Many calls came back at him, none supportive, and more than a few gasps could be heard among the brothers. Braumin had expected as much, and certainly understood. Every brother in here, and Sister Mary Ann, too, had spent years proving an affinity with the sacred Ring Stones as part of the selection process for ordainment. Many had known friends through their years of training who had been denied entry into the Order because they could not feel the power of the gemstones.
And now, without consultation, Bishop Braumin had thrown that rule aside.
Braumin let the commotion die down, and tossed a wink at the nervous Viscenti.
“It is, or will be, all up to debate and argument, of course, brethren,” he said.
“But you have already brought them in,” one brother of about Braumin’s age remarked loudly.
“Temporarily, perhaps, though I hope that is not the case,” Braumin replied. “You have seen the scars of the battle that was waged here at St.-Mere-Abelle—on your way into our repaired gates, you passed a grave holding scores of bodies. In this very hall, there is wood holding back the wind where once there was a grand window of colored glass. The window of the Covenant of Avelyn, shattered by the entrance of a true dragon! I say none of this to diminish the losses that many of you have suffered at your own abbeys and chapels. Witness Master Arri here, and Sister Mary Ann, perhaps all that remain of the brothers and sisters of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.
“But know that new King Midalis required of St.-Mere-Abelle a measure of strength that we simply no longer possessed,” Braumin went on. “I could have recalled many of you to my side—such an edict would have been well within my power as the steward of the position with the death of Father Abbot Bou-raiy! I could have emptied many of your chapels, abbeys even, to solidify this, the Mother Church of Saint Abelle.”
He paused and let that sink in, and was glad to see the nods of agreement from many of the monks, even some he recognized as masters, and one or two he assumed were now serving as abbots.
“But a man from Behren, a hero of the battle, has shown me a different way,” Braumin explained. “If you have heard the tales of the battle of St.-Mere-Abelle, then you have heard the name of Pagonel, a mystic of the Jhesta Tu. A hero of the day, I say! There are hundreds now alive who would have perished had not Pagonel flown about them on the dragon Agradeleous, calling for them to stand down as the fate of the lands, state, and Church were determined in this very hall.
“This very hall where Marcalo De’Unnero was defeated. This very hall where the shadow of the demon dactyl was cleansed from the soul of Aydrian Wyndon! At my bidding, Pagonel of the Jhesta Tu remains at St.-Mere-Abelle to this day, and his generosity cannot be overstated. He has revealed to us secrets of his Order.”
Unsure of how much he should tell rather than show, Braumin paused there and measured the gathering. Every eye was intently upon him, many doubting, some horrified, others intrigued.
“Come, brothers, and Sister Mary Ann. Before we feast, let us go and witness the work of our guest, who has offered me this path back to the security of the Church we all cherish.”
He waved his arm to the side, where a pair of his monk attendants threw wide double doors, leading to a long and wide corridor and a flight of stairs that would take them down to where the exhibition waited, where three strong brothers, among the finest fighters of their class, waited to engage the trio of young new sisters tutored by Pagonel.
Braumin tried to show confidence as he was swept in by others on their way to the viewing, but in truth, his guts churned and twisted. Pagonel had assured him that the trio of Diamanda, Elysant, and Victoria would acquit themselves wonderfully, but everything the Bishop knew about fighting, about strength, about size, and about the simple advantage a man might hold over a woman in combat told him that the mystic’s optimism might well be sadly misplaced.
Failure here would hold great consequence in the discourse of the next day, and likely in the election of the next Father Abbot.
* * *
Because of the dearth of masters and abbots, even tenth-year immaculate brothers were allowed a vote the next day when the Father Abbot was to be chosen.
The process moved along smoothly, but Braumin Herde watched it with a strangely detached feeling, his thoughts continually returning to the events of the previous night. He could see again the doubts, even the mocking expressions, on the faces of the gathered when Pagonel’s team of three young sisters stepped into the arena. Most pointedly, many chuckled at the sight of small Elysant, carrying a quarterstaff taller than she.
And when the brothers opposing the trio had come out, those expressions had grown more sour, and more than one, Haney and Dellman included, had spoken to Braumin in whispers of great concern that the women would be injured, and badly so!
The voting went on around him, but Bishop Braumin wasn’t watching. In his mind’s eye, he was viewing again the beauty of the battle, the movements of graceful Victoria weaving about the opposing lines, the agility and balance of Elysant as she used her staff left and right to block nearly as many attacks aimed at her sisters-in-arms as they themselves blocked, at the sheer speed and power of Diamanda’s strikes.
He closed his eyes and winced, recalling the first opponent felled, a large young man who had to weigh near to three hundred pounds. Elysant had deftly turned his bull rush, and Victoria swept past him, turning him, bending him into her wake in inevitable pursuit.
And leaning right into the driving fist of Diamanda.
The man had fallen like a cut tree, just straight down, facedown, to the hard floor. He was awake this morning, at least.
After that, Pagonel’s three tigresses had cleverly and neatly caged, worn down, and clobbered the remaining two brothers.
Had any of the sisters even been hit?
The one sour note of the evening, though, had come when Braumin had torn his gaze from the spectacle in the arena to note the expression of Brother Thaddius. The man’s sour look spoke volumes, and again Braumin had to wonder if the mystic hadn’t erred in choosing this man as the fourth in his legionem in primo.
Master Viscenti’s call brought him from his private thoughts and concerns. As the highest-ranking member of St.-Mere-Abelle whose name was not on the ballot, it was Viscenti’s place to count the votes.
He called in the stragglers now, offering any a count of ten to come forward and place their colored chip into the box.
None did. The ballots were all in.
Viscenti produced a key and unlocked the metal box, carefully lifting back its hood. The thin man licked his lips and glanced over at Braumin, offering a slight nod.
So began the count.
Abbot Haney received a few votes, but the yellow chips assigned to his cause were dwarfed by the two piles beside them, one for Master Dusibol of St. Bondabruce of Entel, who had spoken passionately against the changes Braumin had made in St.-Mere-Abelle even after the display of Pagonel’s team. Dusibol was a traditionalist, and judging from the pile of red chips on the table, he was far from alone in his ways!
But the largest pile was blue, blue for Bishop Braumin, and by enough of a margin, with his pile larger than those of Dusibol and Haney, the only other to receive any votes, combined. There would be no second ballot. The victory was Braumin’s, and on the first ballot.
The cheers came forth, some excited, some polite, when Master Viscenti counted it out and declared Braumin Herde as Father Abbot, and spoke, too, of the rarity that their leader would be chosen in a single ballot!
Yes, it was quite an accomplishment, so Braumin heard from his friend and the supporters in the crowd, but he could not really believe it.
Dusibol was not even an abbot, and still had challenged him reputably. In normal times, Master Dusibol would not even have been on the ballot!
Braumin Herde had been an Abbot, and was a Bishop even, and had led to the great victory that had saved the Church at St.-Mere-Abelle.
And yet, his victory was not overwhel
ming.
He looked around at the gathering as he moved to stand beside Viscenti. He understood their hesitance, their fear. Perhaps it would have been better if they had gone through several ballots, with speeches and debates between each!
“I move that Master Dusibol be elevated to the rank of Abbot of St. Bondabruce immediately,” Braumin opened, and now the cheers grew louder. The new Father Abbot looked over at the contingent from St. Honce in Ursal as he spoke, and noted some disconcerting expressions coming back his way. They had wanted Master Ohwan on the ballot, but Dusibol had beaten him out for the third spot, in no small part because of the whispers of Viscenti and Dellman, both noted followers of Braumin Herde.
St. Honce was being punished, they believed, and not without reason. For that abbey had supported King Aydrian and Marcalo De’Unnero—it was rumored that Aydrian had meant to elevate Ohwan to the rank of Abbot of St. Honce, some whispered that the King had actually done so.
Dusibol was a traditionalist, and clearly not enamored of Braumin’s changes, clearly, but Ohwan …
Ohwan could be real trouble, Braumin Herde feared. Particularly now, where Master Dusibol had garnered far more votes than Abbot Haney, who supported Braumin (and probably voted for Braumin, the new Father Abbot understood) and the emergency measures he had taken to secure St.-Mere-Abelle.
Braumin looked at the pile of red chips again, and understood that the early years of his reign would not be without great challenges.
And honest ones, he had to admit.
He was asking a lot of an Order that prided itself on rituals and ways nearly a millennium old.
“So be it,” he thought, and he said, loudly, and he slammed his fist down on the table.
“I am a devout follower of Avelyn,” he decreed. “I make no secret of that. Do not believe that his canonization will be slowed by the tragic events of the last year. The Chapel of Avelyn will be rebuilt in Caer Tinella in short order, and fully staffed, and I will see Avelyn Desbris declared as a Saint of our Order.”
He saw a lot of nods. He noted no overt looks of discontent.
“You have seen the changes I have made in bringing in new brothers—and sisters.”
He paused there and let the murmurs roll through the hall, and surely they were lessened because of the amazing exhibition the brothers had witnessed in the arena. Still, though, they remained, a buzz of anger just below the surface in many of the gathered brothers.
“My first act as Father Abbot, though, will be to declare a full inventory of the Ring Stones. We have thousands in our possession—Avelyn, who will be sainted, brought back nearly two thousand alone!”
A few scattered claps echoed about the hall.
“It was said to be the greatest haul of sacred stones ever returned,” Braumin went on, careful not to overstep too greatly by naming the process. “And indeed, for one man, the feat was beyond impressive—yet more proof that Avelyn walked with God. But there was a time, brothers…”
He paused and shook his head and sighed for effect, then said cryptically, “We will discuss this at length in the coming days. You will come to see, as I have learned, that much of what we have been taught is not the full, not the only, truth of our sacred heritage.”
He had to pause again and hold up his hands to quiet the uneasy rumblings that began to echo, more loudly now.
“You will see,” he promised. “And this, too, we shall debate long into the nights, I promise. And in those nights, I will show to you why another will ascend behind Avelyn, why Master Jojonah will find his sainthood in the flames foul Markwart set beneath him!”
Even Viscenti looked at him in shock, stunned, horrified even, that Braumin had moved so boldly, so quickly! He hadn’t even put on the robes of the Father Abbot yet!
“What admission of failure and complicity is this?” demanded one of the Masters of St. Honce—speaking for Ohwan, of course.
“Our failures are already known, and now better admitted,” the Father Abbot insisted.
“He was your friend, but that is not an impetus for canonization!” the man shouted back.
Braumin smiled as warmly as he could manage. “He was my teacher. He was the guidepost for all of us who defied the demon Markwart, and Marcalo De’Unnero after him. I nominate him—indeed, I do so right now! And I will champion him, as I champion Avelyn, these two men who, by God’s wisdom and grace, guided us through our darkest hours. It was the spirit of Jojonah, I say, that led Brother Francis out onto the fields to minister to those afflicted with the Rosy Plague, an action that cost him his life, as he expected and as he accepted! It was the spirit of Jojonah surging within the body of Brother Romeo Mullahy, who threw himself from the Barbacan Shrine of Avelyn to let his persecutors see the foul truth of their journey!”
He paused again, expecting a retort, but none came forth. Bolstered, and really with nothing to lose, Father Abbot Braumin pressed on.
“The gemstones will be used to alleviate the suffering of the people, brethren or not—indeed, Abellican or not! A brother possessing a soul stone who ignores the pain of a man of Behren or Alpinador, does so by turning his back on God.
“And yes, there are now many sisters among us, most young, some who have served in convents for decades. They will train, we will train, and we will go forth and reclaim every abbey, every chapel, and every heart for St. Abelle!”
He slammed his fist on the table once more, indicating that his speech, and this gathering, was at its end, and he turned and left through the back door of the room, the one leading to the private quarters of the Father Abbot, Masters Viscenti, Dellman, and Abbot Haney at his side.
They left to rousing cheers.
“A fine beginning, Father Abbot,” Haney congratulated him.
“But a long way to go,” Braumin replied, and he was glad when Haney put a hand on his shoulder, in full support.
And bringing with him, Braumin believed and prayed, the full support of new King Midalis.
* * *
“The community is greater than the individual,” Father Abbot Braumin said to an agitated Brother Thaddius. “Is that not what Pagonel preaches? And is it not true?”
“This is not the Order I joined, Father Abbot,” Thaddius insisted.
“But it is indeed.”
Thaddius stared at him incredulously. “For years, I studied the ways of St.-Mere-Abelle. None were more prepared than I when first I entered these gates!”
“Beware your pride, young brother. Perhaps I will tell you the tale of Avelyn Desbris, that you might find humility. Perhaps I will tell you of Avelyn’s first great demonstration of Ring Stone power, one that shocked the Masters and Father Abbot. He was no older than you are now, and yet none in the Church, not even Marcalo De’Unnero, could have matched the fireball he created over the bay, and that after leaping from the roof and walking across the water!”
Brother Thaddius seemed to labor for his breath. The inclusion of De’Unnero in the lesson (particularly since De’Unnero did not stand as the pinnacle of Ring Stone affinity in the days of Avelyn) had stolen the young man’s bluster, as it had surely been added as a subtle warning from the Father Abbot.
“I knew the ways of the Abellican Order. I cherished the ritual, the solemnity, the…”
“A dragon flew through our great window,” Father Abbot Braumin reminded him. “A great battle was fought about our gates and within the monastery. You witnessed the carnage and destruction. We cannot go back. Not now.”
“I know,” Brother Thaddius said quietly, “but…” He ended with a profound sigh.
“You do not value your training with the Jhesta Tu? My understanding is that his techniques have strengthened you in your use of the sacred Ring Stones.”
“Women,” Thaddius spat. “St.-Mere-Abelle is thick with them!”
“I would expect that a young man would not object so strenuously.”
“Father Abbot!”
“Forgive me, young brother,” Braumin said, and he tr
ied not to laugh.
“Tradition,” Thaddius said, shaking his head. “The continuity of ritual and rite through the passing centuries … without it, I am ungrounded. I am lost and floating free of that which brought to me spiritual joy and eternal hope. We have brothers, and sisters, among us who cannot coax a flicker of light from a diamond. And never will they, yet we name them as Abellican monks!”
“I do not disagree,” Braumin replied in all seriousness. “My crude attempt at humor notwithstanding. Brother Thaddius, do you understand how profoundly the De’Unneran Heresy wounded our Order, and the kingdom? There is a void of power in both, with King Midalis trying to tame the local lords to fealty, and with half of our chapels and abbeys empty! We are without many options. The Samhaists have been seen about Vanguard, and indeed even within Honce-the-Bear. You have heard the tale of Sister Mary Ann, no doubt.
“And the misery of the common folk cannot be overstated. They need us. They need us to keep clear the way to the Barbacan and the Covenant of Avelyn. They need us to heal their wounds and cure their sicknesses. They need us, and King Midalis, to keep Entel and the Mantis Arm secure from Behrenese pirates and powrie raiders.
“And we are not secure enough in our own institutions to offer that aid. Goblins still roam the land. Powries roam the land. De’Unnerans roam the land! There is fear of the Rosy Plague! Without those basic securities, our words to the common folk ring hollow. They need us, young brother, to coax their spirits to a place of blessed divinity, and they will not hear our sermons when all we can offer to them are words.”
“Pagonel is not of our Order, yet he dictates…”
“He offers advice, at my bidding,” Braumin said, more forcefully, demanding Thaddius’s full attention. “And I am Father Abbot. Do you dispute that?”
“No, Father Abbot, of course not,” the young man said and lowered his eyes.
Reckoning of Fallen Gods Page 45