Morning's Journey by Kim Iverson Headlee

voice, he shrugged.
    “Brother Dafydd?” Katra stepped back to make room for Brother Stefan, master of the library and students. Stefan pointed toward the door of the abbot’s house with his cane. “He wants to see you.” Beneath Stefan’s customary gruffness ran a current of envy and disbelief.
    Queasiness troubled Dafydd’s stomach. Glancing at Katra and their son, then at Brother Stefan, he asked, “May they come, too?”
    Stefan nodded, turned, and hobbled toward the house.
    Dafydd followed, with Katra and young Dafydd a pace behind him.
    Light escaped through cracks and knotholes in the cottage’s shutters. Moonbeams gave its whitewashed stone walls a ghostly gleam. He shook his head to dispel the association. A quick squeeze of his wife’s hand helped to reaffirm his grip on reality, and together they followed Brother Stefan inside.
    The abbot’s table, chairs, and sideboard appeared in good condition but of a modest design. A braided rug of undyed wool covered half the floor. A bank of candles illuminated the crucifix nailed to one wall.
    Embroidered pillows piled on a bench beneath the window offered the only touch of luxury. Their sun-blanched colors made Dafydd wonder how long ago they’d been made, and by whom. The abbot’s mother, a sister, or…wife? The Church of Brydein preferred her servants to remain free of worldly concerns but encouraged them to marry if the yearnings of the flesh burned too hotly.
    He quelled his curiosity as he watched Stefan approach the bedchamber door to rap upon it with the tip of his cane.
    The infirmarer opened the door. Dark shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. The infirmarer shared a glance with Stefan, frowning, and gave a brief shake of his graying head. Stefan responded with a terse nod. Pulling the door open wider, the infirmarer beckoned everyone into the room.
    The only light emanated from a pair of candles, each sitting atop a small table to either side of the bed. The abbot’s sleeping chamber was furnished much like the other monks’ quarters, only square rather than round, which provided more room between the bed and the walls. Into this space crowded the infirmarer, Katra, Dafydd, and their son. Stefan, grunting and leaning heavily on his cane, eased to his knees at Father Lir’s side. Head bent, Stefan gently grasped the abbot’s withered hand and pressed it to his forehead, his shoulders trembling.
    Grateful that everyone else’s attention centered upon the supine figure, Dafydd wasn’t sure how much longer he could control his reaction to the sight of Father Lir’s sallow, emaciated face and shrunken frame barely elevating the coverlet. Memories assailed him of the abbot’s kindness since Dafydd’s arrival on Maun, months before he’d renewed his vows.
    His heart clenched.
    “Stefan. Is he here?” The whisper crackled like a handful of dead leaves.
    “Yes, Father, but I still think—”
    “I know.” The abbot’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “I have ever valued your counsel, my son, and your faithful service.” His voice sounded stronger. He disengaged his hand from Stefan’s to beckon to Dafydd. “But this time, you do not know all the facts.”
    Dafydd’s queasiness intensified. Facts? What facts? He, Dafydd, possessed no aptitude for administrative tasks. He could no sooner assume Father Lir’s position than sprout wings and fly. He didn’t even have command of his feet to obey the abbot’s unspoken request.
    Stefan said, “Forgive me, Father. I mean no disrespect. But I—that is, when Quintus died, I thought—”
    “You thought you’d take his place as my successor. In truth, you would have.” Father Lir’s eyes fluttered closed. When he opened them, he looked squarely at Dafydd. “If not for our newest brother.”
    Surprise propelled him forward. He knelt on the opposite side of the bed. “Father Lir, I—” He shook his head in wonder. “I am honored, of course.” Katra gave him an