The Temple of Amhog was almost cozy. The plaster walls were
painted pale blue and, in place of
wooden pews facing the altar, there were long tables with benches set behind
them. Several people occupied these seats, heads bent over books in reverent
study. A pair of temple accolytes moved quietly among the tables, offering
guidance or advice.
There was an altar at the far end of the room. It was a
lecturn arranged in front of a tapestry depicting the god, Amhog, sitting
beneath an apple tree. Books were scattered around him in the grass. The
expression on Amhog's face was compelling, displaying bright eyes and a soft
smile on his sharp-featured face. As was usual, the God of Knowledge was
depicted as a gnome.
The half-orc led Mallora past the altar to a door. She
opened it, revealing a set of stairs that led to the upper floors.
"Follow me, please."
They climbed to a third floor landing and came to a stop
outside a green door.
"Wait here, please."
She did not wait for Mallora's assent, but knocked gently on
the green door. A man's voice bid her enter and the half-orc pushed open the
door and slid into the room beyond. She shut the door, carefully, behind her,
as if she suspected Mallora might try to listen at the keyhole.
After a moment, the green door opened and Mallora was
ushered into a large room. Her first impression of it was that there were lots
of books. They occupied shelves along the wall and were piled in neat stacks on
the floor. The room smelt of books, of old paper and old ink.
Mallora's second impression was that everything was neat as
a pin. The books were organized by size and shape. There wasn't a speck of dust to be found on
any of their covers. The shelves were likewise spotless.
At the far end of the room, seated in a small chair before a
privacy screen, was an elderly gnome. A single glance at him and Mallora knew
he was no forest or rock gnome, but a rarer breed. His hair, shorn into a neat
tonsure, was stark white and his eyes
were like pools of silver. The gnome's face was deeply lined, as gummy as a
monkey's and he offered the drow woman a soft smile.
The half-orc stood, somewhat protectively, at the old
gnome's side.
"This is the Learned Brother Ostren."
"Well met, brother." Mallora inclined her head.
"Well met, lady." Ostren's voice was soft, but
clear as a bell. "Please. Sit."
Mallora glanced around, realized that there was a chair
tucked away among the stacks of books. She sat, gingerly, concerned her weight
would break the fragile-looking wood.
"You may go, Nina," said Ostren.
The half-orc woman looked uneasy. "Are you sure you
won't need help, Learned Brother?"
"We'll be fine," said the old gnome. "Back to your duties, little
sister."
Reluctantly, Nina obeyed.
"I don't think she likes me," said Mallora, after
Nina had vanished through the green door.
"Not surprising, lady, considering what you ask
for," said the Learned Brother.
"I don't understand."
"No." The Learned Brother studied her for a few
second. "You really don't. Do you?"
"If I knew about this man, this Isteban Mirelle, why
would I come here?"
"Forgive me, lady, but I do not suggest any subterfuge
on your part. I am merely surprised at your . . . lack of knowledge. Most
learned folk on Nur have at least heard Mirelle's name."
"I have not," said Mallora. "Who he is?"
"The orcs called him Horde-Breaker. In Goldsun, they
refer to him as the Butcher of Redcap Hill. To the dwarves, he is siridir-fel, the Man With the Iron
Soul."
Mallora frowned. "What do the folk of Fallen Baramir
call him?"
"The Crownless King." The Learned Brother studied Mallora's face.
"Would you like some water, lady?"
"I'd prefer wine if you have it."
"Sadly, I do not."
Of course you don't, thought Mallora.
"So, Mirelle is not a good man?"
"I never said that, lady," Ostren corrected.
"I can make no claims of insight into Mirelle's character, having never
met the man. However, the few autobiographical references to him that I am
aware of do not paint him as a monster."
"Then how would you describe him?"
"A man of portent and will," said the Learned
Brother. "A military genius who did unthinkable things to destroy his
enemies."
"Why would the Regent of Fallen Baramir call him back
to the city?"
"Perhaps," mused Ostren, "because they need
him more than they fear him. Especially in these difficult times. He is a native of that city, you know."
"I did not."
"He was born and bred there," said the Learned
Brother. "Perhaps the Regent hopes Mirelle retains some shadow of
affection for his birthplace. Who can say?"
"I think I'm starting to understand why your doorkeeper
was so unhappy."
