"Are you sure you cannot remember the brother's name?" Jojonah prompted.
"Aberly, Aberlyn, something like that," Pony replied, shaking her head.
"Avelyn?" Jojonah asked.
"That might be it, Father," Pony replied, still trying not to give too much away. She was encouraged, though, by the warm expression on Master Jojonah's face.
"I said be quick!" came a shout from outside the wagon circle, the harsh bark of St. Precious' new abbot.
"Avelyn," Master Jojonah said again to Pony. "It was Avelyn. Never forget that name." He patted her shoulder as he walked past.
Pony watched him go, and for some reason that she had not yet discerned, she felt a bit better about the world. She moved to Elbryan then, the ranger still standing right against Symphony, hiding the telltale turquoise.
"May we leave now?" he asked her impatiently.
Pony nodded and climbed up on Greystone, and with a wave to the merchant entourage, the pair trotted their mounts out of the wagon circle, going back to the south, up the slope and away from the monks, who were back on the road, heading to the west. Just over the ridge, Elbryan and Pony met up with Juraviel again, and they were quickly heading east, putting as much ground between themselves and the monks as possible.
De'Unnero began scolding Master Jojonah as soon as the older man rejoined the monk procession. His tirade went on and on, long after the group exited the valley.
Jojonah tuned it out almost immediately, his thoughts still with the woman who had helped tend the wounded. He felt warm inside, calm and hopeful that Avelyn's message had indeed been heard. The woman's tale had touched him deeply, had reinforced his positive feelings toward Avelyn, had reminded him once again of all that was—or all that could be—right with his Church.
His smile as he pondered the tale only infuriated De'Unnero even more, of course, but Jojonah could hardly have cared less. At least in this tirade—on the edge of insanity, it seemed—De'Unnero was showing his temperament honestly to the younger, impressionable monks. They might be in awe of the man's fighting prowess—even Jojonah was amazed by that—but his verbal lashing of an old, impassive man would likely sour more than a few stomachs.
Finally realizing that Jojonah's serenity was too entrenched to be shaken, the volatile master backed off and the procession went on its way, with Master Jojonah falling into position at the end of the line absently, trying to conjure images of Brother Avelyn's work with the poor and sick. He thought of the woman again, and was glad, but as he pondered her tale, as he considered her and her companion's obviously mighty role in the battle, his contentment fast shifted to curiosity. It made little sense to him that a man and a woman, obviously powerful warriors, would be making their way to the east from Palmaris—and not in position as guard of one of the few, precious caravans that were trying to get through. Most heroes, after all, were making their name and reputation in the north, where the battle lines were more obvious. It occurred to Master Jojonah that this situation needed more investigating.
"The stone!" Abbot De'Unnero snapped at him from the front of the procession.
The man was hardly paying him any heed, so Jojonah bent low and quietly gathered another stone of similar size, then dropped it into the pouch in place of the hematite. Then he rushed over to De'Unnero, seeming obedient, and handed the pouch over. He breathed easier when the vicious master, no lover of magic other than his signature tiger's paw, tucked the pouch away without a look.
They marched until the sun went down, putting several miles behind them before setting camp. A single tent was propped for De'Unnero, who went inside right after his meal with parchment and ink to further plan the grand ceremony of his appointment as abbot.
Master Jojonah said little to his companions, just moved off by himself quietly and settled amidst several thick blankets. He waited until all the camp had quieted, until several of the brothers were snoring contentedly, and then he took the hematite from his pocket. With one last glance around to make sure no one was taking any notice, he fell into the stone, connecting his spirit to its magic and then using that magic to let his spirit walk free of his body.
Without the corporeal bonds of his aged and too-heavy frame, the master set out at great pace, covering the miles in mere minutes. He passed by the merchant caravan, which was still circled in the valley.
The woman and her companion were not there, and so Jojonah's spirit did not stay, but rather drifted up high, into the air, above the hilltops. He spotted a pair of campfires, one to the north and another in the east, and by sheer luck chose to investigate the eastern glow first.
Perfectly silent and invisible, the spirit glided in. He soon saw the two horses, the great black stallion and the muscled golden palomino, and then, beyond them, huddled about the fire, the two warriors talking to a third figure he did not know. He drifted closer cautiously, giving them all due respect, moving in a circuit about the perimeter of the camp to get a better look at this third member of the band.
If he had been in his corporeal form, Jojonah's gasp would have been audible indeed when he saw the lithe figure, the angular features, the translucent wings!
An elf! Touel'alfar! Jojonah had seen statues and drawings of the diminutive beings at St.-Mere-Abelle, but even at the abbey the writing on the Touel'alfar was indecisive as to whether there really were such beings, or whether they were merely legend. After encountering powries and goblins and hearing the tales of fomorian giants, Jojonah was not logically surprised to learn that there really were Touel'alfar, but the sight of one still startled him profoundly. He spent a long time hovering about that camp, his gaze never leaving Juraviel while he listened to the conversation.
They were speaking of St.-Mere-Abelle, of the prisoners Markwart had taken, particularly the centaur.
"The man was proficient with the hematite," the woman was saying.
"Could you defeat him in a battle of magics?" the strong man asked.
Jojonah had to swallow his pride when the woman nodded confidently, but any anger he might have felt washed away as soon as she explained.
"Avelyn taught me well, better than I had understood before," she said. "The man was a master, indeed the one that Avelyn had called his mentor, the one man that Avelyn had loved at St.-Mere-Abelle. Avelyn always spoke highly of Master Jojonah, but in truth, the man's work with the stones was not so strong, not compared to Avelyn, and not compared to my own."
She had not said it in any boastful way, but merely matter-of-factly, and so Jojonah took no further offense. Instead he considered the deeper, richer implications of it all. She had been trained by Avelyn! And under his tutelage, this woman, who did not look as though she was near her thirtieth birthday, was stronger than a master of St.-Mere-Abelle. That notion, and he found from her tone that he believed her words, served to reinforce Jojonah's continually mounting respect for Avelyn.
He wanted to stay near and continue his eavesdropping, but realized then that time was short and that he would have to cover quite a bit of ground before the dawn. His spirit soared back to his waiting body, and when he was again corporeal, he breathed easier to learn that his out-of-body flight had not been noticed. All the camp was quiet.
Jojonah looked at the soul stone, wondering how to proceed. He might need this, he realized, but if he took it, then De'Unnero would likely make hunting him down a priority even above the journey to St. Precious. On the other hand, if he left the soul stone, then it might be used, much as he had used it this night, to search for him.
Jojonah found a third option. From inside the folds of his voluminous robes he produced parchment and ink, then set about writing a short note explaining that he was going to return to the merchant caravan and escort them to Palmaris. He would take the soul stone, he explained, because the merchants were far more likely to need it than were the monks, especially—and Jojonah took great care to play this part up—since the monks had Master De'Unnero, perhaps the greatest fighter ev
er to come out of St.-Mere-Abelle, at their head. Also, Jojonah assured De'Unnero that he would make sure that the merchants, and any compatriots they could muster, would attend the ceremony at St. Precious, bearing expensive gifts.
"My conscience will not allow me to leave these people out here all alone," the note finished. "It is the duty of the Church to help those in need, and by so helping, we bring willing contributors into the flock."
He hoped that the emphasis on wealth and power would calm De'Unnero's expectedly vicious response. But he couldn't really worry about that now, not with these three people, so potentially important to everything that he held dear, so very near. Carrying only the soul stone and a small knife, he crept out of the camp, taking care not to be noticed, and set out as fast as his old frame would carry him, back to the east.
His first destination was the valley where the merchants had settled, so he could get his bearings, and also from an honest desire to check in on the battered caravan. When he drew near the place, he found another potential gain. Improvising, Master Jojonah cut a piece of his robe, not a difficult thing to do since the material had grown threadbare from his many days of traveling. He broke a few low branches and scuffled his feet about to make it seem as if a fight had occurred, then cut his own finger, carefully soaking the ripped material in blood and dripping some more about the area.
He quickly sealed the wound with the hematite, then moved over the ridge to the slope above the valley. The camp seemed peaceful enough, a couple of fires burning, several figures moving about calmly, so the monk took a moment to gauge his position, then set out.
He came in sight of the low-burning campfire before the dawn, and crept up. He didn't want to startle these people, certainly not to alarm them, but he figured that his best chance was to get close enough for the woman to recognize him.
He was soon in the bushes about the small campsite, the fire clearly in sight. He thought that he had been silent, and was glad to see the two bedrolls bulging with forms. How to wake them, he wondered, without frightening them into action?
He decided to wait until the dawn, to let them wake up on their own, but even as he started to settle down for perhaps an hour's wait, he sensed that he was being watched.
Master Jojonah spun about as the large form crashed in. Though Jojonah, like all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, was a trained fighter, in the blink of an eye he was on his back, the edge of a very fine sword pressed against his throat, the strong man on top of him, pinning him helplessly.
Jojonah made no move to resist, and the man, upon recognizing him, backed off slightly.
"No others in the area," came a melodic voice—the elf, Jojonah presumed.
"Master Jojonah!" the woman said, coming into view. She rushed over and put a hand on the strong ranger's shoulder, and with a look and a nod, Elbryan got up from the monk and offered his hand.
Jojonah took it and was pulled to his feet with such ease that the man's strength, like his incredible agility, stunned him.
"Why are you here?" the woman asked.
Jojonah looked right into her eyes, their beauty and depth not diminished in the least by the dim light. "Why are you?" he asked, and his tone, one that showed such understanding, gave both Pony and Elbryan pause.
CHAPTER 30
In Search of Answers
"Brother Talumus," Baron Bildeborough went on slowly, calmly, his tone a futile attempt to hide the agitation that bubbled just beneath the surface, "tell me again of Connor's visit here, of every stop he made, of everything he inspected."
The young monk, thoroughly flustered, for it was obvious he wasn't giving the Baron what he wanted, started talking so fast and in so many different directions that his words came out as a jumble. Prompted by the Baron's patting hand, the man stopped and took a deep and steadying breath.
"The abbot's room first," Talumus said slowly. "He was not pleased that we had cleaned it up, but what were we to do?" As he finished the sentence, his voice rose up again with excitement. "The abbot must be in public state—tradition demands it! And if we were to have guests at the abbey—oh, and streams of them!— then we could not leave the room all gory and torn up."
"Of course not. Of course not," Baron Bildeborough said repeatedly, trying to keep the monk calm.
Roger watched his new mentor closely, impressed by the man's patience, by how he was keeping this blubbering monk somewhat on track. Still, Roger could see the underlying tension on Rochefort's face, for the man now understood, as did Roger, that they would get few answers and little satisfaction here. St. Precious, with no ranking masters behind Abbot Dobrinion, was in absolute disarray, with monks running every which way, and discussion of this or that rumor taking the place of even the prayer times. One confirmed bit of news had proven especially unnerving to Roger and Rochefort: St. Precious would soon get a new abbot, a master from St.-Mere-Abelle.
To Roger and to Rochefort, that fact seemed to lend even more credence to Connor's suspicions that the Father Abbot himself had been behind the murder.
"We left the powrie, though," Brother Talumus went on, "at least until after Master Connor had departed."
"And then Connor went to the kitchen?" Rochefort inquired gently.
"To Keleigh Leigh, yes," replied Talumus. "Poor girl."
"And she was not injured other than the drowning?" Roger dared to put in, looking directly at Rochefort as he spoke, though the question was obviously for Talumus. Roger had previously explained to Rochefort that Keleigh Leigh's lack of cuts—for dipping berets—had been a primary clue to Connor that the powrie had not committed these crimes.
"No," replied Talumus.
"None of her blood was spilled?"
"No."
"Go and find me the person who first discovered her body," Baron Bildeborough instructed. "And be quick."
Brother Talumus scrambled to his feet, saluted and bowed, then ran from the room.
"The monk who found her will likely have little to tell us," Roger remarked, surprised by the Baron's request.
"Forget the monk," Rochefort explained. "I only sent Brother Talumus that we might find a few minutes alone. We must decide upon our course, my friend, and quickly."
"We should not tell them of Connor's suspicions, or of his demise," Roger said after a few seconds' pause. Baron Bildeborough was nodding as he went on. "They are helpless in the face of this. Not a single monk here, if Talumus is the highest-ranking remaining, could possibly stand against the coming master of St.-Mere-Abelle."
"It does seem that Abbot Dobrinion was lax in developing any talents in his lessers," Rochefort agreed. He gave a snort. "Though I might enjoy the sheer tumult of telling Talumus and all the others that St.-Mere-Abelle murdered their beloved abbot."
"Not much of a fight," Roger put in dryly. "From all that Connor told me of the Church, St.-Mere-Abelle would quickly dismantle the order at St. Precious, and then the Father Abbot would be even more entrenched in Palmaris than he will be when the new abbot arrives."
"True enough," Baron Bildeborough admitted with a sigh. He brightened his expression immediately for the sake of the two jittery monks entering the room, Talumus and the first witness. On with the questioning, he decided, but only for appearances—both he and Roger knew they would learn nothing more from this man or any other at St. Precious.
The two were back at Chasewind Manor soon after, Rochefort pacing the floor while Roger sat upon the man's favorite stuffed chair.
"Ursal is a long ride," Rochefort was saying. "Of course, I will want you with me."
"Will we actually meet the King?" Roger asked, a bit overwhelmed by that possibility.
"Oh, but King Danube Brock Ursal is a good friend, Roger," replied the Baron. "A good friend. He will grant me audience and will believe me, do not doubt. Whether or not he will be able to take any overt action given the lack of evidence—"
"I was a witness!" Roger protested. "I saw the monk kill Connor."
"Perhaps yo
u bear false witness."
"You do not believe me?"
"Of course I do!" the Baron replied, again giving that customary pat in the air with his plump hand. "Indeed, boy, else why would I have gone to so much trouble? Why would I have given you Greystone and Defender? If I didn't trust you, boy, you would be in chains, and tortured until I was convinced that you were speaking truly."
The Baron paused and looked at Roger more closely. "Where is that sword?" he asked.
Roger shifted uncomfortably. Had he just compromised that trust? he wondered. "Both sword and horse have been put to good use," he explained.
"By whom?" the Baron demanded.
"By Jilly," Roger was quick to reply. "Her road is darker still, and fraught with battle, I fear. I gave them over to her, for I am no rider, nor much of a swordsman."
"Both can be taught," the Baron grumbled.
"But we've not the time," Roger replied. "And Jilly can put them to good use at once. Do not doubt her prowess ..." Roger paused, trying to gauge the great man's reaction.
"Again I trust in your judgment," the Baron said at length. "So we'll not speak of this again. Now back to our primary business. I believe you—of course I do. But Danube Brock Ursal will be more cautious in his acceptance, do not doubt. Do you realize the implications of our claims? If King Danube accepted them as truth and spoke of them publicly, he might well begin a war between Church and state, a bloodbath that neither side desires."
"But one that the Father Abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle began," Roger reminded.
A cloud passed over Baron Rochefort Bildeborough's face then, and he seemed to Roger so very old and tired indeed. "And so we must go south, it would seem," he said.
A knock on the door cut short Roger's response.
"My Baron," said an attendant, entering, "word has just come to us that the new abbot of St. Precious has arrived. Master De'Unnero, by name."
"Do you know of him?" the Baron asked Roger, who only shook his head.
The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series Page 57