Read Online Spires of Spirit by Gael Baudino - Free Book Online

what he needed right now was something hot to drink, a chair by the fire to sit in, and a sympathetic listener. But he could not stay. He could not even allow himself to think about comfortable and pleasant things right now.
    “Thank you, Elizabeth. Good night.” He turned and started to run off.
    Her voice followed him. “God be with you, David.”
    Above the nearby rooftops, the spire of the church was visible against the darkening sky, and the carver felt that it was watching him as he left the village and trotted off down the East Road. The image of Alban, fat and smug and kneeling at the prie-dieu, stayed in his mind and quickened his steps, but the sky was covered with stars and the full moon was well above the horizon by the time he made out the smudge on the road ahead that he guessed was the carpenter.
    David started explaining when he was still some distance away. “Andrew,” he said. “I need some wood. Some good wood. Oak if you have it. Big.” He gestured with his hands to indicate an indefinite, but very large, size, but it was only when he reached Andrew that he realized that the carpenter was not alone.
    Andrew's companion was wearing a gray cloak that blended with the darkness, and, unseen, he had stood to one side, calmly watching David's approach and gesticulations. His face was smooth, gentle, almost womanly, and there seemed to be a faint light hovering about it.
    “You are the woodcarver, are you not?” he said. His voice was quiet: pitched just loud enough to carry clearly, no more.
    David stared at him, his mouth open.
    Andrew put his hand on David's arm. “Varden,” he said to his companion, “this is David, a friend of mine. David, Varden.”
    Unnerved, David found himself groping for words. “God be with you,” he blurted out.
    Varden smiled. “Hello, David.”
    Fair skin, David noticed. Dark hair. A clasp in the form of an interlaced moon and star holding his cloak closed at his throat. Eyes that reflected more light—starlight—than they should have. And that face . . .
    Yes, Andrew often took evening walks.
    David found his heart was pounding. “Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe I'd best talk to you . . . ah . . . tomorrow.”
    “No need,” said Andrew. “You're here tonight.”
    “And you are upset,” Varden put in. “There is no reason for you to return to your house in such a state.”
    The starlight was holding David's gaze. Abruptly, he half turned away and rubbed his face, trying to clear his thoughts. First Alban . . . and now this . . .
    “What do you need the wood for, David?” said the carpenter.
    The thought of the task ahead of him brought the carver's thoughts up short. “Alban,” he said. “He wants a crucifix from me. I don't want to do it, but he's forcing me.” He told them of the priest's words in the church.
    Varden's eyes flicked down to the ground. “A grave mistake,” he murmured.
    “I can't put Catherine in danger,” David went on. “I didn't want her to enter the convent in the first place, but after the plague took Mother and Father, she seemed to think it was her duty. I imagine Alban has friends up there. He could . . . he could . . .”
    He shut his eyes, trying to keep away the possibilities that, like the dying leaves of autumn, seemed bent on pressing close around him. He could smell death in the air.
    He felt a hand on his shoulder.
    “Peace,” said Varden.
    “That's an easy thing to say.”
    Varden dropped his hand. “That is true.”
    “You usually find your own wood, David,” said Andrew. “Why are you coming to me now?”
    “I don't want to cut a living tree,” David said, opening his eyes. “Not for this. It's . . . it's not worth it. Alban's not worth it. It would be like . . . like sacrilege.”
    Andrew looked at the moon thoughtfully. “David . . . I'll tell you, I don't think I have a piece of wood big enough for what you need.”
    “I don't want to cut a living tree,” David repeated. “I have to carve a dead