Master Jojonah didn’t doubt that for a moment, for Herde, both firebrand and gentle soul, was a disciplined man. He knew Brother Braumin would do the right thing, and so would he, though Jojonah feared what the right thing might become should they find Brother Avelyn Desbris alive and well on the road.
“You know what I suspect, and what I expect,” Father Abbot Markwart said sharply.
“I am a willing vessel, Father Abbot,” Brother Francis said, lowering his eyes. “You will find entrance to my body whenever you so desire.”
“As if you could stop me,” the old abbot boasted. The words were hollow, Markwart knew, for possession, even with his new understanding of the stones, was a difficult thing, and even more so when the vessel was a man trained in the magics. “But this is about more than that,” he continued. “Do you understand the true purpose of this journey?”
“To discover if the dactyl was destroyed,” the younger monk replied without hesitation. “Or to see if ever there was a demon dactyl.”
“Of course there was,” snapped an impatient Markwart. “But that is not the issue. You are going to the Barbacan to determine the fate of the demon, that is true, but you are going, more importantly, to determine the whereabouts of Avelyn Desbris.”
Brother Francis’ face screwed up with confusion. He knew the Church sought Avelyn, knew it was suspected that Avelyn had been involved in the reputed explosion far to the north, but he never imagined that the Father Abbot would place Avelyn’s whereabouts as more important than the fate of the demon dactyl.
“The demon dactyl threatens the lives of thousands,” the Father Abbot conceded. “The suffering caused by the emergence of the beast is truly horrifying and regrettable. But the demon dactyl has appeared before and will appear again; the cycle of suffering is the fate of Man. Brother Avelyn’s threat, however, is more insidious, and potentially more long-lasting and more devastating. His actions and his tempting heretical viewpoints threaten the very foundations of our beloved Abellican Order.”
Still Francis appeared doubtful.
“From those few reports of his actions on the run, it seems that Avelyn masks his heresy with pretty words and seemingly charitable actions,” Markwart went on, raising his voice in frustration. “He disavows the importance of ancient traditions without understanding the value of such traditions and, indeed, the utter necessity of them if the Church is to survive.”
“My pardon, Father Abbot,” Brother Francis said quietly, “but I had thought that Avelyn was long on traditiontoo long, some would say. I had thought that his errors went the other way, that he was so devoted to outdated rituals, he could not see the truth and the realities of the modern-day Church.”
Markwart waved his bony hand and turned away, chewing his lip, trying to find some way out of the logic trap. “True enough,” he agreed, then turned back fiercely, forcing Francis to back away a step. “In some matters, Avelyn was so seemingly devoted as to appear inhuman. Do you know that he did not even care, did not shed a single tear, when his own mother died?”
Francis’ eyes went wide.
“It is true,” Markwart went on. “He was so obsessed with his vows that the passing of his own mother was to him an unimportant matter. But do not be fooled into thinking that his actions were wrought of true spirituality. No, no, they were the product of ambition, as he proved when he murdered Master Siherton and absconded with the gemstones. Avelyn is dangerous to all the Order, and he, not the dactyl, remains the first order of business.”
Brother Francis thought it over for a few moments, then nodded. “I understand, Father Abbot.”
“Do you?” Markwart replied, in such a tone that Francis doubted himself. “Do you understand what you are to do if you encounter Avelyn Desbris?”
“We are twenty-five strong” Francis began.
“Do not count on the support of twenty-five,” Markwart warned.
That, too, gave Brother Francis pause. “Still,” he said hesitantly and at length, “there are enough of us to take Avelyn and return him and the gemstones to St.-Mere-Abelle.”
“No.” The simple manner in which Markwart replied put Francis on his heels yet again.
“But”
“If you encounter Avelyn Desbris,” Markwart explained grimly, “if you even catch the slightest hint of his scent, you will return to me that which was stolen, along with the news of wandering Avelyn’s demise. You may bring me back his head, if possible.”
Brother Francis squared his shoulders. He was not a gentle man, and probably would have been ranked higher in his class except for several brawls he had been all too willingly involved in. Still, he never expected such a command from the Father Abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle. Francis was an ambitious and blindly loyal monk, though, and never one to let conscience get in the way of following orders. “I will not fail in this,” he said. “Master Jojonah and I”
“Beware Jojonah,” Markwart interrupted. “And Brother Braumin Herde, as well. They serve as first and second for the journey to the Barbacan and in any matter concerning the disposition of the demon dactyl. Where Avelyn Desbris is concerned, if Avelyn Desbris is concerned, Brother Francis speaks for Father Abbot, and the Father Abbot’s word is unquestionable law.”
Brother Francis bowed deeply, and seeing the dismissive wave of Father Abbot’s hand, turned about and left the room, full of anticipation, full of possibilities.
The night was deep about St.-Mere-Abelle as Brother Braumin made his way across the upper levels of the ancient structure. Though his mission was vitalhe had already passed word to Brother Viscenti to await his arrival in his private chambershe took a circuitous route, moving through the long, long corridor that ran along the abbey’s seawall, overlooking All Saints Bay. With no torches burning along the structure’s outer walls, and none on the few docks far below, Braumin was afforded the most spectacular view of the evening canopy, a million million stars twinkling above the dark waters of the great Mirianic. He had been born too late, he mused as he stared out one of the tall and narrow windows, for he had missed the journey to Pimaninicuit, the equatorial islandupon whose shores the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle collected the sacred stones. Such journeys only occurred every six generations, every 173 years.
Braumin Herde wasn’t even supposed to know the details of such things, for he was not yet a master, but Jojonah had told him the story of the most recent journey, of how Brothers Avelyn, Thagraine, Pellimar, and Quintall had traveled to the island aboard a chartered ship, theWindrunner. It was the subsequent destruction of theWindrunner by the monks as it sailed away from St.-Mere-Abelle, its mission complete, that had set Brother Avelyn fully at odds with the Abellican Church, Master Jojonah had told Braumin. Looking out now, the young monk tried to imagine that scene, all the power, the ballistae and catapults, the tremendous energies of the ring stones, loosed upon a single sailing vessel. Braumin had witnessed St.-Mere-Abelle’s fury against the powrie invasion; he shuddered when he thought of that power brought to bear against a single ship and her unsuspecting crew.
What a fateful night that had been, the man mused. If Avelyn had not learned of the destruction, might he have remained a loyal and dedicated servant of Father Abbot Markwart? And if, as they suspected, Brother Avelyn had played no minor role in the possibly momentous events in the northland, in the Timberlands and all the way to the Barbacan, then what darkness would still hold the world fast in its grip if Avelyn had indeed remained at the abbey?
Braumin Herde sent his fingers through his tight-curled black hair. Everything had a purpose, his mother had so often told him. Everything happened for a reason. In the case of Brother Avelyn Desbris, those words rang true indeed.
He pushed away from the window and went on his way, moving quietly but swiftly along the corridor. Most of the monks were asleep nowit was required of the younger monks, and recommended for the older, though ninth-and tenth-year students could make their own curfew if they had important matters to tend to, such as penn
ing passages from ancient texts, or, Braumin thought with a snicker, conspiring against the Father Abbot. Braumin, too, wanted to get to his bed as quickly as possible; he would be up before the dawn, and soon after that out on the road, a long and dangerous road.
He nodded when he saw a line of dim light underneath the door of Viscenti Marlboro’s room. His knock was gentle; he didn’t want to wake any in the nearby rooms, nor did he want to draw any attention to his presence at this man’s door.
The door opened; Braumin slipped inside.
Brother Viscenti Marlboro, a skinny and short man with darting dark eyes and perpetual stubble on his weathered face, was quick to close the door behind his friend.
Already rubbing his hands together, Braumin noted. Brother Viscenti was perhaps the most nervous person he had ever met. He was always rubbing his hands together, and always ducking his head as if he expected someone to slap him.
“You will both be gone, and both be dead,” Viscenti said suddenly, sharply, his squeaky voice seeming more fitting for a weasel or a squirrel than a man.
“Gone, yes,” Braumin conceded. “But for a month, two at the most.”
“If the Father Abbot has his way, you’ll not return,” Viscenti remarked, and he ducked low and spun about, and put a finger to his own pursed lips, as if speaking openly about Father Abbot Markwart would bring a host of guards bursting through his door.
Braumin Herde didn’t even try to hide his amusement. “If the Father Abbot wanted to move against us openly, he would have done so long before now,” he reasoned. “The hierarchy does not fear us.”
“They feared Avelyn,” Viscenti pointed out.
“They hated Avelyn because he stole the stones,” Braumin corrected. “To say nothing of his killing of Master Siherton. The Father Abbot despised Avelyn because in taking the stones, Avelyn took Markwart’s reputation, as well. If Father Abbot Markwart passes from this world with those stones unrecovered, then his time of leadership will be viewed by future Abellican monks as a failure. That is what the man fears, and no revolution because of Brother Avelyn.”
Brother Viscenti had heard it all before, of course, and he threw up his hands in surrender and shuffled across the floor, taking a seat at his desk.
“But I’ll not diminish the danger to myself and to Master Jojonah,” Braumin Herde said to him, taking a seat on the edge of Viscenti’s bed, a small and unremarkable cot. “Nor, in that event, should we diminish the responsibility that will fall upon your shoulders, my friend.”
Viscenti’s look was one of sheer terror.
“You have allies,” Braumin Herde reminded him.
Viscenti snorted. “A handful of first-and second-year novitiates?”
“Who will grow to ninth-and tenth-year students,” Braumin replied sternly. “Who will achieve their status as immaculates even as you, if you are wise enough, attain the rank of master.”
“Under the auspices of Father Abbot Markwart,” Brother Viscenti came back sarcastically, “who knows that I have befriended you and Master Jojonah.”
“The Father Abbot does not determine rank,” Brother Braumin replied. “Not alone. Your ascension, at least to master, is a foregone conclusion as long as you remain steadfast in your studies. If the Father Abbot went against that, he would be inviting whispers from every abbey, and from many of the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle. No, he cannot deny you a position.”
“But he decides upon assignment,” Brother Viscenti argued. “He could send me to St. Rontelmore in the hot sands of Entel, or even worse, he might assign me as a chaplain to the Coastpoint Guards in lonely Pireth Dancard, in the middle of the Gulf!”
Braumin Herde did not blink, only shrugged as if such possibilities did not matter. “And there you will hold fast to your beliefs,” he explained quietly. “There, you will keep our hopes for the Abellican Order alive in your heart.”
Brother Viscenti wrung his hands again, got up and began pacing about the room. He had to be satisfied with his friend’s answer, he knew, for their fates were not their own to decide. Not now. But still, it seemed to Viscenti as if the whole world was suddenly moving too fast for him, as if events were sweeping him along without a moment to consider his next move.
“What do I do if you do not return?” he asked in all seriousness.
“You keep the truth in your heart,” Brother Braumin replied without hesitation. “You continue to speak with those younger monks who share our tenets, fight back in their minds against the pressures to conform that they will know as they move higher in the Order. That is all that Master Jojonah has ever asked of us; that is all that Brother Avelyn would ever ask of us.”
Brother Viscenti stopped his pacing and stared long and hard at Braumin Herde. The man was right, he believed with all confidence, for he, like Brother Braumin Herde, like Master Jojonah, and like several other younger monks, had Avelyn’s spirit within him.
“Piety, dignity, poverty,” Braumin Herde recited, his Abellican vows. When Brother Viscenti looked at him and nodded, he added the one word that Master Jojonah, in light of Avelyn’s work, had secretly tagged on: “Charity.”
There was no fanfare, no general announcement, as the caravan of six wagons rolled through the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle. Four of those wagons carried five monks each, while another, full of supplies, held only the two drivers. The second in line was also manned by two monks, and held Master Jojonah, the maps and the logs.
The three monks in the back of the fourth wagon, including Brother Braumin and another immaculate, worked continually with gemstones, quartz mostly, though the other immaculate also held a hematite. They used the quartz, a stone for distance sight, to scout out all the area around the caravan, and if anything looked the slightest bit suspicious, the immaculate would then use the hematite to project his spirit into the area to better discern the situation. These three were the eyes and ears of the caravan, the guides to keep the wagons away from trouble, and if they failed, the monks would surely see battle, perhaps long before they had even left the so-called civilized lands of Honce-the-Bear.
They rode throughout the morning, traveling the northwestern road toward Amvoy, the small port across the great Masur Delaval from Palmaris. Normally such a large caravan would travel southwest, to Ursal and the bridges over the great river, for there were no ferries large enough to get them across to Palmaris in one trip. But the monks had their own methods; their line to the Barbacan would be as near to straight as possible, and with the magic stones, quite a bit was possible.
The horses, two for each wagon, were soon exhausted, some drawing breath so forcefully that they seemed near to death, for each wore a bridle set with magical turquoise that allowed the drivers to communicate with the animal, to push the beast beyond its limits with mental intrusions. They took their first break at noon, in a field off to the side of the road, an appointed rendezvous. Half the monks went to work on wheels and undercarriages immediately, tightening, straightening, while others prepared a quick meal, and the three with the scouting stones sent their eyes out wide to make contact. The Church was well-prepared for such undertakings as this journey, for all along the roads of Honce-the-Bear were allies, pastors of small congregations, missionaries, and the like. The previous day, several of St.-Mere-Abelle’s masters, using the maps and logs provided by Brother Francis, had used hematite to make contact with these strategically placed allies, informing them of their duties.
Within an hour of their noontime break a dozen fresh horses were brought to the field. Master Jojonah recognized the friar leading the procession, a man who had gone out into the world after a dozen years at St.-Mere-Abelle. Jojonah watched him from the flaps of his wagon cover and did not go out to greet the man, for familiarity would breed questions, he knew, questions it was neither this friar’s place to ask nor Jojonah’s to answer.
To the friar’s credit, he stayed no longer than the couple of minutes it took him and his five helpers to make the exchange.
Soon the teams
were yoked, the supplies repacked, and the caravan on its way, running hard across the miles. In mid-afternoon they veered from the road, turning more to the north, and soon thereafter, amazingly, the great Masur Delaval was in sight, with more than seventy miles already behind them. To the south lay Amvoy, and across the twenty miles of watery expanse, beyond their sight, was the city of Palmaris, the second largest city in all of Honce-the-Bear.
“Take good meals and gather your strength,” Master Jojonah instructed them all. The monks understood; this would likely be the most difficult and taxing part of their journey, at least until the Timberlands had been left behind.
An hour passed, and though Brother Francis’ detailed itinerary had only allowed for that much of a respite, Master Jojonah made no indication that he meant to get them going.
Brother Francis came to him in his wagon. “It is time,” the younger monk said quietly, though firmly.
“Another hour,” Master Jojonah replied.
Brother Francis shook his head and began to unroll a parchment. Jojonah stopped him.
“I know what it says,” the master assured.
“Then you know”
“I know that if we get halfway across that water and any of us weaken, we will lose a wagon, or all the wagons,” Jojonah interrupted.
“The amber is not so taxing,” Brother Francis argued.
“Not for one to walk across the water,” Jojonah agreed. “But to carry such a load?”
“There are twenty-five of us.”
“And there will remain twenty-five of us when we exit onto the river’s western bank,” Jojonah said sternly.
Brother Francis gave a slight growl and spun on his heel, starting away.
“We will travel long into the night,” Jojonah said to him, “using diamonds to light the way, and thus make up the time lost resting here.”
“And drawing attention to us with our beacons?” Francis asked sourly.
“Perhaps,” Jojonah replied. “But that is less a risk, by my estimation, than is crossing the Masur Delaval with weary brothers.”
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 78