“Not so good as Pony,” Elbryan remarked, drawing a surprised look from the monk.
Despite that, Pony reached to her pouch and took the small satchel from it, opening it wide.
Jojonah’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the stones, the ruby, the graphite, garnettaken from Brother Youseffand serpentine,and all the others. He extended his arm toward them, but Pony shifted her hand away, out of his reach.
“Avelyn gave these to me, and so they are my burden,” the woman explained.
“And if I might better use them in the coming fight?”
“You cannot,” Pony said calmly. “I have been trained by Avelyn himself.”
“I spent years” Jojonah started to protest.
“I saw your work with the merchant caravan,” Pony reminded him. “The wounds were minor, yet they took you tremendous effort to bind. I have measured your strength, Master Jojonah, and I speak now with no intent to insult, or to brag. But I am the stronger with the stones, do not doubt, for Avelyn and I found a connection, a joining of our spirits, and in that bond I came to understand.”
“Pony’s use of magic has saved me and so many others time and time again,” Elbryan added. “She does not boast, but merely speaks the truth.”
Jojonah looked from one to the other, then to Juraviel, who was also nodding.
“I did not use them in the fight for the merchant caravan because we knew that monks were in the area, and I feared we would be detected,” Pony explained.
Jojonah put his hand up in front of him, a signal that no further explanation was needed; he had heard this same story before when he was spiritually scouting out the three. “Very well,” he agreed. “But I do not believe that you should bring them into St.-Mere-Abellenot all of them, at least.”
Pony looked to Elbryan again, and he shrugged and then nodded, thinking that the monk’s reasoning, offering the same argument that he and Juraviel had made to Pony earlier, might be sound.
“We do not know if we will get back out,” Juraviel reasoned. “But is it better,” he asked Jojonah, “that the stones be hidden out here instead of back in the hands of the monks of your abbey?”
Jojonah didn’t even have to think about that one. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Better that the stones are cast into the sea than to be given into the hands of Father Abbot Markwart. So I beg that you leave them out here, as we will leave these fine horses.”
“We shall see” was all that Pony would promise.
The discussion then turned to more practical matters at hand, with the ranger asking what they might expect in the way of guards at this seaside door.
“I doubt that any will be down there,” Jojonah replied with confidence. He went on to describe the massive door, backed by the huge portcullis, backed by yet another massive door, though that inner one was likely left open.
“That sounds little like any entrance for us,” Juraviel remarked.
“There may be smaller entrances nearby,” Jojonah replied. “For that is a very ancient section of the abbey, and at one time the docks were used extensively. The great doors are fairly new, no more than two centuries old, but there once were many other ways into the structure from the docks.”
“And you hope to find one of these in the dark night,” the elf said doubtfully.
“It is possible that I could open the great doors with the gemstones,” Jojonah said, glancing at Pony as he spoke. “St.-Mere-Abelle takes few precautions against magical attacks. If they are expecting a ship, the portcullis, the only obstacle against successful stone use, might be open.”
Pony didn’t reply.
“Our bellies are full, our fire warm,” the ranger remarked. “Let us find some rest now, until the time is right.”
Jojonah looked up at Sheila, the bright moon, and tried to recall the latest he had heard concerning the tides. He rose and bade the ranger to accompany him back to the waterfront, and when they got down there, they saw that the water was much calmer and almost back down to the base of the rocks.
“Two hours,” Jojonah reasoned. “And then we will have the time we need to get into St.-Mere-Abelle and complete our task.”
He made it all sound so easy, Elbryan noted.
“You should not come here,” Markwart told Brother Francis when the man arrived at the Father Abbot’s private quarters, a place he had frequented often in the last few weeks. “Not yet.”
Brother Francis held his arms out wide, truly perplexed by the hostile attitude.
“We must turn our attention wholly to the College of Abbots,” Markwart explained. “You will be there, and so will the centaur, if we are successful.”
Brother Francis’ face screwed up even more with confusion.
“I?” he asked. “But I am not worthy, Father Abbot. I am not even an immaculate, and will not attain that title until next spring, when all of the abbots are back in their respective abbeys.”
The grin that splayed across the Father Abbot’s wrinkled and withered face nearly took in his ears.
“What is it?” Brother Francis asked, his tone edging on frantic.
“You will be there,” Markwart said again. “Immaculate Brother Francis will stand beside me.”
“ButBut” Francis stuttered, too overwhelmed. “But I have not reached my ten years. My preparations for promotion to immaculate brother are in order, I assure you, but the rank cannot be attained by one who has not yet spent a full decade”
“As Master De’Unnero became the youngest abbot in the modern Church, so you will become the youngest immaculate brother,” Markwart said matter-of-factly. “These are dangerous times, and sometimes the rules must be bent to accommodate the immediate needs of the Church.”
“What of the others of my class?” Francis asked. “What of Brother Viscenti?”
Markwart laughed at the notion. “Many will attain their new rank in the spring, as scheduled. As for Brother Viscenti …” He paused and grinned even wider. “Well, let us just say that the company he keeps could well determine his future.
“But for you,” the Father Abbot went on, “there can be no delays. I must promote you to immaculate before I can then move you into the position of master. Church doctrine is unbending on that point, regardless of situation.”
Francis teetered and felt faint. Of course, he had predicted as much to Braumin Herde that day in the seawall corridor, but had no idea that his mentor would move so quickly. And now that he had heard the proclamation out loud, had heard firsthand that Father Abbot Markwart did indeed mean to promote him to one of the two vacant master positions, he was surely overwhelmed.
Brother Francis felt as if he was rebuilding the pedestal of self-righteousness he had broken by killing Grady Chilichunk, as if, by mere fact of his ascension in the Order, he was redeeming himself, or even that he needed no redemption, that it had been, after all, merely an unfortunate accident.
“But you must stay far from me until the promotion is finalized,” Markwart explained. “Better for protocol. I do have a most important job for you, in any casethat of breaking Bradwarden.The centaur will speak for us, against Avelyn and against this woman who now holds the gemstones.”
Brother Francis shook his head. “He thinks of them as kin,” he dared to disagree.
Markwart brushed the notion away. “Every man, every beast, has a breaking point,” he insisted. “With the magical armband, you can inflict upon Bradwarden such horrors that he will beg for death, and that he will give up his friends as enemies of the Church merely on your promise to kill him quickly. Be inventive, immaculate brother!”
The title was indeed inviting, but Francis’ face soured anyway at the thought of the distasteful job.
“Do not fail me in this,” Markwart said sternly. “That wretched beast may be the keystone of our declaration against Avelyn, and do not doubt that that declaration is vital to the survival of the Abellican Church.”
Francis bit his lip, his emotions obviously torn.
“Without the centaur’s confirmation against Avelyn, Master Jojonah and others will stand against us, and the very best we might hope for is that the labeling of Avelyn Desbris as a heretic will be taken under consideration,” Markwart explained. “Such a ‘consideration’ process will take years to complete.”
“But if he truly was a hereticand he was,” Francis quickly added, seeing the Father Abbot’s eyes going wide with rage, “then time is our ally. Avelyn’s own actions will damn him, in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the Church.”
“Fool!” Markwart snapped at him, and the Father Abbot spun away, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of Francis, a gesture that profoundly stung the younger monk. “Each passing day will count against us, against me, if the gemstones are not recovered. And if Avelyn is not openly declared a heretic, then the general populace and the King’s army will not aid in our quest to find the woman and bring her to justice.”
Francis followed that reasoning; anyone officially deemed a heretic became an outlaw not only of the Church, but of the kingdom as well.
“And I will have those gemstones!” Markwart went on. “I am not a young man. Would you have me go to my grave with this issue unresolved? Would you have my presidency over St.-Mere-Abelle be marred by this black mark?”
“Of course not, Father Abbot,” Francis replied.
“Then go to the centaur,” Markwart said so coldly that the hairs on the back of Francis’ neck stood up.“Enlist him.”
Brother Francis staggered out of the room, as shaken as if Markwart had physically struck him. He ran his hand through his hair and started for the lower dungeons, determined that he would not fail his Father Abbot.
Markwart moved to the door and shut it, and locked it, scolding himself silently for allowing his office to be so open, given the secret and telling floor design in the adjoining room. He went to that room then, admiring his work. The pentagram was perfect, exactly as it had appeared in the book, scratched into the floor and with the grooves filled by multicolored wax.
The Father Abbot had not slept in more than a day, too engrossed in his work and in the mysteries the strange tome was showing him. Perhaps the Chilichunks would also attend the College of Abbots. Markwart could bring spirits up to reinhabit their bodies, and with hematite he could all but eliminate the natural decay.
It was a risky move, he knew, but it was not without precedence.The Incantations Sorcerous clearly spelled out a similar ruse, used against the second abbess of St. Gwendolyn. Two of St. Gwendolyn’s masters had turned against the abbess, arguing that no woman should hold such a position of powerindeed, other than the abbey of St. Gwendolyn, women played only a minor role in all the Church. When one of those masters found that the other had died, merely of old age, he understood his predicament, for he knew that he could not battle the abbess alone. But through prudent use ofThe Incantations Sorcerous, the master had not been alone. He had summoned a minor malevolent spirit to inhabit his friend’s corpse, and together they waged war on the abbess for nearly a year to come.
Markwart moved back to his desk, needing to sit and consider his course. The Chilichunk imposters would only have to be in front of the College for a short while. It was possible that the deception would succeed, for only he and Francis knew with certainty that the couple had died, and then he would have two strong witnesses against the woman.
But what might be the cost of failure? Markwart had to wonder, and the possibilities seemed grim indeed.
“But I’ll not know until I see the animations,” he said aloud, nodding. He decided to follow the course. He would bring the Chilichunkstheir bodies, at leastunder his control, and seehow fine the deception appeared. Then he could decide, while watching the progress of Bradwarden’s bending, whether or not to present them before the College.
Smiling, rubbing his hands with anticipation, Markwart took up the black book and a pair of candles and went into the prepared room. He placed the candles in the appropriate positions and lit them, then used diamond magic to pervert their glow, having them give off a black light instead of yellow. Then he sat between them, within the pentagram, legs crossed.
Soul stone in one hand,The Incantations Sorcerous in the other, Markwart walked free of his body.
The room took on strange dimensions, seemed to warp and twist before his spiritual eyes. He saw the physical exit, and then another, a portal in the floor with a long, sloping passageway behind it.
He took this darker route, his soul going down, down.
Sheila was directly above the abbey, and the water was far, far out when Jojonah led the ranger and his companions to the wharves and the lower door. Symphony and Greystone had been left far behind, as had many of the gemstones, Pony taking only those she thought might prove necessary. She now held a malachite, the stone of levitation and telekinesis, and a lodestone.
Jojonah led the way to the great doors in front of the wharves, then inspected them closely, even taking the ranger’s sword and sliding it under one worn area. As he moved the blade back and forth he felt the barriersthe portcullis was down.
“We should search south along the cliff face,” Jojonah reasoned, speaking in a whisper and motioning that there might be guards atop the wallthough that wall was several hundred feet above the companions. “That is the most likely place for us to find a more accessible door.”
“Do you suspect that any guards will be posted within this portal?” Pony asked.
“At this time of night, I doubt there are any below the second level of the abbey,” Jojonah replied with confidence. “Except perhaps for guards Markwart has posted near the prisoners.”
“Then let us try these,” Pony replied.
“The portcullis is down,” Jojonah explained, trying hard, but futilely, to keep the edge of hope in his voice.
Pony held up the malachite, but the monk wore a doubtful expression.
“Too large,” he explained. “Perhaps three thousand pounds. That is why this gate is hardly guarded. The front doors swing in, but they cannot open while the portcullis is down. And of course that portcullis is inaccessible to any lever we might construct while the solid doors are closed.”
“Not inaccessible to magic,” Pony argued. Before the master could protest, she fished out the soul stone and was soon out of body, slipping through the crack between the front doors to view the portcullis. She went back to her physical coil quickly, not wanting to expend too much energy. “This is the way,” she announced. “The inner doors are not closed, nor did I see any sign of guards in the hallway beyond.”
Jojonah didn’t doubt her; he had done enough spirit-walking to know its potential, and to understand that even in the darkened tunnels, the woman would have been able to “see” clearly enough.
“The front doors are barred, as well as blocked by the portcullis,” Pony explained. “Prepare a torch and go and listen carefully, for the lifting portcullis and then the bar. When you hear it rise, go quickly, for I know not how long I can offer you.”
“You cannot lift” Jojonah started to protest, but Pony had already raised her hand with the malachite, had already fallen into the depths of the greenish stone.
Elbryan moved near the master and dropped a hand on his shoulder, bidding him to be quiet and watch.
“I hear the portcullis rising,” Juraviel whispered after a few moments, the elf standing with his ear pressed against the large doors. Elbryan and a stunned Jojonah rushed to join him, and despite the monk’s protests that it was impossible, he did indeed hear the grating sound of the great gate lifting into the ceiling.
Pony felt the tremendous strain. She had lifted giants before, but nothing of this magnitude. She focused on her image of that portcullis and fell deep, deep within the power of the stone, channeling its energy. The portcullis was up high enough, she believed, above the top of the doors, but then she had to reach even deeper, to grab the locking bar as well and somehow try to lift it.
She trembled violently; sweat beade
d on her forehead and her eyes blinked rapidly. She pictured the bar, found it in her mental image, and grabbed at it with all her remaining strength.
Juraviel pressed his ear closer, could hear the bar shifting, one end going up. “Now, Nightbird!” he said, and the ranger put his shoulder to the great doors and heaved with all his strength. The bar fell free, the doors swung open, and Elbryan slipped down to one knee in the passageway, quickly moving to light his torch.
“The locking mechanism is in a cubby down to the right,” the monk said to the elf as Juraviel ran past Elbryan.
A moment later the torch came up and the elf announced that the portcullis was secured. Jojonah, back at Pony’s side, shook the woman roughly, drawing her from her trance. She came out of it and stumbled, nearly falling over for lack of strength.
“I have seen but one other with such power,” Jojonah remarked to her as he led her into the passage.
“He is with me,” Pony replied calmly.
The master smiled, not doubting her claim and taking great comfort in the possibility. He quietly closed the inner doors then, explaining that the draft would be felt deep into the abbey if the corridor were left open to the sea.
“Where do we go?” the ranger asked.
Jojonah thought on it for a moment. “I can get us to the dungeons,” he said, “but only by going up several levels, then coming back down at another point.”
“Lead on,” said Elbryan.
But the monk was shaking his head. “I do not like the possibilities,” he explained. “If we encounter any brothers, the alarm will be sounded.” The notion that they might indeed meet up with some of St.-Mere-Abelle’s flock brought a wave of panic over Jojonah, not for this powerful trio and their mission, but for the unfortunate brothers they might encounter.
“I beg you not to kill any,” he blurted suddenly.
Elbryan and Pony exchanged curious glances.
“Brothers, I mean,” Jojonah explained. “Most are unwitting pawns for Markwart, at worst, and not deserving of”
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