The dark-haired monk turned to Gembira.
She dropped her hand to the knife at her belt only to remember she’d left her knives upstairs. Damn.
“Welcome home, Sister Allard.” The monk bowed with hands clasped before him.
Gembira straightened. She flexed her hand, glad that it hadn’t found a weapon. She needed to remember where she was. “Hello.” Her mind sought the brother’s name to no avail. Then she wondered what people talked about in an abbey’s refectory line.
She rarely ate meals at the abbey. Her visits home happened at odd hours, and her supervisor, the Councilor Brandon Gregory, always sent her right back out again on some new off-site assignment. Two years ago, she’d finally rebelled at that, insisting she would stay the night at the abbey whenever she came home to meet with him. Gregory had only frowned and rolled his eyes. But today, Gembira had done more than stay the night. She’d also lingered long enough for a mid-day meal, hoping Gregory wouldn’t find out until after she’d gone. The councilor disliked disobedience. It threatened his illusions of control and invulnerability.
But Gembira missed the feel of home.
She dragged her mind back to the monk in front of her. “So,” she ventured, “anything new?”
“Here?” The monk laughed, shaking his head. “We admitted another class of recruits this spring.” He nodded across the long room to a table where young people wore the linen pants and tunic that marked the Order of Benar. “That’s about it.”
Gembira smirked.
“Come to think of it,” said the monk, “we did have a straggler admitted last month.”
Her eyebrows went up. “In the summer?”
“Somebody’s nephew, I think.”
Gembira frowned. “That is unusual. And odd.”
“Councilor Gregory made the exception.”
“Ah.” Gembira knew all too well how the councilor liked finding young people to adore him. She’d once done so, herself. No more, of course, but still. Gregory’s reliance on adoration would get him in trouble one of these days.
“How long will you be visiting?”
“Only through the mid-day meal,” she said.
“I see.” The man smiled. “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you,” she agreed, though she didn’t smile back.
The monk nodded and turned ahead in line. Gembira’s gaze returned to the novices, landing on one blond boy who sat with a little more poise than his peers. She wondered if he was the one who’d felt such urgency to enter abbey life that he’d come out of season. His stiff posture reminded her more of a recruit to the Guard of Cognes than a Benarian novice.
The thought sent a thread of suspicion twisting through her. Gembira narrowed her eyes at the boy, considering how such a young, untrained spy might benefit the Guard.
Then she shook herself. No. She couldn’t bring that paranoia in here with her. Her instincts—those instincts—had no place in the abbey. Taking a deep breath, Gembira tried to remember herself as the sixteen-year-old novice she’d been on first entering the Abbey of Benar. She’d held no suspicion of others then. She’d certainly had no threads of grey lacing her own blond hair. In those days, she’d felt an urgency to enter abbey life, thinking herself “called” to religious contemplation. In retrospect, she’d probably only coveted the time given the monks to read.
Gembira huffed out a breath. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sought out that plush chair by the fire against the library’s back wall. Was it even still there?
Her eyes returned to the line ahead of her. When she finally reached the front, she filled her plate with sourdough bread, sharp cheese, and a steaming cup of vegetable stew. Then she approached a table with an empty seat on one of its benches.
“Welcome,” said a stout man as she sat.
“Thank you.”
“We were talking about the fiasco in the city of Cognes,” said a middle-aged woman down the table.
Gembira tensed.
The stout man saw her reaction. “You heard?”
“Everyone’s heard,” said another woman. “The Guard of Cognes is a menace.”
“They’re a religious order, as are we,” corrected the stout man, as if that excused the incident.
“They’re also a military order,” said Gembira, dropping her eyes to the stoneware bowl before her, “which we are not. We have little in common.” She tasted her first spoonful of stew, trying to focus on the pleasant warmth trailing down her throat.
But Gembira couldn’t relax. She didn’t know why she’d thought it a good idea to stay for a meal. She’d craved time to chat in the refectory, to linger in the library with all those books, to listen to whatever it was in a person’s life that told them if anything new might come next. But what did she think came next? Another off-site assignment, of course. The die of her life had been cast.
“I’m sorry.” She stood up suddenly, shoving back the bench with her legs. Everyone else on the bench wobbled. Gembira grimaced. “Sorry about that. It’s … um, it’s good to see you. I should get going.” She gathered her plate and utensils and hurried toward the doors.
A soft breeze greeted her as soon as she stepped outside. She turned east, striding over the walkway’s smooth stones. When the cloisters turned north, she turned south, instead, taking two steps up a narrow stairwell that led to her room. Pausing on the second step, she turned to glance out over the east wing to where it ended at a pair of sanctuary doors.
The Benarian community would soon gather for afternoon prayer. But did she even belong here anymore?
For years, Gregory had focused her off-site assignments on the Guard of Cognes, sending her there to spy. Those Guardians turned to violence as quickly as Benarians turned to prayer. Gembira had as good as become a Guardian. No wonder Gregory had tried to limit her time at the abbey. She could leave her weapons in the trunk upstairs, but she couldn’t very well leave herself. And it was feeling more and more like she needed to do just that—set aside the spy she’d become in order to function here, or else stop trying to function here at all.
As she gazed over the east wing, lost in thought, the blond novice wandered past her stairwell. The boy didn’t even notice Gembira watching him. He turned north with the cloisters and, pausing to glance right and then left—as if preparing to misbehave—he tugged once on a door that proved to be locked. He tugged again to no avail.
Gembira silenced her laughter. What was the boy was up to?
The novice tried another door. Locked. He tried a third. Locked, as well.
Gembira shook her head, smirking. The boy didn’t even have enough training to misbehave unobserved. She doubted he knew enough to cause trouble for anyone other than himself.
Just when she decided to ascend the stairs and prepare her things to depart, the novice found an unlocked door. Gembira paused, watching him disappear inside and then reemerge a few minutes later. His robes hung a bit less loose on his frame now as he strode purposefully toward the sanctuary.
Gembira frowned. What did he have under his robes?
Too puzzled now to imagine leaving, Gembira descended the stairs and followed.
Inside the sanctuary, she removed her shoes and set them against the wall. Then she sat in a pew, reached for a book of liturgy, and took the hymnal beside it, too. Setting them in her lap, she folded her hands on top.
The blond boy sat in a back pew at an angle to Gembira’s. She kept him in her peripheral vision, acting unconcerned as she directed her eyes to the front of the sanctuary where three candles burned in a bronze candelabra.
She liked the bronze items. Elders told their story often enough. Abbey craftspeople melted down bronze from old artillery and recast it for their needs. For the first time, Gembira thought to wonder if all weapons held viable metal, or if some were discarded outright, unsuitable for anything else. The question struck her. Had some weapons, or some people, missed their chance to become something new?
She pondered this for a long while.
Then feet shuffled beside her. A gaggle of novices moved up the aisle to join their fellow.
“The novice watches you,” whispered the middle-aged woman from the refectory who took a seat on Gembira’s other side. “The blond one.” Her gaze flicked over Gembira’s shoulder. “The one who came this summer.”
Gembira stilled. Slowly, she turned toward the novices’ pew. The blond boy’s right hand crossed over to his left side and rested on something beneath his tunic. Her eyes didn’t leave his hand. Gembira tightened her grip on the books in her lap.
A slender acolyte strode up the sanctuary aisle with a bronze pole held before him. He aimed himself at a large candle set on the back corner of the altar. He’d light it to mark the start of the service. But Gembira wasn’t watching the service. She wasn’t even watching the procession of important people that would end with Councilor Gregory in the rear. He’d glare daggers at Gembira when he saw she still hadn’t left. But Gembira had forgotten Gregory altogether, only remembering him as she noticed how the blond boy’s eyes landed on the old councilor and tracked him carefully up the aisle.
Pieces clicked together. The novice might have little training, but training only constituted one kind of advantage. The element of surprise was another kind, and no one in this sanctuary would expect an eager young novice to threaten a man of influence as strong as Gregory. Of course, the Guard of Cognes had use for a youth. He’d infiltrated the abbey to do what needed to be done—catch Gregory off-guard.
Something inside Gembira settled at this thought. This felt familiar. She knew how to think like a Guardian. And perhaps that had a place here, after all.
The novice’s fingers reached beneath the hem of his tunic, but Gembira was ready. She slung her hymnal. It barely arced, striking the boy’s hand with force.
He yelped.
Gembira aimed the other book at his head. He ducked. She swore.
“Hey!” someone yelled from the chancery.
The boy leapt from the pew and darted for the doors. Gembira launched herself from her own seat in pursuit.
The boy shoved two sisters out of his path. Gembira dodged them and some lingering brothers, in turn.
“Grab the boy!” she yelled.
The monks only gaped.
The boy shifted his momentum, barely missing an older monk entering the sanctuary. He sailed past the old man and out the doors.
Gembira dropped her hand, grabbing one more book from a bench. She sped out the doors. Already, the boy tugged on a door a quarter of the way down the cloisters, but it must not have budged. He gave up and ran on.
Not slowing, Gembira took her aim.
“Sister Allard!” someone called from beside her, gasping for breath as he grabbed at her left arm.
But Gembira’s right hand hurled the book. It arced down the hall to hit the back of the boy’s head. He toppled to the ground. A knife clattered to the stones.
Gembira slid to a stop. The monk beside her—the older one from the sanctuary entrance—also stopped, gripping Gembira’s tunic even tighter to steady himself. Several other monks caught up to them. They stared aghast at the unconscious novice lying face down on the stones.
“Check beneath his tunic,” Gembira said. “You’ll find more weapons.” At least, every instinct told her they would.
But the monks only hovered protectively around the boy. Their gazes bounced from Gembira to the older monk.
“Check beneath his tunic,” Gembira repeated.
Finally, one of the monks obeyed, kneeling and reaching for the boy’s tunic. A holstered revolver and knife sheath lay underneath.
The older monk turned on Gembira. “What’s the meaning of this?”
She shrugged. “He was drawing a weapon.” In the sanctuary. It would warrant restraint. The novice would have some explaining to do.
“Take him to the cells,” boomed a voice from behind them.
They turned. Councilor Brandon Gregory strode toward them glaring daggers, but the daggers only skittered across Gembira’s skin to land on the novice.
The monks lifted the boy by his shoulders and legs. They followed after Gregory, who strode forward to lead their informal procession to the cells. The outspoken older monk took up the rear. No one even glanced back at Gembira. They’d forgotten her already and probably wouldn’t remember for a long while yet.
A smile tugged at her mouth for the first time all day.
Gembira’s eyes returned to the floor where the knife and splayed-open book had landed. They lay near the library entrance. Scents of dust and cloth wafted from the open door. She walked there and crouched. The knife slid easily between her leather belt and waistband loop. Her world felt a little more right with the familiar weight beneath her tunic. Tucking the book under her arm, Gembira stood. Then she wandered into the library in search of that plush chair by the fire.
Callie J. Smith is an author from the midwestern United States who writes about everyday things like hope, creativity, and grief. Her newest novel, Kohelette, blends domestic fiction with magical realism in a story of piecing together life after loss. Her short stories and short form essays have appeared in Abbey of the Arts, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Bearings Online, Branches, Commuter Lit, Forever Yours: A Dragon Soul Press Anthology, Gals Guide Anthology: Female Friendship, Helix Literary Magazine, A Kintsugi Life, and Literally Stories and received both the Award of Merit (Best in Book)prize and a First Place in Prose from The Polk Street Review. She’s online at www.calliejsmith.net.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 