Page 45 of The King of Koraha
He reluctantly agreed. “While you’re visiting the monks, I’ll make a few discreet inquiries about the mercs and then check out the market.”
“I’ll meet you there at apex.”
“Should I be insulted that you’re only promising to meet me because you want to see what’s glorious about the heart cavern?” he teased.
She met his gaze. “I already know what’s going to be glorious in that cavern at that time.”
“You do?”
“Yes. You.” She was dead serious.
But he laughed it off. “Yeah, right. I already agreed to your plan, no need to use false flattery.”
Before she could correct him, he glanced at the sand clock. “We better get moving if you’re going to make it back in time.”
After a number of helpful people pointed her in the right direction, Shyla finally found an exit to the surface. It was about angle twenty. Warm enough not to need a sun cloak, but not yet blazing hot.
She spun in a slow circle, getting her bearings. Part of her education included learning the names and locations of all the monasteries in Koraha. The Monks of Callow lived four kilometers southwest of Nintri. The leader of the Callow monks was Barika.
Once she determined the correct direction, Shyla set off at a fast pace. With all those sun jumps traveling with the two caravans, she’d learned how to spot the well traveled yet still sand-covered paths, therefore avoiding having to trudge through the deeper sand.
Shyla kept her mental shield down as she walked, scanning for any bumps that would indicate a person lurked nearby. Remembering the mercs who hid underneath the sand, she aimed her magic through the grains as well. She passed a few velbloud caretakers out feeding the flocks. Soon she was far enough away from the city to spot the light tracks of the monks out on patrol. They wore special wide-soled boots to avoid leaving prints in the sand. Only those who knew what they were looking for could find them.
Another couple angles later, she encountered a few bumps. Even though the monks wore turbans, tunics, and pants that matched the reddish-orange color of the desert, Shyla located them lying on top of the dunes. By the time she reached the surface building for the monastery, she had counted sixteen monks—more than Hanif would assign, but nothing alarming. Not even when they moved closer. It was standard procedure when a stranger approached their home.
Inside the simple one-room structure was a single monk. He stood when she entered. Behind him were the steps down into the monastery. If she tried to get around him and enter without permission, he’d call out and the other monks would rush in to help him stop her.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
The young monk wore a dark green tunic and matching pants. Each order of monks had chosen a different color to wear when they were inside. The practice allowed monks to know each other’s order at a glance. The Monks of Parzival wore tan.
“I’d like to talk with Barika.”
“I’m sorry, but Barika is no longer in charge of our monastery.”
Not too much of a surprise since her information was at least four circuits out of date. “Who is your leader now?”
“Who would like to know?”
“My name is Shyla. I grew up with the Monks of Parzival.”
“You are not a monk.”
She clamped down on her sarcastic reply. “I am allowed to seek an audience with your leader.”
“He is very busy. I can call for his assistant and you can schedule an appointment in a few sun jumps.”
“I’m afraid the matter is quite urgent.” Shyla pulled back her sleeve, exposing the King’s sigil. “I’m here at the request of the King.”
“Why didn’t you say that sooner?” he snapped.
“I wished to see how the Monks of Callow treat strangers.”
He finally realized that he’d just grumped at the King’s emissary. “My apologies. Please follow me.” He led her down into the cooler underground levels and to a reception room. “Please wait here while I fetch Lonato.”
While he was gone, she examined the room. It was nicer than the one in the Parzival monastery. Cushions ringed the space and the monks guarding the tunnels weren’t as obvious. Mirror pipes brought in the sunlight from the surface, making it a bright cheery place.
It didn’t take long for the monk to return with Lonato. The man wore the dark green tunic and pants that the monks preferred when not on the surface. His brown hair was pulled back into a tight knot. He appeared to be around thirty to thirty-five circuits old—rather young for a leader. A thin beard clung to his lower jaw.
