Free The Seer and the Scribe by G.M. Dyrek

longer here, son, I’m sure of it. He’d always set his sights on Rome.”
    This was disappointing. Volmar turned in confusion to Cormac, who stared back with a hint of contemptuousness and grimaced. “There’s something about human nature. You always seem to remember those who troubled you the most.”

CHAPTER 8: TO LET GO
    Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery
    Harvest Festival, Late the Same Evening
    Sophie sat beside her grandfather and listened to his breathing keeping time with the distinct rhythmic chant of the masons chiseling stones nearby. During the storm the masons had rested, but now they were back at work on the Anchorage. She thenheard the sound of muddy boots being scraped outside the Infirmary’s door and the unfastening of the door clasp. Brother Paulus, she thought, must be returning early from Vespers. She watched as Paulus entered, nodded a greeting, then silently took the lantern from the hook, wandering off, muttering to himself. Certain monks like the Infirmarian, she understood, were released from the burden of attending all of the daily Offices of Prayers 34 . They could choose which times were convenient to attend.
    Sophie rose and stretched. Slowly, she traced with her long fingers the raised bumps and deep crevices of the carved mantle over the oak hearth, a simple design of leaves and acorns. She felt restless and couldn’t sleep, though she was very tired. She thought back to how her days had seemed more complete when she was working alongside her Grandda. Perhaps, she might find at the quarry a discarded stone or even a piece of wood she could take up to carve in order to fill these long, agonizingly empty hours of waiting for her Grandda’s health to improve.
    For the moment, he was resting peacefully. She guessed the tonic Brother Paulus had prepared for him must have had a sleeping potion in it. It was disconcerting to see how normal Grandda appeared once he lost consciousness; the lines on his face had softened and he seemed much younger, more like she remembered him.
    â€œDrink . . .” weakly mumbled her Grandda. “I need . . . drink.”
    Sophie took the mug next to his bed and helped him sit up to take a swallow. His lips were cracked and still swollen from the fall. She then took a rag, rinsed it in the nearby basin and rested it back on Silas’s forehead. “There, there, that should feel better,” she said, fussing with the collar of his tunic.
    He smiled gratefully for her kindness, the wrinkles around his eyes moistened, as if he were remembering all the horrible things he had said to her earlier. “Forgive me, my dear,” he murmured before closing his eyelids, welcoming, she knew, the blissful oblivion of sleep’s comforting embrace.
    Sophie leaned forward and kissed his cheek, so cold against her lips. “No matter, Grandda, it’s forgotten.” Silently she stood and stoked the fire, trying to warm the sudden chill in the air. She listened to the familiar strains of music being played outside in the fields surrounding the monastery. The rains must not have dampened everyone’s spirits, she thought, throwing open the window and leaning out on its ledge. A cooler breeze caught her hair and tugged at her imagination. She could still hear the excitement of the festival. Surely while her Grandda was resting comfortably, it wouldn’t be wrong to go exploring.
    Sophie tip-toed past what she knew now to be the laboratory of Brother Paulus, noticing how the scent of the room was both pungent and aromatic due to the bundles of herbs drying neatly in rows on racks. She peered in. Paulus had settled comfortably on a high stool, intent upon what appeared to be a small crucible 35 bubbling over a candle’s flame. A scroll was half-unwound beside him on the stone table and a glass of ale rested in his hand. He sat the glass down and picked up some tongs and pushed the crucible he was tending deeper into the