DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (151 page)

“We will take his nose first,” Father Abbot Markwart went on.

“Right to here,” he added, running his finger along the crease of a flared nostril. “It makes for a gruesome sight indeed, and assures that poor Graevis will be forever an outcast.”

“Why would ye be doin’ such a thing, and yerself claimin’ to be a man o’ God!” Pettibwa cried. She knew that the old man was not lying, that he would do exactly what he had threatened. She had heard him just minutes before, in the adjoining room in the southernmost cellar of St.-Mere-Abelle, formerly a storage area but now converted to hold the two Chilichunks and Bradwarden. Markwart had gone to Graevis first, and Pettibwa heard the agonized screams quite clearly through the earthen wall. Now the woman wailed and repeatedly made the holy sign of the evergreen, the symbol of the Abellican Order.

Markwart was unrepentant and unimpressed. He came forward suddenly, powerfully, moving his leering visage to within a hair’s breadth of Pettibwa’s face. “Why, you ask!” he roared. “Because of your daughter, foolish woman! Because your dear Jilly’s evil alliance with the heretic Avelyn could bring about the end of the world!”

“Jilly’s a good girl!” Pettibwa yelled back at him. “Never would she do—”

“But she has!” Markwart interrupted, growling out every word. “She has the stolen gemstones, and I will do whatever is necessary—pity Graevis!—to see that they are returned. Then Pettibwa can look upon her disfigured outcast husband and know that her own foolishness condemned him, as it condemned her son!”

“Ye killed him!” Pettibwa cried, tears streaming down her face. “Ye killed me son!”

Markwart’s expression went perfectly cold, stone-faced, and that, in turn, seemed to freeze the woman, locked her in his gaze. “I assure you,” the Father Abbot said in even tones, “that your husband, and then you, will soon envy Grady.”

The woman wailed and fell back—and would have fallen right to the ground had not Brother Francis been behind to support her. “Oh, what’re ye wantin’ o’ poor Pettibwa, Father,” she cried. “I’ll tell ye. I’ll tell ye!”

A wicked smile crossed the Father Abbot’s face, though he had been looking forward to cutting off the stupid Graevis’ nose.

St.-Mere-Abelle was buttoned up tight, with guards, young monks armed with crossbows, and the occasional older student armed with a potent gemstone, graphite or ruby, patrolling every section of wall. Master Jojonah, recognized by all and liked by most, had no trouble getting back into the abbey, though.

Word of his arrival preceded him, and he was met in the main hall almost as soon as he entered by a very sour-looking Brother Francis. Many other monks were in that hall, as well, curious as to why Jojonah had returned.

“The Father Abbot will speak with you,” the young monk said curtly, looking around as he spoke, as though playing to the audience, showing them which of them, he or Jojonah, was truly in the favor of Markwart.

“You seem to have forgotten respect for your superiors,” Master Jojonah replied, not backing off an inch.

Francis snorted and started to reply, but Jojonah cut him short.

“I warn you, Brother Francis,” he said gravely. “I am sick and have been too long on the road and too long in this life. I know that you fancy yourself Father Abbot Markwart’s adopted son, but if you continue this attitude toward those who have attained a higher rank than you, toward those who, by their years of study and the wisdom of simple age, are deserving of your respect, I will bring you before the College of Abbots. Father Abbot Markwart may protect you there, in the end, but his embarrassment will be considerable, as will his vengeance upon you.”

All the hall went deathly silent, and Master Jojonah pushed past the stunned Brother Francis and exited. He needed no escort to Markwart’s room.

Brother Francis paused for a long while, regarding the other monks in the room, their suddenly condescending stares. He responded with a threatening glare, but for now, at least, Master Jojonah had stolen the bite from this dog’s bark. Francis stormed out of the main hall, feeling the eyes of his lessers upon him.

Master Jojonah entered the Father Abbot’s room with hardly a knock, pushing through the unlocked door and moving right up to the desk of the old man.

Markwart shifted aside some papers he had been studying and sat back in his chair, sizing up the man.

“I sent you on an important matter,” the Father Abbot stated. “Surely you could not have completed your mission in Ursal and returned to us already.”

“I never got near to Ursal,” Master Jojonah admitted. “For I was taken by illness on the road.”

“You do not seem so sick,” Markwart remarked, and not kindly.

“I was met on the road by a man with news of the tragedy in Palmaris,” Master Jojonah explained, eyeing Markwart closely as he spoke the words, trying to see if the Father Abbot would inadvertently offer any clue that the death of Abbot Dobrinion had not been unexpected.

The old man was too sly for that. “Not so much a tragedy,” he replied. “The issue was settled with the Baron amicably, his nephew returned to him.”

A knowing grin made its way onto Master Jojonah’s face. “I was speaking of the murder of Abbot Dobrinion,” he said.

Markwart’s eyes widened and he came forward in his chair. “Dobrinion?” he echoed.

“Then news has not reached St.-Mere-Abelle,” Jojonah reasoned, going with the obvious bluff. “It is good that I have returned.”

Brother Francis bumbled into the room.

“Yes, Father Abbot,” Jojonah went on, ignoring the younger man. “Powries, or a single powrie, at least, entered St. Precious and murdered Abbot Dobrinion.” Behind him, Brother Francis gasped, and it seemed to Master Jojonah that the news was a true surprise to the younger man. “As soon as I heard, of course, I turned back for St.-Mere-Abelle,” he went on. “It would not do for us to be caught so unawares; it would seem that our enemies have singled out their prey, and if Abbot Dobrinion is a target, it only stands to reason that the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order—”

“Enough,” Markwart interrupted, putting his head down in his arms. Markwart realized what had just happened here, understood that Jojonah, ever the clever one, had just turned his feigned surprise back against him, had just justified his return to St.-Mere-Abelle beyond any question.

“It is good that you returned to us,” Markwart said a moment later, looking back to the man. “And a tragedy indeed that Abbot Dobrinion met with such an untimely end. But your business here is finished, and so prepare again for the road.”

“I am not physically able to make the journey to Ursal,” Jojonah replied.

Markwart eyed him suspiciously.

“Nor do I think such a move prudent, given the demise of the chief sponsor for Brother Allabarnet’s sainthood. Without Dobrinion’s backing, the process will be set back years, at least.”

“If I order you to go to St. Honce, then you shall go to St. Honce,” Markwart answered, the rough edge of his ire beginning to show through.

Still, Master Jojonah didn’t back away. “Of course, Father Abbot,” he replied. “And by the code of the Abellican Order, when you find justification to send a sickly master halfway across the kingdom, I will willingly go. But there is no reason for that now, no justification. Just be pleased that I was able to return in time to warn you of the potential danger from the powries.” Jojonah turned on his heel suddenly, putting his smirking face right in front of Brother Francis.

“Step aside, brother,” he said ominously.

Francis looked past him, to Father Abbot Markwart.

“This young monk moves dangerously close to a trial before the College of Abbots,” Jojonah said calmly.

Behind him, Father Abbot Markwart motioned for Brother Francis to get out of the master’s way. Then, when Jojonah was gone, Markwart motioned for the flustered young monk to close the door.

“You should have sent him back out on the road,” Brother Francis argued immediately.

“For your convenience?” Markwart replied sarcastically. “I am not the supreme dictator of the Abellican Order, but only the appointed leader, forced to work within prescribed guidelines. I cannot simply order a master, particularly a sickly one, on the road.”

“You did so before,” the young monk dared to put in.

“With justification,” Markwart explained, rising from his seat and walking around the desk. “The canonization process was very real, but Master Jojonah is correct in saying that Dobrinion was its chief sponsor.”

“And it is true that Abbot Dobrinion is dead?”

Markwart gave the young man a sour look. “So it would seem,” he replied. “And thus, Master Jojonah was correct in returning to St.-Mere-Abelle, and is correct in refusing to go back out at this time.”

“He did not look so sickly,” Brother Francis remarked.

Markwart was hardly listening. Things had not played out as he had hoped; he wanted Jojonah settled at St. Honce in Ursal long before news of the abbot’s death reached him. Then he would have sent news to Abbot Je’howith to use the master as his own, giving a temporary appointment of Jojonah to St. Honce—a temporary appointment that Markwart meant to make last until the portly master had died. Still, this scenario did not seem so terrible to him. Jojonah was a thorn in his side—one growing sharper and longer daily, it seemed—but at least with Jojonah here, he could keep an eye on him.

Besides, it was hard for Markwart to be upset. Youseff and Dandelion had completed part of their mission, at least, and certainly the most dangerous part in Palmaris. By Jojonah’s own words, a powrie was being blamed. One very formidable enemy had been eliminated, and the other had no proof that Markwart had been involved. All the Father Abbot needed now was the return of the stolen stones and his position would be secured. He could deal with Jojonah, could crush the man if need be.

“I will attempt contact with the Brothers Justice,” Brother Francis offered. “We should keep abreast of their progress.”

“No!” Markwart said suddenly, sharply. “If the thief with the stolen stones is wary, such contact might be detected,” he lied, noting Brother Francis’ questioning stare. In truth, Markwart meant to use a soul stone himself to speak with Youseff and Dandelion; he didn’t want anyone else, including Brother Francis, to contact them, to perhaps learn of their doings in Palmaris.

“Keep an eye and an ear bent always toward Master Jojonah,” he instructed Francis. “And be wary, too, of your peer, Brother Braumin Herde. I want to know with whom they converse during their free time, a complete list.”

Brother Francis hesitated a long while before nodding his understanding. So many things were going on about him, he realized, things of which he knew so very little. But again, as was typical for the man, he saw the opportunity to impress his Father Abbot, saw the course toward personal growth, and he was determined that he would not fail.

The news was not so disconcerting to Father Abbot Markwart as Brother Youseff had feared. Connor Bildeborough had escaped and could not be found. He had gone underground, into the bowels of the city, or perhaps out to the north.

Go for the gemstones,Markwart telepathically instructed the young monk, and with that, Markwart imparted a clear picture of the woman who went by the various titles of Jill, Jilly, Pony, and Cat-the-Stray. Pettibwa had been quite helpful that morning.Forget the Baron’s nephew.

As soon as Youseff’s reply of understanding came back to him, the weary Father Abbot broke the connection, let his spirit fall back into his own body.

But there was something else…

Another presence, Markwart feared, thinking that his lie to Brother Francis about Avelyn’s protege sensing the magic of the soul stone might hold more truth than he believed.

He relaxed, and quickly, though, for he came to recognize the intrusion as just another part of his own subconscious. Monks had traditionally used the soul stones for the deepest forms of meditation and introspection, though rarely in these times, and it seemed to Markwart that he had inadvertently stumbled down that path.

So he followed the course to the destination, thinking he was laying bare his own innermost feelings, thinking that perhaps in this state he might find needed moments of pure clarity.

In his thoughts he saw Master Jojonah and the younger monk, Brother Braumin Herde, plotting against him. Of course this didn’t surprise Markwart; hadn’t he just sent Brother Francis to keep a close watch over them?

But then something else came into the scene: Master Jojonah with a handful of stones, walking toward a door, a door that Markwart knew, Markwart’s own door. And in the master’s hand … graphite.

Jojonah kicked open the door and released a tremendous bolt of energy at the Father Abbot as he sat quiet on his chair. Markwart felt the sudden flash, the burn, the jolt, his heart fluttering, his life rushing away…

It took Markwart several agonizing seconds to separate imagination from reality, to realize it was only insight and not actually happening. Before this moment of enlightenment, he had never imagined just how dangerous Jojonah and his wicked cohorts could be!

Yes, he would watch them closely, and would act against them in a brutal and definitive manner if need be.

But they would grow strong, his inner voice told him. As the war ended, the great victory achieved, the still little-known fight at Mount Aida would be whispered and then spoken openly, and, with Jojonah’s prodding, Avelyn Desbris might be held up as a hero. Markwart could not tolerate that possibility, and he understood then that he must move quickly against the memory of the thief and murderer, must paint such a dark portrait of Avelyn—one that put him in league with the demon dactyl—that the whispers would speak of fortunate infighting between enemies at Aida, not the actions of a heroic man.

Yes, he must thoroughly discredit Avelyn and put the heretic in his proper place in the thoughts of the people and in the annals of Church history.