulated himself for his timing, for Rufo's noisy descent coincided with the most dramatic pause in Brother Chaunticleer's song.
"Ssshhh!" came the angry hisses from every direction, and Cadderly's was not the least among them.
It seemed that Headmaster Avery would have two students to discipline that night.