Reckoning of Fallen Gods

by R. A. Salvatore

  Master Jojonah had been burned at the stake clinging to his beliefs, had gone willingly into the arms of God—and had charged Brother Braumin with carrying on his bold course. So many others, too, had died for those beliefs. Braumin thought of brave brother Romeo Mullahy, who had leaped from the cliff at the Barbacan, the ultimate defiance of Marcalo De’Unnero, an action that had shaken De’Unnero’s followers and resonated within those who had opposed him.

  And Brother Castinagis, one of Braumin’s dearest friends. The excitable fellow had never wavered, even in the face of certain death.

  De’Unnero had burned him in his chapel in Caer Tinella.

  “He is a good man,” Braumin at last replied. “He witnessed the miracle of Aida…”

  “He is not even as worldly as Master Dellman, who serves him!” Viscenti interrupted. “Were he to ascend, then to those outside the Church, it would seem a power play by King Midalis, forcing his hand over the Abellican Church even as he strengthens his hold on Honce. We have walked that dark road already, my friend.”

  Braumin Herde kept his gaze low, chewing his lips, and he nodded in agreement.

  “Nay,” said Viscenti, “it falls to you. Only you. St.-Mere-Abelle is yours, surely. The Order is yours to chart.”

  Braumin Herde shrugged, and it seemed more a shudder. “I want her back,” he said quietly.

  Viscenti nodded and wore a wistful expression suddenly, clearly recognizing that his friend was speaking of Jilseponie.

  “I feel as if I best serve the Church by enlisting our southern friends to fly me on their dragon to the Timberlands, that I might drag Pony back to St.-Mere-Abelle to save us all.”

  “That we will not do,” came another voice, wholly unexpected, and both monks jumped and spun about to see Pagonel standing quietly in the shadows of the room.

  “How did you get in here?” Viscenti shouted as much as asked.

  “Have I upset you, brother?” the mystic asked. “I was offered free travel through the monastery, so I was told…”

  “No, no,” Braumin put in, and he dropped his hand on Viscenti’s shoulder to calm the man. “Of course, you are welcome wherever you will go. You merely startled us, that is all.”

  The mystic bowed.

  “And heard us, no doubt,” said Viscenti.

  “I took great comfort in your advice to Bishop Braumin,” Pagonel admitted. He stepped up before Braumin Herde. “I take less comfort in your expressed fears.”

  The monk stared at him hard.

  “I will not take you to Jilseponie, nor to her should you go,” Pagonel insisted. “She has done enough. Her tale is written, for the wider world at least. Besides, I have witnessed the power of Aydrian and believe that Jilseponie would best serve the world if she can instill in her son a sense of morality and duty akin to that she and her dead Elbryan once knew. You wish to go to her, to beg her to return and assume the lead in your wounded Order. This is understandable, but not practical.”

  Clearly overwhelmed, Bishop Braumin fell back and into a chair, nearly tumbling off the side of it as he landed hard and off balance. “What am I to do?”

  “Summon a College of Abbots,” said Master Viscenti. “I will nominate you as Father Abbot—none will oppose!”

  “Abbots?” Braumin asked incredulously. “Myself and Abbot Haney are all that remain, I fear!”

  “Then bring them all in, all together,” said Pagonel. “Summon every brother from every chapel and every abbey.” He lifted a fist up before him, fingers clutched. “This is the strongest position for the hand,” he explained. “Bring your Church in close and move outward one piece at a time.”

  Braumin didn’t respond, but hardly seemed convinced.

  “Brynn Dharielle and the dragon will fly south in the morning, going home,” the mystic explained. “I was to go with them, but I have quite enjoyed my journey through the catacombs of this wondrous place. With your permission, I will remain longer.”

  Braumin Herde looked at the man curiously.

  “Call them in,” Pagonel bade him. “I will stand beside you, if you so desire.”

  “You have a plan,” said Viscenti, and it seemed as much an accusation as a question.

  The mystic glanced over at him and smiled. “Our Orders are not so different, my friend. This I have come to understand. Perhaps there are lessons the Jhesta Tu have learned which will now be of use to Father Abbot Braumin Herde.”

  He looked to Braumin.

  The man who would rule the Abellican Church nodded. He summoned again the memories of Jojonah, and Mullahy, Castinagis, and the others, and silently vowed to find the courage to lead. If Midalis would rebuild the kingdom, then Braumin Herde would rebuild the Abellican Church.

  PART 2

  THE COLLEGE OF ABBOTS

  Master Arri couldn’t help but smile as he looked down on the young couple dancing in the evergreen grove. The sun, high above in the east, stretched shadows from the pines about them so that they twirled and spun in light and then shadow, repeatedly, the woman’s white robes flashing, the man’s light green robes somewhat muting the effect, serving almost as a transition from light to darkness. Their smiles shone even in the shadows, though.

  She was such a pretty thing, her light hair dancing in the breeze, her bright eyes shining back at the sun, her slender frame carrying her gracefully through the twirling dance. Her partner was heavier set, stocky and strong, with long and curly black hair and a beard that could house a flock of birds! His robe was open at the chest, and there, too, he was a shaggy one. Unlike the fair-skinned woman, his skin was olive, speaking of ancestry in the south, likely.

  Master Arri should not be smiling, he knew. Indeed, he should be horrified by the scene before him, for though it was obvious that they were in love, they could not be. The wider world would not have it.

  For Arri knew this woman, Sister Mary Ann of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea, the same monastery where Arri had been ordained as a brother and as a master of the Abellican Church. And while he didn’t know the man, he knew the truth of this one, Elliot, and had been watching him from afar since he had returned to the region from his wandering, to learn of the disaster that had befallen his beloved abbey. According to the folk of the nearby towns, Elliot was a Samhaist, that most ancient religion of Honce, a practice deemed heretical and driven out by the Church in the earliest days. The Samhaists and the Abellicans had battled long and hard for the soul of the people of the lands, the former with warnings of brimstone and divine retribution, the latter with softer promises of peace after death and a loving God.

  Few Samhaists could be found in Honce-the-Bear in God’s’Year 847, even counting the wild lands of Vanguard. Indeed, as far as Arri, who had recently come south across the gulf from Vanguard, knew, there were no Samhaists south of Alpinador.

  Except now he knew better, for there was no doubt as to the religious leaning of this man, Elliot.

  To see young and bright Sister Mary Ann dancing with him did pain Master Arri, but at the same time, his heart could not deny the joy on her face or the lightness of her step.

  And in truth, Arri was glad to see one of his brethren from St. Gwendolyn alive! The heresy of De’Unnero had brutalized this abbey more than any of the others. De’Unnero had publicly executed the Abbot and had cleansed the place as a barn cat might seek the mice. The monastery up on the hill overlooking the dark Mirianic was, by all accounts, deserted.

  And haunted.

  Marcalo De’Unnero had left demons in his wake, so it was whispered.

  But Sister Mary Ann had escaped (in no small part because of this Samhaist, so the whispers in the town had claimed), so perhaps there were others.

  Master Arri moved down to a stretch of underbrush near the south road and waited. And not for long, as it turned out, for the sun had barely passed its zenith when Mary Ann came skipping down the road. Her face was all smiles, her young heart surely lifted.

  Arri stepped out into the road before her.

  Sh
e skidded to a stop and half turned as if to flee, her expression one of surprise and fear—but that latter emotion fast faded when recognition came to her.

  “Master Arri!” she cried, and she ran to him and wrapped him in a great hug.

  Arri responded in kind, crushing her in his long and skinny arms. He had always liked this young woman, who had come into St. Gwendolyn only months before he had begun his wandering. He moved her back to arm’s length.

  “You look well,” he said. “I feared that I would find…”

  “They’re all dead,” she interrupted. “The Abbot, the Masters, the brothers, the sisters. All dead, I fear, or turned to…” She hesitated there and took a longer and suspicious look at Arri.

  “I am no follower of Marcalo De’Unnero,” he assured her. “You have nothing to fear.” He paused and considered the Samhaist, and added, “in that regard.”

  “There is word that he advances upon St.-Mere-Abelle with King Aydrian and…”

  “Old news,” Arri assured her. “Word spreads across the lands that the battle was fought, and won by our Father Abbot and Bishop Braumin. Marcalo De’Unnero is dead, and King Aydrian removed.”

  Sister Mary Ann wrapped him in another great hug, seeming genuinely elated.

  Again, Arri pushed her back to arm’s length. “Perhaps not such good news for you, though,” he said.

  A dark cloud passed over the young woman’s face.

  “I saw you,” Arri explained. “In the grove. With him.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “Do you know who he is? Do you know what he is?”

  “We are not so different,” she said quietly.

  “You denounce the Abellican Church?”

  “No … no, I mean,” she stammered and sighed as if she could not find the right words. “He is a good man. He saved me from De’Unnero’s followers. He fought for me…”

  “You were lovers!”

  “No!” she cried. “I did not even know him. I knew nothing of him. De’Unnero’s men were chasing me, and then they were not! The trees came alive and swatted them! The grass grabbed their boots and held them…”

  “This is Earth magic!” Arri cried, and that was all he had to say, for all in the Church knew the official position on such enchantments, that they were of the demon dactyls!

  “But he saved me! Did I not deserve to be away from the followers of the heretic?”

  “The enemy of your enemy is not necessarily your friend, sister.”

  “But Elliot is,” she said, and she seemed to grow stronger then, firming her jaw. “He rescued me from the heretic mob. They came for him later. I found him grievously wounded.” She reached into a pouch and brought forth a soul stone.

  “You used godly Abellican magic on a Samhaist?”

  She didn’t respond, but neither did she blink or back down.

  “You would do it again,” Arri said, and his tone was that of a statement and not an accusation.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you given over any of the stones to this man, Elliot?”

  “No, of course not. I have just a few,” she fumbled in her pouch again and produced a few minor gemstones. “He has no interest in them anyway.”

  Arri put his hands on Mary Ann’s shoulders, squaring himself up to her and looking her right in the eye as he asked, “Are you a Samhaist, sister?”

  She hesitated, tellingly, before quietly replying, “No.”

  “But you are thinking it a possibility!” Now Arri was accusing her, clearly so.

  “I am thinking that the world is a wider place than I knew, and that my Church, the brothers of my own faith, tried to do great harm to me and murdered my friends!” she replied. “And that a man stepped forth, despite the danger, and told them no, and fought them. You think him a demon for his beliefs, which you likely understand less than I, and yet who were the demons, Master, when Marcalo De’Unnero fell over St. Gwendolyn?”

  “Are you a Samhaist?” he asked again.

  “No,” she replied immediately, and more forcefully. “But I will learn of Elliot’s ways, if he will tell me. Perhaps they will ring of truth to me, perhaps not. That is for me to decide.”

  “Do you think the Father Abbot will agree with that?”

  She shrugged.

  “I am going to St.-Mere-Abelle,” Arri explained. “I leave at week’s turn. The Order of St. Gwendolyn must be rebuilt. You will accompany me.”

  Sister Mary Ann’s lip quivered. Just a bit, but Arri caught it.

  “I cannot guarantee your safety. I know not what judgment the Father Abbot will put upon you for … for being with this man.”

  Sister Mary Ann made no movement at all, just stared at him, and with an expression he could not decipher.

  “I will speak for you,” he promised. “Surely these are extraordinary circumstances. I will beg for leniency.”

  “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Then have you the courage to come and tell that to the Father Abbot?”

  The young woman nodded. “I am not ashamed,” she said. “I survived, and have done nothing wrong.”

  Master Arri offered her a comforting return smile and nod, but in his thoughts he wasn’t so confident at that moment. Abellicans, in recent history, had been burned at the stake for less than the crime of loving a Samhaist.

  * * *

  “You are familiar with this game?” Bishop Braumin asked Pagonel. The two and Master Viscenti were in Braumin’s private chambers when Pagonel had wandered away from the hearth to a chessboard set up at the side of the room, the game half completed.

  “Vaguely,” Pagonel replied.

  The two monks joined Pagonel over by the board.

  “You were playing against the Father Abbot,” Viscenti remarked, and Braumin nodded.

  “A fine opponent was Fio Bou-raiy,” said Braumin. “He had me beaten, I fear.”

  “He was playing black, then,” said Pagonel, and Braumin looked at the board, then back at Pagonel curiously. A casual glance at the board revealed little advantage for either side—indeed, black had lost more pieces—and given the mystic’s response that he “vaguely” knew the game, how could he have known the truth of the situation on the board?

  “This piece,” Pagonel asked, tapping one of the white bishops, “it runs along the white diagonal squares, yes?”

  “Yes,” Braumin answered.

  Pagonel nodded. “We have a similar game in Behren, at the Walk of Clouds. More pieces, but the concepts align, I believe. Sit.” He motioned to the chair behind the base for the black side, and he slipped into the chair behind the white king.

  “Pray show me how each of these pieces move and attack,” the mystic bade.

  Braumin and Viscenti exchanged a curious glance, and proceeded. When they were done, Pagonel wore a sly grin. “I will replace your opponent, if you allow,” he said. “And yes, if my objective is to defeat your king, then you are defeated.”

  “Then why play?” Viscenti asked.

  “We could play anew,” Pagonel started to offer, but Braumin waved that thought away.

  “It is your move,” Braumin told the mystic.

  A short while later, Bishop Braumin conceded, and accepted the mystic’s offer to begin anew.

  “If he offers you a bet, do not take it,” Master Viscenti said with a laugh just a few moves into the new game. “I do believe that our friend here has been less than forthcoming regarding his experience with chess!”

  “Not so,” said Pagonel.

  “Then how do you play so well? This is no simple game!”

  “Your monks fight well,” Pagonel answered. “The best of your fighters would match up favorable in single combat against a Jhesta Tu of equal experience.”

  “We pride ourselves…” Braumin started to reply, but Pagonel kept going.

  “But were a group of four brothers to line up in battle across from four Jhesta Tu, they would lose, and badly, and not a single of my acolytes would be badly harmed.�
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  “Quite a claim,” said Viscenti.

  “You will see, my friend,” Pagonel said.

  A few moves later, the game was clearly and decisively turning in Pagonel’s favor, so much so that Braumin, one of the best chess players remaining at St.-Mere-Abelle, suspected that he would soon resign.

  “How?” Viscenti asked when Braumin soon groaned and moved his king away from Pagonel’s check, the outcome becoming clearer.

  “This is not a battle of individual pieces,” Pagonel explained.

  “It is a game of strategy,” Braumin remarked.

  “It is a game of coordination, and within the boundaries of this board lie your answers, Bishop Braumin.”

  The monks stared at him hard. “Answers?” Braumin asked.

  “How will your Church survive, and thrive, after the punishment the heretic De’Unnero inflicted upon it? That is your fear, yes? How will you lead them out of the darkness and rebuild from the ashes of De’Unnero’s deadly wake?”

  “It will take time,” Viscenti said.

  “Given the way you select—or should I say, deselect?—your brethren and the way you train them, I would agree,” said Pagonel. “But it does not have to be like that.”

  He turned to the board and lifted the castle-like piece, the rook. “This piece is straightforward in attack, and thus easily detected as a threat,” he explained. “But that is not its purpose. This piece shortens the board, and creates a defensive wall that limits your opponent’s movements.”

  Braumin nodded. He hadn’t thought of a rook in those terms before, but it made sense.

  “This piece,” Pagonel said, lifting a bishop, “is more clever. The eye of your opponent will not see the angled attack lines so easily, and so the bishop strikes hard and fast and with devastating effects.”