The King’s Advocate

The Tanaran Monks had once been a far larger faction in the lands; there was a time where they had held the ear of kings, kept the masses enthralled, and many times influenced the political and sociological climate of Cortela.

At least, this was how events had occurred according to the monks.

As this supposed reign of power had in fact been at least two centuries ago, there were few who believed that the (now much smaller) group of scholars and preachers were anything but fools; they continued to speak of old gods of whom there was no evidence of true existence.

Despite the ancient texts filled to the brim with tales of miracles and divine providence, there was no evidence of such influences in the present, and for this reason the monks had alternately been laughed at and threatened. Their only real allies were the Magi, but since the faction of spellcasters was also threatened (with much less laughter involved,) this alliance helped their cause very little, and sometimes even drew more trouble upon their heads.

With no young men showing interest in becoming a disciple of the Old Gods, and many of the existing preachers being ambushed by the odd group of ruffians, (though many of the monks knew enough self-defense to fend off such attackers,) the Tanaran Monks finally retreated from the world at large, taking up residence in the remote borderlands of Cortela.

The monastery of which Zaharan was leader was located on the north-western edge of Cortela; thirty miles out and one would encounter the wastelands. He had lived there for as long as he could remember, having been told he had been left in a basket outside the monastery door on a cold winter night.

“Whomever had left you,” Zaharan had noted cheerfully, more than once; “Had a taste for clichés, and a complete lack of any sense of responsibility whatsoever.”

The last time an outsider had gotten within ten miles of the monastery had been three years ago, and the last time there had been any sort of visitor was nearly a decade before that. Truth be told, that solitude tended to leave Zanten more than a little restless.

Don’t… make… a sound…

Creeping along the forest floor, doing his best to ignore the numbing snow that melted under his knees and soaked his trousers, Zanten peered up from the brush he used for cover to double-check on his target; a young deer grazing stubbornly on some sparse bushes. So far, the wind favored the young hunter, and he had been moving quietly and slowly enough to keep from alerting the deer to his presence; of course, that could change at any moment.

No stale bread for me today…

Hand slowly slipping back to retrieve the light hunting bow slung over his shoulder, Zanten straightened on his knees, tugging a rough stone-headed arrow from under his belt. It had taken several hours of impatient work and numerous rocks splintered for the youth to finally craft four arrows. One had since broken when he had tested it on a tree, the second lost when he had tried to take down a rabbit, and the third when a sudden rustling had spooked him into firing off a blind shot deep into the forest.

This was officially his last chance; his only hope to having a decent meal. The monks that provided him with shelter and food (loosely speaking,) had informed him that they would allow him to eat whatever he himself could gather or hunt. Of course, the monks refused to assist him in any way, beyond providing him with a slightly worn bow that had been buried at the back of their supplies.

Zanten respected their non-violence… to a point, anyway. When it meant the only real source of nourishment was bread that was frozen for half a month in snow and ice and then slowly thawed, and nuts whose nutritional value far exceeded the enjoyment one obtained from eating them… well, one didn’t have to follow an ideal to respect it, did they?

Fitting shaft to bow and carefully drawing back the string, Zanten brought his weapon and took careful aim, the tip of his tongue pressing against his front teeth as he sighted along the shaft.

Stone arrowhead won’t penetrate so well from this far away… have to make the shot count…

“Zanten!”

No!

As the deer immediately took off in the opposite direction, the now-desperate hunter fired off the shot; the shot went wide, however, and instead struck a nearby tree, burying the arrow in the trunk.

“Damn!” Climbing to his feet, Zanten whirled about to face the newcomer; “Could you not have given me ten seconds? Five, even?”

Tromping through the slush, Zaharan smiled, weathered face pale in the frigid weather as he drew his drab robes a bit closer to his slim frame; “From the look of the arrow you had constructed, I seriously doubt my waiting would have altered the outcome in the slightest.”

“Your faith in my abilities is, as always, a beacon of light,” Zanten grumbled, slinging the bow back over his shoulders as he ran a hand through his tousled brown hair. Emerald eyes locked with the monk’s calm gray ones, mouth thinning with irritation; “Is there anything in particular you wanted?”

Chuckling softly, Zaharan leaned back against one of the trees with a soft grunt, rubbing his thick hands together to keep them warm; “I believe you promised that you would help me with something…”

As the reminder sparked his memory, Zanten gave a soft groan, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and clearing his throat; “I did, didn’t I?” Irritation turned into embarrassment and a touch of guilt, “I’m sorry, I got a bit caught up in chipping the arrowheads, and when I was done I just had to see how they performed, and…”

“…and now the leak in the roof has left a nice, large puddle in the Reflection Hall’s floor,” Zaharan interjected, lifting both brows; “Spring isn’t terribly far away, and I shiver to think of what will happen when it starts raining.”

Flushing, Zanten quickly stumbled to make amends; “Well, let’s get it done right away, then. I’ll work on it all night if I have to; I promised you a patched roof, and so a patched roof is what I’ll provide.”

“If you worked all night, the more likely outcome would be your inevitable fall from the roof, leaving me one ward short,” came the wry reply, followed immediately by more soothing words; “We have a sturdy bucket set up to catch the melted snow before it ruins our home any further. I suspect it would be wiser to wait until the new day before we tackle the job.”

“So… you’re not angry, then?”

“Of course not, my dear boy!” Zaharan wrapped an arm around his protégé’s shoulders, leading him back in the direction of the monastery. “Forgive and forget, they say.”

“So there won’t be any punishment?”

“No punishment. There will, however, be consequences.” Ignoring Zanten’s audible groan, Zaharan continued cheerfully; “Rather than just patching the leaky spot, I suspect you’d do well to simply reinforce the entire roof. And, while you’re cleaning up the puddle on the floor, you should probably give the rest of the Hall a good scrubbing.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a punishment.”

“Yes, remarkable similarities between the two, aren’t there?” the monk chirped, even as their destination came into view.