DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (107 page)

“It would force conflict,” Braumin Herde reasoned. “If Brother Avelyn is alive, then we must take a side, either with him or with the Father Abbot.”

Master Jojonah closed his eyes, recognizing the truth of his young friend’s words. Jojonah and Herde, and, to a lesser extent, several others at St.-Mere-Abelle, were not pleased by Markwart’s leadership, but if they were to side with Avelyn, who had been called a heretic openly by the Father Abbot, and who would likely be formally branded as one in the College of Abbots that was to convene later that year, they would find themselves against the whole of the Church. Jojonah, believing in the righteousness of his position, didn’t doubt that many other monks—in St.-Mere-Abelle, in St. Precious of Palmaris, and in all the other abbeys— might join in his cause, but did he really want to split the Church? Did he want to begin a war?

And yet, if they did indeed find Brother Avelyn alive, how could Jojonah in good conscience go against him, or even turn away from any others’ actions against him? Brother Avelyn was no heretic, Jojonah knew—in fact, was quite the opposite. Avelyn’s crime against the Father Abbot and against all the Church was that he had held a mirror up to them, showing them the truth of their actions when measured against the honest precepts of their faith. And the brothers, Markwart most of all, had not liked the image in that mirror. Not at all.

“I believe that it was Brother Avelyn in the Barbacan,” Jojonah said with confidence. “Only he could have gone against the demon dactyl. But which survived, if either, remains to be determined.”

“We have evidence that the dactyl is no more,” Braumin Herde replied. “The monster army has lost its direction and its cohesiveness. Powries and goblins no longer closely ally, by all reports, and we have personally seen their disarray in their attack on our walls.”

“Then perhaps the dactyl has been badly wounded, and we will go and finish the task,” Jojonah said.

“Or perhaps the demon is destroyed, and we will find Brother Avelyn,” Braumin Herde said grimly.

“If the dactyl is dead, and thus the business at the Barbacan finished, it is likely that Brother Avelyn will be far gone from that cursed place.”

“Let us hope,” said Braumin Herde. “We are not ready to go against the Father Abbot yet.”

That last statement caught Jojonah off guard and gave him pause. He and Herde had never discussed going against the Father Abbot at all. By the implications of all their conversations, they would hold fast to their beliefs about the way the Church should behave, and would funnel those beliefs to others through example and voice in council. But never once had they discussed, or even intimated, any formal plans to “go against” Markwart or the Church.

Braumin Herde caught the nonverbal cues and sank back a bit, embarrassed by his forward stance.

Jojonah let the slip pass with yet another chuckle. He remembered when he was younger, much younger, a firebrand like Herde, who thought he could change the world. The wisdom, or perhaps just the weariness, of age had taught him better, though. It was not the world Master Jojonah meant to change, not even the Church, but only his own little corner of both places. He would let Markwart have his direction, would let the Church follow the course that others decided. But he would remain true to his own heart, and would follow a course of piety, dignity, and poverty, as he pledged those decades ago when he had taken his vows at St.-Mere-Abelle. He would spread the word of truth to those younger monks, like Braumin Herde and Viscenti Marlboro, who wished to listen, but it was neither his intent nor his desire to see the Abellican Church split apart.

That was his fear.

And so Master Jojonah, the gentle man, the true friend of Avelyn Desbris, hoped that Avelyn was dead.

“We will be leaving in the morning,” Jojonah said. “Go to Brother Viscenti and reinforce all that we three have discussed. Bid him to study well and hard and hold fast to the truth. Bid him to always offer charity, to believers and unbelievers alike, to tend the wounds of the body and the soul for friend and for enemy. Bid him to speak out against injustice and excess, but to temper his voice with compassion. The good will win out in the end, by the truth of their words and not the swing of their sword, though that victory may be centuries in the making.”

Braumin Herde considered the wisdom of those words for a time, then gave a respectful bow and turned for the corridor.

“And prepare yourself well for the road,” Master Jojonah added before he opened the door. “Brother Francis speaks for the Father Abbot, and do not doubt the loyalty of the other twenty-two in our party. Rein in your temper, brother, or we will find trouble before we ever leave the civilized lands.”

Again Braumin Herde bowed respectfully, and he nodded as he came up straight, assuring his mentor that he would indeed heed the words.

Master Jojonah didn’t doubt that for a moment, for Herde, both firebrand and gentle soul, was a disciplined man. He knew Brother Braumin would do the right thing, and so would he, though Jojonah feared what the right thing might become should they find Brother Avelyn Desbris alive and well on the road.

“You know what I suspect, and what I expect,” Father Abbot Markwart said sharply.

“I am a willing vessel, Father Abbot,” Brother Francis said, lowering his eyes. “You will find entrance to my body whenever you so desire.”

“As if you could stop me,” the old abbot boasted. The words were hollow, Markwart knew, for possession, even with his new understanding of the stones, was a difficult thing, and even more so when the vessel was a man trained in the magics. “But this is about more than that,” he continued. “Do you understand the true purpose of this journey?”

“To discover if the dactyl was destroyed,” the younger monk replied without hesitation. “Or to see if ever there was a demon dactyl.”

“Of course there was,” snapped an impatient Markwart. “But that is not the issue. You are going to the Barbacan to determine the fate of the demon, that is true, but you are going, more importantly, to determine the whereabouts of Avelyn Desbris.”

Brother Francis’ face screwed up with confusion. He knew the Church sought Avelyn, knew it was suspected that Avelyn had been involved in the reputed explosion far to the north, but he never imagined that the Father Abbot would place Avelyn’s whereabouts as more important than the fate of the demon dactyl.

“The demon dactyl threatens the lives of thousands,” the Father Abbot conceded. “The suffering caused by the emergence of the beast is truly horrifying and regrettable. But the demon dactyl has appeared before and will appear again; the cycle of suffering is the fate of Man. Brother Avelyn’s threat, however, is more insidious, and potentially more long-lasting and more devastating. His actions and his tempting heretical viewpoints threaten the very foundations of our beloved Abellican Order.”

Still Francis appeared doubtful.

“From those few reports of his actions on the run, it seems that Avelyn masks his heresy with pretty words and seemingly charitable actions,” Markwart went on, raising his voice in frustration. “He disavows the importance of ancient traditions without understanding the value of such traditions and, indeed, the utter necessity of them if the Church is to survive.”

“My pardon, Father Abbot,” Brother Francis said quietly, “but I had thought that Avelyn was long on tradition—too long, some would say. I had thought that his errors went the other way, that he was so devoted to outdated rituals, he could not see the truth and the realities of the modern-day Church.”

Markwart waved his bony hand and turned away, chewing his lip, trying to find some way out of the logic trap. “True enough,” he agreed, then turned back fiercely, forcing Francis to back away a step. “In some matters, Avelyn was so seemingly devoted as to appear inhuman. Do you know that he did not even care, did not shed a single tear, when his own mother died?”

Francis’ eyes went wide.

“It is true,” Markwart went on. “He was so obsessed with his vows that the passing of his own mother was to him an unimportant matter. But do not be fooled into thinking that his actions were wrought of true spirituality. No, no, they were the product of ambition, as he proved when he murdered Master Siherton and absconded with the gemstones. Avelyn is dangerous to all the Order, and he, not the dactyl, remains the first order of business.”

Brother Francis thought it over for a few moments, then nodded. “I understand, Father Abbot.”

“Do you?” Markwart replied, in such a tone that Francis doubted himself. “Do you understand what you are to do if you encounter Avelyn Desbris?”

“We are twenty-five strong—” Francis began.

“Do not count on the support of twenty-five,” Markwart warned.

That, too, gave Brother Francis pause. “Still,” he said hesitantly and at length, “there are enough of us to take Avelyn and return him and the gemstones to St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“No.” The simple manner in which Markwart replied put Francis on his heels yet again.

“But—”

“If you encounter Avelyn Desbris,” Markwart explained grimly, “if you even catch the slightest hint of his scent, you will return to me that which was stolen, along with the news of wandering Avelyn’s demise. You may bring me back his head, if possible.”

Brother Francis squared his shoulders. He was not a gentle man, and probably would have been ranked higher in his class except for several brawls he had been all too willingly involved in. Still, he never expected such a command from the Father Abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle. Francis was an ambitious and blindly loyal monk, though, and never one to let conscience get in the way of following orders. “I will not fail in this,” he said. “Master Jojonah and I—”

“Beware Jojonah,” Markwart interrupted. “And Brother Braumin Herde, as well. They serve as first and second for the journey to the Barbacan and in any matter concerning the disposition of the demon dactyl. Where Avelyn Desbris is concerned, if Avelyn Desbris is concerned, Brother Francis speaks for Father Abbot, and the Father Abbot’s word is unquestionable law.”

Brother Francis bowed deeply, and seeing the dismissive wave of Father Abbot’s hand, turned about and left the room, full of anticipation, full of possibilities.

The night was deep about St.-Mere-Abelle as Brother Braumin made his way across the upper levels of the ancient structure. Though his mission was vital—he had already passed word to Brother Viscenti to await his arrival in his private chambers—he took a circuitous route, moving through the long, long corridor that ran along the abbey’s seawall, overlooking All Saints Bay. With no torches burning along the structure’s outer walls, and none on the few docks far below, Braumin was afforded the most spectacular view of the evening canopy, a million million stars twinkling above the dark waters of the great Mirianic. He had been born too late, he mused as he stared out one of the tall and narrow windows, for he had missed the journey to Pimaninicuit, the equatorial islandupon whose shores the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle collected the sacred stones. Such journeys only occurred every six generations, every 173 years.

Braumin Herde wasn’t even supposed to know the details of such things, for he was not yet a master, but Jojonah had told him the story of the most recent journey, of how Brothers Avelyn, Thagraine, Pellimar, and Quintall had traveled to the island aboard a chartered ship, theWindrunner. It was the subsequent destruction of theWindrunner by the monks as it sailed away from St.-Mere-Abelle, its mission complete, that had set Brother Avelyn fully at odds with the Abellican Church, Master Jojonah had told Braumin. Looking out now, the young monk tried to imagine that scene, all the power, the ballistae and catapults, the tremendous energies of the ring stones, loosed upon a single sailing vessel. Braumin had witnessed St.-Mere-Abelle’s fury against the powrie invasion; he shuddered when he thought of that power brought to bear against a single ship and her unsuspecting crew.

What a fateful night that had been, the man mused. If Avelyn had not learned of the destruction, might he have remained a loyal and dedicated servant of Father Abbot Markwart? And if, as they suspected, Brother Avelyn had played no minor role in the possibly momentous events in the northland, in the Timberlands and all the way to the Barbacan, then what darkness would still hold the world fast in its grip if Avelyn had indeed remained at the abbey?

Braumin Herde sent his fingers through his tight-curled black hair. Everything had a purpose, his mother had so often told him. Everything happened for a reason. In the case of Brother Avelyn Desbris, those words rang true indeed.

He pushed away from the window and went on his way, moving quietly but swiftly along the corridor. Most of the monks were asleep now—it was required of the younger monks, and recommended for the older, though ninth-and tenth-year students could make their own curfew if they had important matters to tend to, such as penning passages from ancient texts, or, Braumin thought with a snicker, conspiring against the Father Abbot. Braumin, too, wanted to get to his bed as quickly as possible; he would be up before the dawn, and soon after that out on the road, a long and dangerous road.

He nodded when he saw a line of dim light underneath the door of Viscenti Marlboro’s room. His knock was gentle; he didn’t want to wake any in the nearby rooms, nor did he want to draw any attention to his presence at this man’s door.

The door opened; Braumin slipped inside.

Brother Viscenti Marlboro, a skinny and short man with darting dark eyes and perpetual stubble on his weathered face, was quick to close the door behind his friend.

Already rubbing his hands together, Braumin noted. Brother Viscenti was perhaps the most nervous person he had ever met. He was always rubbing his hands together, and always ducking his head as if he expected someone to slap him.

“You will both be gone, and both be dead,” Viscenti said suddenly, sharply, his squeaky voice seeming more fitting for a weasel or a squirrel than a man.