Marcus hesitated for a moment as his eyes settled on the thin piece of paper held tightly in his grip. The weight of the message it carried seemed to add years to his face as he rubbed his brow, the weariness settling in deeply. “Shadows take you, Lucianus,” he muttered to himself, his voice weighed down by exasperation. “On my mother’s grave, one of these days, you will be the end of me.”
He took a steadying breath and turned, exiting his dimly lit room. The monastery’s hallways were bathed in a soft, warm light filtering through the gaps in the heavy drapery covering the windows. It was early morning but also several hours after anyone in the monastery would get up—dawn was already late morning for [Monks].
“Hadrian,” Marcus banged on the door but received no reply.
Well, it was late for most [Monks].
After more banging on the door, a bleary-eyed, middle-aged [Monk] looked grumpily at Marcus as he opened the door.
“What?”
“You have mail,” Marcus stated tersely, holding up the slip of paper, the edges of which crinkled by his tight grip. Refraining from punching the man’s teeth out was hard.
Hadrian raised an eyebrow, suddenly more alert. His fatigue momentarily forgotten, he cast a wary glance over Marcus, the previous diffidence in his demeanor replaced by a spark of interest. "From whom?"
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
“Our mutual acquaintance,” Marcus replied, his gaze hardening, ensuring that Hadrian grasped the gravity of his words.
After a moment's thought, Hadrian stepped aside, nodding. “Come inside.”
...
Marcus sat in the dimly lit room, the warm scent of spiced tea emanating from the ceramic mug cradled in his hands. Meanwhile, Brother Hadrian perused the slip of paper with interest, “Fascinating.”
“He broke through,” Marcus said matter-of-factly.
“He did,” Brother Hadrian straightened up in his chair, looking troubled at the revelation.
“I can’t read the rest because of your stupid ciphers—what does he say? And is that enough to trade?” Marcus asked.
Brother Hadrian looked around the room and then at his guest in silence.
“It’s safe here,” Marcus sighed, but the other man looked wary. “Damn your cursed class, Hadrian! Is it enough or not?!”
“It is,” Brother Hadrian, recovering from the surprise of the message, scowled at the other. “Where have you two been?”
“Huh?”
“You meatheaded idiot, what did you trifle with?” The mysterious [Monk] pressed him. “The thing Lucianus asked me about—what did you disturb?”
Feeling the weight of the monk's gaze, Marcus straightened, his defensive posture echoing the gravity of the situation, “Lucianus told you?”
Without answering directly, Brother Hadrian quickly scribbled something onto the same slip of paper, passing it with a sense of urgency. Marcus's eyes darted across the message.
“What is this?” The [Monk] read the words and looked up.
“I have only marginal information, Marcus, but Lucianus must refrain from using it! I have historical accounts of calamities tied to books like this one!”
“A book? He wants to trade all that knowledge for information on... a book?”
“You must tell him not to peruse that book, idiot! Send word immediately!”
“Why?” Marcus frowned.
“Because if he does, he will lose everything.”