“Damn you, Markwart,” Master Jojonah whispered, and he meant every word. He tucked the book under his voluminous robes and left the cellars, going straight to the privacy of his room. He thought that he should look in on Brother Braumin, but decided that course could wait, for there was another matter that had been weighing heavily on Jojonah for several days.
So he was soon descending once more into the lower levels of St.-Mere-Abelle, on the other side of the great abbey, down to the rooms Father Abbot Markwart had converted into dungeons. He was not really surprised when he was met by a monk standing guard, the young man moving to block his path.
“I’ll not stand and argue with you, young brother,” Jojonah blustered, trying to sound imposing. “How many years have passed since you traveled the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering?”
Indeed the formidable master was imposing to the poor young brother! “One year, Master,” he said softly. “And four months.”
“One year?” Jojonah boomed. “And yet you dare to block my way? I attained the rank of master before you were born, and yet you stand before me now, telling me that I cannot go on.”
“The Father Abbot”
Jojonah had heard enough. He reached across, bringing his arm along the young monk’s side, and bulled his way past, staring hard at the young man, daring him to try and stop the move.
The young monk stuttered over a few protests, but only stamped his foot in impotent frustration as Jojonah continued on down the stairs. At the bottom two more young monks stood to block Jojonah’s way, but he didn’t even bother to speak with them, just continued on, pushing through, and again they didn’t dare try to physically stop him. One did follow, though, complaining every step, while the second ran back the other wayto inform Father Abbot Markwart, Jojonah knew.
He was treading on dangerous ground here, Jojonah knew, perhaps pushing the Father Abbot too far. But the book he had found had only bolstered his resolve to stand strong against Markwart’s injustices, and he vowed silently that he would not be turned away, whatever the punishment, that he would check on the poor prisoners, just to make sure they were alive and not being treated too badly. Jojonah was risking a great deal, and could rationally argue that the long-term greater good called for him to continue to remain quiet and obscure. But that course would not do much to help the poor Chilichunks and the heroic centaur; that argument, Jojonah knew, was one that men such as Markwart often used to justify ungodly or cowardly actions.
So he didn’t even care that he might be pushing Markwart to the very edge of rage. He pressed on, through one door, by another startled young monk, and down another stair. Then he paused, Brother Francis standing before him.
“You should not be down here,” Francis remarked.
“By whose command?”
“Father Abbot Markwart,” Francis answered without hesitation. “Only he, myself, and Master De’Unnero are to be allowed past the lower stairs.”
“A worthy crew,” Master Jojonah said sarcastically. “And why is that, Brother Francis? That you might torture the poor innocent prisoners in privacy?” He said it loudly, and took some satisfaction in the uncomfortable shuffling of feet he heard from the young guard standing behind him.
“Innocent?” Francis echoed skeptically.
“Are you so ashamed of your actions that they must take place down here, away from all prying eyes?” Master Jojonah pressed, moving forward another step as he spoke. “Yes, I have heard the tale of Grady Chilichunk.”
“An accident on the road,” Francis protested.
“Hide thy sins, Brother Francis!” Jojonah replied. “Yet they remain sins all the same!”
Francis snorted derisively. “You cannot comprehend the meaning of this war we wage,” he protested. “You show pity for criminals, while innocents pay dearly for their crimes against the Church, against all of Mankind!”
Master Jojonah’s answer came in the form of a heavy left hook. Brother Francis was not caught completely unawares, though, and managed to turn so the blow only grazed his face, and as Master Jojonah overbalanced from the miss, the younger monk leaped behind him, locking him in a tight choke hold and twisting hard, stealing the man’s balance.
Master Jojonah squirmed and twisted, but only for a moment, for the blood supply was cut short and his brain, starved, fast drifted into unconsciousness.
“Brother Francis!” the younger monk yelled, panicking, and he rushed forward, trying to separate the two. Francis willingly let go, allowing the heavy Jojonah to slump to the floor.
He heard the footsteps sharp against the wood. Pacing, pacing, and he fell into the rhythm of that stride, went along with it, let it carry him back to the world of the living. The light seemed harsh to his eyes, which had known so much darkness in the previous days, but as soon as he found his focus, he knew exactly where he was: propped in a chair in the private room of Father Abbot Markwart.
Markwart and Brother Francis stood before him, neither appearing very pleased.
“You attacked another monk,” Father Abbot Markwart began curtly.
“An impertinent subordinate needing a scolding,” Master Jojonah replied, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. “A brother desperately in need of a good thrashing.”
Markwart looked over at the smug Brother Francis. “Perhaps,” he agreed, merely to deflate the puffy young man. “And yet,” Markwart continued, turning his attention squarely back to Jojonah, “he was only acting as I instructed.”
Master Jojonah fought hard to maintain control, for he wanted, desperately wanted, to burst loose of his pragmatic bonds and tell Markwart, wicked Markwart, exactly what he thought of him and his so off-course Church. He just chewed his lip and let the old man continue.
“You abandon your duties to support the cause of Brother Allabarnet,” the Father Abbot fumed. “A worthy cause, so I thought, given the fate of poor Abbot Dobrinion, for the monks of St. Precious are in need of some morale at this dark time. And yet you abuse the free time I allow you and find yourself across the whole of the abbey, meddling in affairs which do not concern you.”
“Am I not to care that we have innocent prisoners hanging from dungeon walls?” Master Jojonah replied, his voice firm and strong. “Am I not to care that people who have committed no crimes and no sins, and a centaur who may indeed be a hero, stand in this supposedly holy sanctuary’s dungeons in chains, and are subjected to torture?”
“Torture?” scoffed the Father Abbot. “You know nothing of it!”
“Thus I tried to find out,” Jojonah countered. “Yet you would deny me that, would deny all eyes.”
Again Markwart scoffed. “I would not subject the frightened Chilichunks and the potentially dangerous Bradwarden to the private inquisitions of others. They are my responsibility.”
“Your prisoners,” Jojonah corrected.
Father Abbot Markwart paused and took a deep breath. “Prisoners,” he echoed. “Yes, they are. No sins, say you, yet they are in league with the thieves who hold the stolen stones. No crimes, say you, yet we have every reason to believe that the centaur was in league with the demon dactyl, and only the accidental destruction of Aida prevented him from joining in the rampage against all the godly people of the world!”
“Accidental destruction,” Jojonah echoed incredulously, sarcastically.
“That is the decision of my investigation!” Markwart yelled suddenly, moving very near the sitting master, and Jojonah thought for a moment that the man meant to strike him. “You chose at this time to pursue another course.”
If only you understood the truth of that,Jojonah silently replied, and was quite glad then that he had hidden the ancient book in his room before he tried to get to the prisoners.
“And yet you could not even hold true to that course!” Markwart went on. “And while you were at your work, buried in ancient writings that bear no importance to the present dangerous situation, one of our younger brothers nearly met his doom!”
That perked up Jo
jonah’s ears.
“In the courtyard,” Markwart went on. “Doing work that Master Jojonah would normally oversee, but that Master De’Unnero had to watch over, in addition to the other laborers he was directing. Perhaps that was why he could not react in time when two of the three brothers slipped off the wheel, when the third, poor Dellman, was nearly broken in half by the sudden weight.”
“Dellman!” Jojonah cried, nearly coming out of his seat, forcing Markwart to take a step back. Panic crept through Jojonah’s mind; he worried suddenly for Brother Braumin, whom he had not seen in days. How many “accidents” had there been?
He realized, though, that his excitement only implicated Dellman as a fellow conspirator, and so he worked hard to control himself, to settle back into his chair. “The same Brother Dellman who accompanied us to Aida?” he asked.
“The only Brother Dellman,” Markwart sternly replied, seeing right through the ruse.
“Such a pity,” Jojonah remarked. “He is alive, though?”
“Barely, and perhaps not for long,” the Father Abbot answered, going into his pacing once more.
“I will see to him.”
“You will not!” the Father Abbot snapped. “He is under the care of Master De’Unnero. I forbid you from trying to so much as speak to him. He does not need to hear your apologies, Master Jojonah. Let the guilt of your absence weigh on your mind. Perhaps that will lead you back to your true duties and purpose.”
The thought that he was somehow responsible was preposterous, of course, but Jojonah understood the subtle meaning behind it. Markwart was only using that excuse to keep him away from Brother Dellman, to keep his influence from the man while De’Unnero, the master so proficient at bending the minds of the brothers sent on Avelyn’s trail, worked his wicked way.
“You are my witness to this, Brother Francis,” Markwart said. “And I warn you, Master Jojonah, if I hear that you go anywhere near Brother Dellman, the consequences will be direfor you and for him.”
It surprised Jojonah that Markwart had drawn so clear a line in the sand, had all but openly threatened him. Things were going Markwart’s way, it seemed to Jojonah, so why had he taken such a bold step as that?
He didn’t press the issue, simply nodded and left, and had no intention of crossing Markwart’s line anytime soon. It would be better for Brother Dellman, he reasoned, if he broke all connection with the man for the time being. Besides, Jojonah was only beginning his work. He took a quick meal, went to his room and sighed profoundly in relief to find the tome still in place. Then he went right back to the lower stairs, heading again for the ancient libraries, for more pieces to this ever-more-interesting puzzle.
The doors were sealed, barred by heavy planks. One young monk, a man Jojonah did not know, was standing guard.
“What is the meaning of this?” the master asked.
“No entrance to the lower libraries at this time,” the man mechanically replied. “By order of”
Before he had even finished, Master Jojonah stormed away, taking the stairs two at a time. He was not surprised to find Father Abbot Markwart waiting for him in his private quarters, this time alone.
“You said nothing about ending my work,” Master Jojonah began, feeling his way cautiously into this fight, for he believed this one might prove conclusive.
“Now is not the time to worry about Brother Allabarnet’s sainthood,” the Father Abbot replied calmly. “I cannot afford to have one of my masters wasting precious time in the dungeons.”
“A curious choice of words,” Jojonah came back, “considering that you have many of your most trusted brothers wasting time in dungeons of another sort.”
He saw the flicker of anger in the old man’s eyes, but Markwart got it quickly under control. “The canonization process will wait until the war is ended,” he said.
“By all reports, it may already be over,” Jojonah was quick to reply.
“And until the threat to our Order is ended,” Markwart added. “It is reasonable to assume that if a powrie could get to Abbot Dobrinion, then none of us are safe. Our enemies are desperate now, for their war is going badly, and it is prudent to believe that they might begin a larger campaign of assassinating important leaders.”
Jojonah had to fight very hard to hold his tongue, to stop from accusing Markwart then and there of facilitating Dobrinion’s murder. He didn’t care anymore for his personal well-being, would have laid into Markwart openly, publicly, beginning an internal struggle that would likely cost him his life. But he could not, he reminded himself many times in the next few seconds. There were others to considerDellman, Braumin Herde, Marlboro Viscenti, and the poor prisoners. For their sake, if not his own, he could not begin the open battle against Markwart.
“The process will also wait until the stolen gemstones are returned,” Markwart went on.
“Thus I will sit idle, wasting my time in the upper levels,” Jojonah did dare to remark.
“No, I have other plans for you,” Markwart replied. “More important matters. You are obviously well againfit enough to attack another monkand so you should prepare yourself for the road.”
“You just said that the sainthood would wait,” Jojonah responded.
“So I did,” Markwart replied. “But your destination is no longer St. Honce. You will go to Palmaris, to St. Precious, to witness the appointment of a new abbot.”
Master Jojonah could not completely hide his surprise. There was no monk at that abbey prepared for the job, and thus, as far as he knew, nothing of succession had even been discussed, and would be a matter for the College of Abbots later that year.
“Master De’Unnero,” Father Abbot Markwart answered his unspoken question.
“De’Unnero?” Jojonah echoed incredulously. “The junior master in all of St.-Mere-Abelle, a man prematurely promoted due to the death of Master Siherton?”
“The murder of Master Siherton, by Avelyn Desbris,” Markwart was quick to remind.
“He will assume the leadership of St. Precious?” Jojonah continued, too engrossed to even feel the sting of that last verbal barb. “Surely that position is of utmost importance, given the fact that Palmaris remains closest to the lines of battle.”
“That is exactly why I chose De’Unnero,” Markwart replied calmly.
“You chose?” Jojonah echoed. There was little precedence for such a move; the appointment of an abbot, even one coming from within the ranks of the affected abbey, was no small matter, one open to the collective reasoning of the College of Abbots.
“There is no time to convene the College prematurely,” Markwart explained. “Nor can we wait until the scheduled meeting in Calember. Until then, acting on what I deem to be emergency circumstances, I have appointed Master De’Unnero as Dobrinion’s replacement.”
“Temporarily,” Jojonah said.
“Permanently,” came the stern reply. “And you, Master Jojonah, will accompany him.”
“I just returned from many weeks on the road,” Jojonah protested, but he knew he was defeated, and understood that he had erred in trying to get to the prisoners, in pushing hard against Markwart. And now he would pay. Markwart had been well within his rights to halt the canonization process for the time being, and whether or not the Father Abbot’s choice of De’Unnero for abbot would stand would be decided at the fall College of Abbots, and not before. Jojonah was out of excuses and out of dodges.
“You will remain at St. Precious to aid Master… Abbot De’Unnero, as his second,” Markwart went on. “If it pleases him, you may return to St.-Mere-Abelle with him for the College.”
“I outrank him.”
“No more,” Markwart replied.
“I… the College will not stand for this!” Jojonah protested.
“That will be determined in mid-Calember,” Markwart replied. “If the other abbots and their voting seconds see fit to overrule me, then perhaps Jojonah will be appointed abbot of St. Precious.”
But by that time, Jo
jonah knew, Markwart would likely have his gemstones back, and all of those monks (who had been in league with, or even friendly to, Jojonah’s cause) would have been weeded out of St.-Mere-Abelle, the victims of “accidents” like the one that befell Brother Dellman, or converted to Markwart’s way of thinking by a barrage of lies and threats. Or, for those brothers of conviction like himself, Markwart would find missions in faraway, dangerous lands. Until this moment, Master Jojonah had not truly appreciated how formidable a foe the old Father Abbot would prove to be.
“Perhaps we will meet again,” Markwart said, waving his hand dismissively. “For the sake of peace of mind for both of us, I hope not.”
And so it ends, Master Jojonah thought.
CHAPTER 24
Resolution
They came in sight of the clusters of houses, farms mostly, just to the north of Palmaris, and were heartened indeed to see that many of the folk had come out of the walled city and returned to their homes.
“The region is returning to normal,” Connor remarked. He was sitting astride his horse, riding next to Pony, who along with Belli’mar Juraviel was up on Symphony, while Elbryan and Roger walked in front, flanking Brother Youseff, whose hands were bound tightly behind his back. “We will know peace again, and soon,” Connor promised, and that seemed a likely notion to all the others, for they had seen no monsters all the way to this point.
“Caer Tinella and Landsdown may have been the last monstrous strongholds in the region,” the ranger reasoned. “What few remain there should prove of little trouble to Palmaris’ garrison.” The ranger stopped then, taking Symphony’s bridle and bringing the horse to a halt. He looked up at his two friends, and both Pony and Juraviel understood.
“We do not dare enter the city,” Elbryan said to Connor. “Nor even get close enough that those folk in the farms might see us.” He looked at Brother Youseff as he finished the thought. “Even knowing of us seems to endanger people.”
“Because you recognize that you are rightly branded as outlaws,” Brother Youseff retorted sharply. “Do you believe that the Church will cease its hunt for you?” He laughed wickedly, seeming not at all the prisoner here.
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