Read Online Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate by David Gemmell - Free Book Online Page A

swift and your return joyful.”
    “As the spirit wills it,” Padaxes answered, replacing his black helm.
    From his high tower window the abbot gazed down into the upper garden, where twenty-eight acolytes knelt before their trees. Despite the season, the roses thrived, the perfume of their blooms filling the air.
    The abbot closed his eyes and soared, his spirit rising and flowing. Gently he descended to the garden, coming to rest beside the slender Katan.
    Katan’s mind opened to receive him, and the abbot joined the acolyte, flowing within the fragile stems and capillary systems of the plant.
    The rose welcomed them. It was a red rose.
    The abbot withdrew and, one by one, joined each of the acolytes in turn. Only Balan’s rose had failed to flower, but the buds were full and he was but a little way behind the rest.
    The abbot returned to his body in the high tower, opening his eyes and breathing deeply. He rubbed his eyes and moved to the southern window, looking down to the second level and the vegetable garden.
    There, kneeling in the soil, was a priest in a dirty brown cassock. The abbot walked from the room, descending the circular stair to push open the door to the lower level. He stepped out onto the well-scrubbed flagstones of the path and descended the stone steps to the garden.
    “Greetings, Brother,” he said.
    The priest looked up, then bowed. “Greetings, Lord Abbot.”
    The abbot seated himself on a stone bench nearby.
    “Please continue,” he said. “Do not let me disturb you.”
    The man returned to his work, weeding the soil, his hands black with dirt and his fingernails cracked and broken.
    The abbot looked about him. The garden was well tended, the tools sharp and cared for, the pathways clean and clear of weeds.
    He gazed fondly on the priest. The man had changed greatly since that day five years earlier when he had walked into the monastery declaring his wish to become a priest. Then he had been dressed in garish armor, two short swords strapped to his thighs and a baldric belt across his chest bearing three daggers.
    “Why do you wish to serve the Source?” the abbot had asked.
    “I am tired of death,” he had replied.
    “You live to kill,” the abbot had said, staring into the haunted eyes of the warrior.
    “I want to change.”
    “You want to hide?”
    “No.”
    “Why did you choose this monastery?”
    “I … I prayed.”
    “Did you receive an answer?”
    “No. But I was heading west, and after praying I changed my mind and came north. And you were here.”
    “You think that is an answer?”
    “I don’t know,” the warrior had answered. “Is it?”
    “Do you know what order this is?”
    “No.”
    “The acolytes here are gifted beyond other men, and they have powers you could not comprehend. Their whole lives are given over to the Source. What do you offer?”
    “Only myself. My life.”
    “Very well. I will take you. But hear this and mark it well. You will not mix with the other acolytes. You will not walk to the upper level. You will live below in a crofter’s hut. You will put aside your weapons and never touch them again. Your tasks will be menial, and your obedience total. You will not speak to anyone at any time—only when I address you may you answer.”
    “I agree,” the warrior had said without hesitation.
    “I will instruct you each afternoon, and I will gauge your progress. If you fail in any way, I will dismiss you from the monastery.”
    “I agree.”
    For five years the warrior had obeyed without question, and as the seasons had passed, the abbot had watched the haunted expression fade from his dark eyes. He had learned well, though never could he master the release of the spirit. But in all other things the abbot was pleased.
    “Are you happy, Decado?” the abbot asked now. The priest leaned back and turned.
    “Yes, Lord Abbot.”
    “No regrets?”
    “None.”
    “I have news of the Dragon,” said the abbot, watching him carefully.