There, on the balcony, Roge felt the lifeless stares of the dead acolytes bore into him from the courtyard below. He pushed himself to his feet, careful to lean on his right hand to avoid the pained, broken left. There was no reason to hide. The gate to the monastery was wide open, with no one else in sight, the only life left in the monastery were the dallens in their coups.
The Duke’s retinue had started climbing down the mountain. They must not have reached their horses yet, or he would have seen the dust cloud covering their retreat as if their sins could be so simply hidden.
His heart could not contain any more sorrow. He turned around, stumbling on his scraped foot and one sandal, taking doddering steps back into the chamber.
Opening the cabinet where the acolytes kept material to clean the dead, he found some water and used it to cleanse his many wounds and lacerations. He used one of the shrouds to dub at the drying blood, then, using his one good hand and his teeth, he ripped strips from the shroud and bandaged his foot. His tongue ached every time he bit down, having swollen to encompass all of his mouth. Every hurt and ache reminded him that he was still alive, and an inner flame, all black, was burning inside, driving him.
Tying the bandage one-handed was no easy feat. He resorted to standing on one end while using his hand to weave the other end of the strip through. Foot now covered with a shredded shroud, he took slow steps out of the building. Shutting the building as his last way of fulfilling his namesake role, Roge Lifebane descended down into the courtyard.
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The five dead bodies, his only family, lay in pools of blood in the courtyard. He bent down, caressing the boys’ cheeks, closing their eyes, straightening their hair.
His tears were falling down constantly, though he was not aware of his crying until they splashed on Stephye Mortguard’s face. At first, he thought one of the rare rains had come to the monastery to clear away this nightmare he was seeing. He looked up at the sky, but only the uncaring blue stared back at him as if this were a day like any other. Touching his finger to his face, he brought it up to his eyes and saw that it was wet. The body of Rancis Essenceblight, his best friend, was hardest of all to see.
He could not look at the bodies any longer. In their muteness, they demanded a response.
Leaving them there, he went to prepare.
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He found a sandal that matched his missing one and put it on. He searched through the discarded items that pilgrims had left in the monastery over the years. Edmur Eyser had generously called these donations, and in truth, some were given freely and with good intentions. Some were just items the dead no longer needed, and the pilgrims had no use for, and some were just forgotten and never reclaimed. The climb up to the monastery was arduous, and doing so for an old tunic left behind was beyond most people’s desires.
He found a pair of pants that fit and a couple of shirts he could wear. Discarding his habit, he put these on, unused to how they felt on his body. A rope belt completed the ensemble.
Taking one of the packs that he used to bring provisions up the mountain, he collected smoked dallen, a water skin, and the spare shirts into it. He took two large knives from the kitchen, the biggest ones he could find, tucking one in his belt and one in his pack. He took the one axe the monastery had and put that in the pack as well.
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He went to his room. It was sparse, a bed and a few small items. By the bed was a small wooden dallen figurine. His cheek felt wet again as he remembered.
He was young, running around the courtyard of the monastery in the evening after his chores were complete, in that hour between heat and cold. The pilgrims had gone, and the older men were still in the central building, cleaning up.
There was a piece of wood on the floor. It was discarded by one of the pilgrims or had dropped from someone’s pack. He picked it up, turning it over, looking at its misshapen form.
“Edmur Eyser, Edmur Eyser,” he called as the man finally returned to relax from the day’s work, “look what I found!”
“What treasure did you discover?” asked the man, smiling at him, taking the wood to look at it.
“It’s a dallen.”
“It is, is it?”
“Yes!”
“Well, we should help wake it from sleep. It needs a friend.”
“You can wake it?” Roge was elated. He had not known that was possible, his flights of fancy not reaching such heights.
“We’ll see. Leave it with me.”
After dinner, Edmur Eyser took out a small knife and started whittling at the wood. He did this for the next few evenings. On the fourth day, when Roge woke up, the dallen was there, sitting by his bed, waiting for him.
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He took the wooden dallen and put it in his pack as well. There was nothing else he needed. Going out of the room, there was one other kindness he could do. He went and opened all the dallen coups, letting the small animals out. They would starve inside, but outside, they might survive or even find a way to live on the mountain. If not, a fox would eat them, which was preferable to whithering away.
He needed to leave. When the duke reached the men he must have left with the horses and discovered that Roge had not been down the mountain, he would come back up to look for him. He had to find a way past them. He could not even take the time to care for his family, have a last conversation with them.
Standing over their bodies, he said one last prayer for them. With that, he walked out the gate.
The path down was a familiar one. He’d walked it up and down so many times that every rock, every turn, every sharp decline was etched into him. His steps were slow, his feet hurting, the left getting used to the new sandal and the abrasions he had sustained. The clothes were uncomfortable, chaffing, rubbing at skin and flesh that was already raw or missing from where he had left parts of himself on the monastery’s wall.
The pants were a new experience. His habit had not restricted his movement in the least. He was not used to anything riding up between his legs and pressing on his private parts, parts that were already bleeding raw in addition to his knees and thighs, now encased in tight-fitting cloth. Every step jostled and hurt, and he had to focus on the movement as he stepped down the path, taking careful steps.
He was coming around a bend, having taken a painful step down, when he stopped to take a breath and let the pain subside for a moment. Looking down the trail, he thought he saw movement. Wondering if there were pilgrims coming up the mountains and what they would do once they saw the dead reception waiting for them, he curiously looked down.
Far below, about an hour’s climb, he saw two small shapes making their slow way up. They weren’t carrying a dead body with them, which was odd since before the duke came to the monastery, pilgrims had to bring their own. Traveling traders sometimes made it up to the monastery with goods to trade, pots and pans that the acolytes could not make themselves, but these two were not carrying any large bags with them nor carrying any tarp laden with goods between them.
They were far away, but he tried to make out who they might be. Were they some known visitors to the monastery? Would they be able to help him?
As they rounded a rock, one straightened and stretched, the motion reminding Roge of something. As the figure bent again to continue its climb up the mountain, the sun glinted off something it was wearing, and Roge knew.