Free The Betrayal by Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page A

storms and banging cartwheels. Fisticuffs appalled him. Even loud, angry voices made him shriek and hide. “Brother,” he whined, “please, don’t make me go back in there!”
    â€œIf I have to climb out of this crypt and drag you, brother, you’ll regret—”
    â€œWait.” Barnabas gave Cyrus a frightened glance, and climbed the stairs. When he stepped into the oratory, he said, “Show me, Zarathan.”
    Zarathan scurried for the door to the kitchen, pushed it aside, and held it open for Brother Barnabas to peer through. The odor of urine now overpowered that of the bread.
    Barnabas froze in the doorway, his throat working. He kept swallowing convulsively, and his long, narrow face had gone as white as the moonlight. His gaze fixed on each dead face, studying it in disbelief. “Who …”
    Zarathan answered, “We don’t know. But Cyrus said they’re desperate and can’t leave anything to chance. Which means that soon someone will be coming into the monastery to make certain we are all dead. We have to go, brother.”
    Tears traced silver lines down Barnabas’ wrinkled cheeks. He wiped them on his white sleeve and whispered, “Is it the books?”
    â€œI don’t know, brother.”
    When he didn’t move, Zarathan took him by the sleeve and gently tugged him away from the kitchen and back toward the trapdoor over the library crypt.
    Cyrus trotted up the stairs with two hugely overstuffed bags and gave one to Barnabas. “Can you take care of this, brother?”
    Barnabas took the bag and ran his hand over the beautiful leather as though it contained something more precious to him than life itself. “Yes.”
    Cyrus fairly threw the other bag at Zarathan, saying, “If my suspicions are right, what’s in that bag is worth the lives of one hundred monks. Keep it safe.”
    â€œBut why do I have to carry it?” Zarathan complained. “I don’t even want to touch heretical books!”

    Cyrus ignored him, trotted across the oratory, then silently eased up alongside the open door that led to the garden. With great care, he looked outside. It seemed to take forever before he waved for Zarathan and Barnabas to join him.
    Their heavy bags clutched to their breasts, they sprinted across the floor.
    Cyrus whispered, “We have to wait for the right moment.”
    â€œWhen will that be?” Zarathan demanded. “We should go now! If we don’t escape, they’ll find us and capture us, and—”
    â€œZarathan,” Brother Barnabas said in his deepest, calmest voice. “Fear not, stand still, and see.”
    He extended a finger to the darkness beyond the garden, and Zarathan saw black shapes moving against the sand. Four of them. They were creeping toward the monastery, bent over, as silent as ghosts. Something, probably weapons, glinted in their hands. They must have had their faces blacked with charcoal because the moonlight did not reflect from them.
    As it will ours …
    Cyrus hissed, “They’re splitting up. One man is going to come through this door. Both of you hide in the kitchen until I call you.”
    Zarathan was already on his way at a run when he heard Brother Barnabas say, “Cyrus, please. Don’t do this. I would rather die than see you return to your former life of sin. Your soul—”
    â€œThere’s no time to discuss this, brother. Someone must save the words of our Lord.” Cyrus gestured to the books, probably realizing it was the only argument that would persuade the old monk.
    Barnabas clutched the gazelle leather bag to his chest, murmured, “Yes, I—I … will,” and reluctantly turned away to follow Zarathan to the kitchen.
    Zarathan rushed ahead, swung the door open, and almost fainted when someone moved in the rear. “Oh, dear God, what are you doing here?”
    Kalay straightened from where she’d been