Vanasar Ai'esti, The Pale Rider - Chapter Two

[Vandic]

A warm and inviting draft blew through the doors as Vanasar entered the scriptorium, created by a roaring fire that filled the fireplace at the far end of the long rectangular room. Along both walls, heavy wooden benches were littered with parchments and fragments of paper in varying states of disrepair. Here the monks worked tirelessly at preserving the history and theology of the Brotherhood, copying texts that prescribed principles of daily living, remedies for common illnesses and injuries, and a host of other subjects that the upper priesthood deemed worthy of preservation. The room sat empty now, except for an elderly man in a heavy gray robe and blood red skullcap warming himself by the fire.

“You could probably pass like a phantom in this snow if you could move more quietly in that armor,” said the old man without looking away from the fire.

“I suppose I could, Kallanis, but the tone of your letter makes me believe that fright is something you wish to avoid."

Kallanis stood slowly, leaning on a polished oaken cane, and limped towards his former pupil. Vanasar embraced the old man tenderly but gingerly, knowing how the years of harsh cold had left his old friend far more frail than time alone should have allowed.

“It may be our lot in life to suffer, Kallanis, but surely you could have chosen somewhere warmer to serve our god?” asked Vanasar teasingly as they sat in front of one of the long benches.

“Indeed I could have, my fair-skinned friend,” replied Kallanis, “but this forsaken land is often where we are needed most. The Wounded One does not make demands of his chosen in only the hospitable climes of the world.”

Vanasar gave a wry grin. He had maintained correspondence with his former teacher over the years, relating to him the tales of his travels to the most desolate reaches of the continent. Some of these expeditions were brought about by Vanasar’s own desire to alleviate suffering and injustice. Most were not.

“It is precisely because of your experience as a solitary traveler that I am glad you were chosen to come,” said Kallanis, his pale green eyes staring out a frost-patterned window at the coming dark. “We need someone who can travel with great speed and survive in the wilds. From the stories you’ve shared with me of your adventures with this ranger called Llandrien, you’ve become quite adept at taking advantage of any terrain available to you.”

Vanasar smiled wistfully at the thought of his old friend, who had disappeared months before with his brother in search of their missing parents. “Llandrien taught me a great many things,” he confessed, “and so long as no one asks me to drink coffee, I believe I can handle whatever challenge has brought me here with such urgency.”

The old abbot smiled and placed a gnarled, wrinkled hand on Vanasar’s shoulder. “I knew I could rely on you, son. I’m grateful you were able to make the ride in such a short time, for time is truly our greatest enemy here.”

Kallanis withdrew a roll of parchment from his robes and spread it out on the bench before them. An intricately detailed map of the northlands had been drawn on the scroll, the fading colors of the ink and frayed edges of the vellum betraying its age.

“We dispatched a wagon of food and medicinal herbs three weeks ago to offer relief to the hamlets and villages near Mirabar,” explained Kallanis as he drew a bony finger over the dotted line of a caravan trail. “The team of three brothers have ridden this route many times before and have never taken more than eight days to return from the journey. On the third day, however, a monstrous storm blew over the mountains and unleashed a frenzy of wind and snow over the whole region. I did not become concerned until the tenth day of their absence. On the twelfth day I sent word south to Neverwinter asking for a knight’s aid. I fear the worst.”

“Bandits?” asked Vanasar.

“Oh no, not in these regions in the winter,” replied Kallanis, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. “They’ve all holed up in the larger cities to ride out the season as have so many others. I fear that they were enveloped by the storm and may have become trapped on one of the mountain passes. That trail is seldom traveled even when the sky is fair, and if their wagon were to fall into one of the ravines they might not be found until the spring thaw. Unless…”

“…Unless someone were to look for them,” said Vanasar, gazing solemnly at his old mentor.

The abbot closed his eyes and nodded. “I cannot ask that you leave now with night drawing so close. Partake of a healthy meal and sleep in the dormitories tonight. We will care for your steed and have her ready for you at first light.”

“And if I find them in a state beyond hope?” asked Vanasar.

A tear trickled down the abbot’s weathered cheek. “Ease their suffering as best you can, my son, and let our Wounded God call his supplicants home as he will.”