The Monk's Habit (The Disinherited Prince Series Book 2) Read online

  He hoped the guards would head to Okren Moss’s Inn before they continued their pursuit. Pol let Demeron take him to the little copse on the map where he happily rendezvoused with his three companions.

  Pol only had enough time to throw his saddlebags on Demeron and arm himself when he sensed fast moving riders at the far range of his senses.

  “Here they come,” Pol said.

  Demeron took the lead as they headed back east towards Goste. Pol wished there was a cornfield to hide in, but there wouldn’t be any cornfields in Lawster for a few months.

  Looking behind him, Pol could see the riders now that both groups were riding hard. Pol directed Demeron off the road, barely missing a group of merchants crowding the way with their wagons. They rode through plowed fields. Pol chanced to look back and couldn’t tell whether the Duke’s guards had followed.

  They turned right along another stretch of woods and entered, heading back west. They found another track heading south in the woods. Pol couldn’t locate the riders.

  “I think we lost them,” Paki said.

  Darrol shook his head. “It all depends on how determined they are. We will have to continue to take this trail and head towards the Spines.”

  Pol looked south at the jagged line of the Wild Spines, hoping that somewhere along that horizon he would reach his goal.

  ~~~

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ~

  THE PURSUIT DIDN’T REACH THEM. They spent the next few nights out in the open. At least Deena Moss had provided Darrol with a generous amount of food and skins. Pol didn’t usually think of girls, but he thought he would have liked to know the girl better. Perhaps if Ranno could help Deena, Pol might get a chance to see her again when he was cured and a few years older.

  The characteristic rocks of the foothills began to thicken as they got closer to the actual spines. They stopped at a village of woodcutters and furniture makers on the third night. The inn wasn’t much more than a watering hole for the locals, but they had a few rooms in the back for the odd merchant and the carters that carried wood and furniture north to the rest of Lawster.

  Pol stayed in his room while the other three asked about any local healers that could help Pol’s aching back from a fictitious riding accident. They returned. Kell helped himself to some of the pack food.

  “That was some vile stuff,” Kell said. He shook his head at Pol. “Be glad you didn’t join us. The tavern serves swill instead of ale.”

  “I didn’t think it was that bad,” Paki said. Pol knew Paki didn’t have the cultivated pallet that Kell did.

  Darrol finally entered Pol’s room. “No male healers about. Minweed doesn’t grow very well around here, but it grows best in Hardman at the west end of the Wild Spines. The best weed grows where the hardwood trees begin to give way to the pines.”

  “That means we could have gone along the south end and come north. It would have saved us days of travel.”

  Darrol laughed. “But think of the adventure. What would our lives be like without dear memories of Rocky Ridge?”

  The rest of them groaned, except for Paki.

  “We haven’t found Searl yet. Maybe we have already passed him.”

  Darrol shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t be satisfied with anything but the best of any medicinal herbs and potions. We will find him in the Duchy of Hardman, and then it will be a quick trip home along the Coast Road all the way to Mancus.”

  In a week or two, Pol would be healed and heading back to Deftnis to really learn. The thought kept him up during the night, but he felt the time spent thinking of such things a decent start to the day.

  ~

  As they headed further west, the Wild Spines became a bit less wild. The mountains began to lose their height. Pol felt a surge of relief when they passed a marker between the duchies of Lawster and Hardman.

  They still plied the trails that ran west through the foothills. They found a few inns to spend the nights, but the fare wasn’t much better than the woodcutters’ village. At last the lay of the land forced them to turn north and down to the edge of the foothills.

  Finally they reached a town that boasted three inns. Darrol led them to the nicest one. The stable boys let them care for their own horses.

  Demeron appreciated a good brushing and a bucket of grain. Pol smiled at their conversation as he finally finished up after the others. Demeron had a lot more skin to brush than the other horses.

  Pol even ate two helpings of the evening meal after their meager rations on the road. It seemed there wasn’t a decent cook in the foothills.

  Darrol tried the same ploy he had used at every inn along the way, and this time he asked the man who waited on them.

  “Healer? There is a hermit that was a healer, a day or two to the west. He used to come into the town to help the folks around here every three or four months. I don’t remember seeing him around for a year or more.”

  Pol felt his heart beat a little faster. “Did he use minweed?”

  “That’s what makes a hermit a hermit in these parts. The best minweed in all of Baccusol, maybe the world, is grown on the slopes around here. There are unsavory types in the hills who make a lot of money harvesting and transporting it. Some countries of the Empire have outlawed it. In fact, minweed is not allowed in this town.”

  “Why is that?” Paki said.

  “Once we outlawed it, the vagrants up and left. Made our town a better place to live.”

  The next day, they bought fresh supplies and headed west, finding trails up and down the foothills. They found the locals weren’t very friendly; in fact, most of them were males and looked more like criminals. What if someone had taken over Searl’s land and killed him?

  He hadn’t been seen in the town for a year, and perhaps the letter that arrived in Deftnis had been sent months before. Pol wouldn’t know until they found Searl or his remains.

  The skies began to lower on their second day from the town, and then it started to drizzle. The trail became slippery, and the euphoria of being close to Searl was diluted by the miserable weather.

  Kell’s horse slipped, and in the process of getting its legs underneath her, the mare threw Kell against a tree.

  Paki quickly dismounted. “Kell’s head is bleeding.”

  Pol jumped off Demeron and wrapped it with bandages that he had brought along. “He’s still unconscious.”

  “We’ll have to find a place to stop,” Darrol said. “Can you look ahead, Pol? Your locating skills stand a better chance of finding some shelter. We shouldn’t move him until we have to.”

  Pol nodded and climbed back on Demeron, and he rode along the trail for half an hour or so until he came to a track recently used by a single rider dragging a sledge of some kind. Perhaps a woodcutter lived around here.

  He followed the trail to a clearing. A large cottage overlooked a tiny pond with a stream running in and another stream running out. The place had a forlorn quality to it.

  A sorry-looking horse stood underneath a lean-to, munching on hay piled in a trough at the back. The sledge he had tracked still carried a partial hay bale. Pol didn’t see any wood-making tools, but he did note a spring garden with leafy vegetables, overgrown with weeds.

  Smoke curled up into the drizzle. Pol approached the building. It had seen better days, but as he got closer, he realized that it wasn’t as old as it looked. He dismounted and knocked on the door.

  An old man answered the door. His hair stuck out on all sides and a beard covered his chest. Looking at Pol with glazed eyes, he said, “What do you want? Turn around and go back down the hill. I don’t need any of what you’re selling, and that includes my land.”

  He slammed the door in Pol’s face, but then he opened it up again and looked at Demeron.

  “Is that a Shinkyan?”

  “He’s mine, and his name is Demeron.”

  “I assume you named him after the sleeping god, Demron, who sleeps in Fassia,” the man said, blinking as if trying to rem
ember the details. “You’re not a peddler, then?”

  “I’m a traveler. One of our party hit his head and is about half an hour to the east on a trail. We were wondering if we could camp in this meadow tonight? There aren’t many flat spots in these hills.”

  The man squinted at Pol. “No, there aren’t. You don’t look like a weeder. If you let me ride your horse, I’ll do it.”

  Pol struggled to help the old man into the saddle at which time the man began to flail the reins and kick the stirrups.

  “He won’t move without my permission.”

  “You can talk to him?”

  “And he to me,” Pol said. “I’ll still give you a ride.”

  They found the trail, and Pol located the three dots of his friends, surrounded by four other dots. “It appears they have attracted company,” Pol said.

  “Weeders. Curse of the Spines, they are,” the man said. “Don’t worry. I know most of them around here. Let’s go meet them.”

  This had to be Searl, but Pol didn’t ask the man anything. Only an educated man would recognize the source of Demeron’s name and his breed.

  They approached Darrol, standing with his sword out along with Paki.

  “Settle down boys,” the old man said. He squinted at Darrol. “Netherfield?”

  “Searl. It’s been awhile,” Darrol said.

  “Indeed it has.” Searl wiped his eyes. “It is you, isn’t it? My mind likes to play lots of games, these days.”

  Pol bet it did. He guessed that Searl was still in the thrall of a recent dose of the minweed.

  “They’s trespassing on our land,” one of the men said. “Gotta pay the toll. You stay outta this, Searl.”

  “This one is a friend of mine, and I imagine the others will soon be. Leave them, if you want to preserve your health.” Searl pulled a handful of weeds out of his pocket and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Pol could feel tension in the air. He sensed one of the dots moving through the woods, coming up behind Searl. He jumped off Demeron and threw his knife just as the man attacked.

  He turned and saw another dot approaching from where Kell lay and threw another knife, this time using his magic to enhance his aim and strength of his throw. Two weeders were down.

  The one who had confronted Darrol and knew Searl ran down the path slipping in the mud a few times before disappearing from view.

  “There is still one out there,” Pol pointed to where the dot was.

  “A locator and a pattern master?” Searl said. “You are another Deftnis monk! I didn’t know. You should be too young to have learned those techniques.”

  Pol noted the location dot turn and leave their vicinity.

  “That was too easy for you,” Searl said, weaving in the saddle. “Ah, it’s taking effect.” His eyes glazed even more and he threw his arms out before he fell into Darrol’s arms.

  “He is still an addict. Lucky we caught him just as he had chewed a dose. It hadn’t gotten to him yet. Can you find your way back to his place?”

  Pol nodded.

  Darrol and Paki draped Searl over Demeron and tied Kell to his own horse with his head tucked underneath some wadded up clothing on his horse’s neck.

  “Want to keep the head elevated, and that’s the best we can do,” Darrol said.

  “He recognized you,” Pol said.

  Darrol nodded. “Searl was an exceptionally smart man before his habit overcame him.”

  “I could tell. He knew how I had come up with Demeron’s name and that he was a Shinkyan stallion.” Pol walked in front of Demeron, who didn’t need to be led. They didn’t move any slower than Demeron had walked in the bad conditions.

  Eventually they made it to Searl’s place. There was barely enough room underneath the long lean-to for all five horses. Demeron let Pol know that he would take care of his friends.

  Searl’s cabin was a mess inside, but it looked like it had been tidied up from time to time, so it didn’t take long to find a place for Kell. They just dumped Searl on his bed. He thought that Searl might be living in filth, but his cabin seemed to be merely disorderly.

  Pol looked around. Herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling and vegetables were in hand-carved wooden bowls. A large bowl held a fresh batch of bluish leaves. They reminded Pol of mint leaves with the jagged edges.

  “Minweed?”

  Darrol nodded. “This is fresh. I’ll bet it grows all over the place up here. Let’s build up the fire and look around, if the drizzle hasn’t returned.”

  A few minutes later, Paki, Darrol, and Pol walked up to the vegetable patch. Bluish green weeds wound their way through all of the vegetables. Searl must have more lucid moments since the vegetable plot had spring plants in varying stages of growth.

  “I’ve never seen minweed like this. I saw dried leaves before, but not fresh, and it grows in abundance,” Darrol said. “It’s an addict’s dream.”

  “So, Searl is dreaming his dream,” Paki said.

  Pol checked Demeron to see if the horses needed any water, but was told they’d had enough for the day.

  The three of them walked back into Searl’s cabin. It looked big enough for a large family, and maybe there was at one time. Pol climbed up into the loft. It hadn’t been touched for quite a while, but it was dry and warm now that a fire heated the cabin.

  Paki and Pol cleaned up the loft as best they could while Darrol watched over Kell.

  “He’s still out, but he looks okay.” Darrol said, once the pair of them had lugged Darrol’s things up into the loft along with theirs. Kell’s belongings stayed on the main floor.

  Searl started and sat up. “Where is the fire?”

  “In the fireplace,” Darrol said.

  The disgraced monk looked towards the hearth and the fire abruptly stopped burning. Smoke funneled up from the hearth and the cabin started to cool off.

  “I see why he’d want to be alone. Are we safe tonight?” Paki said.

  “Until the old man wakes up,” Darrol said.

  Pol didn’t like the trace of fear in Darrol’s words.

  ~~~

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ~

  THE FORMER MONK SLEPT while Pol and his two companions continued to clean up the cabin, and then moved outside after putting some order into Searl’s place.

  “We should be on alert. We killed two men yesterday. Their friends might seek revenge,” Darrol said as they rested on the rickety porch tacked in front of the cottage.

  “Don’t be,” Searl said, walking out into the sunlight. He looked towards the sun and stretched. “The weeders have a rule against robbing travelers. It will bring the Duke of Hardman’s forces into the hills and put a temporary halt to their activities.”

  Searl walked over to his well and drew a bucket of water and threw it over him, clothes and all.

  “We stayed the night,” Darrol said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Searl shook his head. “I don’t like company, but the boy inside will need to stay for a week or so.” He looked around at his yard. “I see you’ve already started to pay me back. I’ve got some other chores for you.”

  “Have you taken a look at Kell?”

  Searl nodded. “Not much I can do but stop a bit of the internal bleeding. His body will have to do the rest. He’ll be out for another day or so. As long as he’s not moved, he’ll recover.” Searl grimaced, and then closed his eyes, wavering on his feet.

  “Is something wrong?” Pol asked.

  The monk gave Pol a funny look. “Something is always wrong. Why do you think I’m up here? You all know you’re at risk staying with me.”

  Darrol barked out a laugh. “As long as you kill the fire and not me.”

  “Kill the fire?” Searl said.

  Paki looked at Pol and then at the monk. “You woke up and saw the fire burning. You snuffed out the flame with a look.”

  Searl laughed, a little painfully in Pol’s view. “Sleep out of my sight, then.”

  “We did,”
Darrol said. “The loft is a bit more habitable now.”

  The monk nodded. He looked longingly at the vegetable patch. “I’ll write out a list of supplies for you to get at Hill Creek, the closest village. You can get whatever you want there. The weeders won’t follow you if you take the west path.” He pointed to a break in the bushes where the trail must have begun.

  Searl walked over to the vegetable patch and pulled up a stalk of bluish leaves. Minweed, Pol concluded, and, after tearing off the roots, stuffed it whole into his mouth. Without another word he returned to the cabin.

  Pol followed him in.

  “I’ll be gone for most of the day, but I’ve got some minutes until I am back in the arms of my addiction.” He gave Pol a mirthless laugh and scribbled out a list.

  Pol had to ask him what some of the words were. He recognized the illegible handwriting from the letter Searl had written the Abbot in the wintertime.

  ~

  “Do you think Paki will be safe?” Pol asked.

  Darrol chuckled. “If Searl is in his cabin, where do you think Paki will be?”

  “Outside.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  They continued to ride westward and descended into a cultivated valley. A village sat at the far end. The path followed one side of a large, meandering stream. Crops and orchards dotted the valley floor. It seemed like an idyllic place to live, but Pol thought it might be a bit claustrophobic for him.

  “Hill Creek,” Darrol said.

  The village reminded Pol of the one he had visited during his trip with the North Salvan army last summer. The streets weren’t cobbled, and the previous day’s rain had turned the streets into mud. Demeron’s large hoofs made loud squishing sounds as he plodded along. The village was a busy place with other horses, carts, and even a carriage traveling up and down the main street.

  “Jadekin’s General Store,” Pol said, looking at the script, and then at the sign. “Here we are.”

  They tied their horses up outside the store and walked in. It was clear the style of clothes in Hill Creek didn’t match their own. Pol endured the stares and realized there might not be too many visitors that came this way.