DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (156 page)

No, those books shelved in the dark corner of the lower library held no measure of justice and truth, unless that was in the lessons to be learned from terrible past mistakes.

But Jojonah had to remind himself of that quite often as the days wound on without any dramatic success. And one other thing began to nag at the sensibilities of the gentle master, growing in him until it proved a tremendous distraction: the plight of Markwart’s prisoners. They were paying dearly, perhaps had already paid the supreme price, for the sake of his delay here. A large part of Jojonah’s conscience screamed at him to go and see to those poor people and to the centaur, who, if he had been with Avelyn when the dactyl demon was defeated, was indeed heroic.

But Jojonah could not pull himself away, not yet, and so he had to sublimate his worries about the prisoners. Perhaps his work here would save them, he told himself, or perhaps it would prevent any such atrocities from being committed by the Church in the future.

He was beginning to make some progress, at least. The library was not as haphazardly laid out as he had first believed. It was divided into sections, and those, roughly, were set out chronologically, dating from the very earliest days of the Church to the time less than two centuries before, when the newer libraries were constructed and this place became a vault and not a working area. Fortunately for Jojonah, most of the writings of the time in which Brother Allabarnet lived, at least those collected from outside St.-Mere-Abelle, were stored down here.

As soon as he discovered the general layout, Master Jojonah began his search among the very earliest tomes, those dating back before God’s Year 1, the Great Epiphany, the Renewal, which separated the Church, Old Canon and New Canon. Jojonah figured that his answers might lie in the time before the Renewal, at the very inception of the organized Church, the time of Saint Abelle.

He found no answers there; what few pieces remained—and fewer still that remained legible—were decorous works, songs mostly, exalting the glory of God. Many were written on parchments so brittle that Jojonah did not dare to even handle them, and others were carved on tablets of stone. The writings of Saint Abelle were not down here, of course, but were on display in the higher library. Jojonah knew them by heart, and remembered nothing about them that would help in his quest. The teachings were general mostly, wise words about common decency, and open to many interpretations. Still, the master vowed to go and view them again, when the time presented, to see if he might read them in a new lightwith his new insights, to see if they might afford him some hint of the true precepts of his Church.

What Jojonah most wanted down here was to find the Abbot’s Doctrine of that momentous year of the Great Epiphany, but he knew that to be impossible. It was one of the great travesties of the Abellican Order that the original Abbot’s Doctrine had been lost, centuries before.

So the master went on with what was available, moving to the writings immediately following the creation of the New Canon. Jojonah found nothing. Nothing.

A man of lesser heart would have surrendered to the daunting task, but the thought of quitting never entered Jojonah’s mind. He continued his chronological scan, found some promising hints among the writings of the early Father Abbots, a turn of a phrase, for instance, that he could never imagine Markwart saying.

And then he found a most interesting tome indeed, a small book, bound in red cloth, and penned by a young monk, Brother Francis Gouliard in God’s Year 130, the year after the first journey to Pimaninicuit following the Great Epiphany.

Jojonah’s hands trembled as he gingerly turned the pages. Brother Francis—and how ironic that name seemed!—had been one of the Preparers on that journey, and he had returned and penned his story!

That alone hit Jojonah profoundly; monks returning from Pimaninicuit now were discouraged, indeed even prohibited, from ever speaking of the place. Brother Pellimar had come back wagging his tongue, and not coincidentally, he had not survived for long. Yet back in Francis Gouliard’s time, the Preparers were encouraged, according to the text, to detail their accounts of the journey!

Though it was cool in the dark room, Jojonah felt sweat beading on his forehead, and he took care so that it did not drop on the delicate pages. Fingers trembling, he gingerly turned the page and read on:

to finde thee thy smallst stones of greye and redde, that thee may prepare ample to bringe Godly healing to all the knowne worlde.

Master Jojonah sat back and took a deep and steadying breath. Now he understood why the abbey held such a huge cache of small hematites, the small stones of gray and red! The next passage, in which Brother Francis Gouliard wrote of his fellow voyagers, struck the master even more profoundly:

Thirty-and-three brothers did crewe the Sea Abelle, men younge and strange, trained well and trusted well to bringe we two Preparers to Pimaninicuit and back And then did all thirty-and-one (for two had died on the voyage) join in the final cataloguing and preparing.

“Brothers,” Jojonah mouthed softly. “On theSea Abelle. They used monks.” The master found it hard to speak through breath that would not come. A flood of tears streamed down his face as he recalled the fate of theWindrunner and her unfortunate crew, hired men, and one woman, and not brothers. It took him a long time to compose himself and read on. Brother Francis Gouliard’s style was difficult, many of the words too arcane for Jojonah to decipher, and the man tended to pen in a stream-of-consciousness manner, instead of purely chronologically. A few pages on and Francis was describing the departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, the beginning of the voyage.

And there it was before Jojonah, an edict from Father Abbot Benuto Concarron in his farewell speech to the good ship and crew, demanding that the Abellican Order spread the wealth of God, the gemstones, along with the word of God.

Piety, dignity, poverty.

The tears came freely; this was the Church that Jojonah could believe in, the Church that had coaxed in a man as pure of heart as Avelyn Desbris. But what had happened to so alter this apparent course? Why were thestones of greye and redde still within St.-Mere-Abelle? Where went the charity?

“And where is it now?” he asked aloud, thinking again of the poor prisoners. Where had the Church of Brother Francis Gouliard and Father Abbot Benuto Concarron gone?

“Damn you, Markwart,” Master Jojonah whispered, and he meant every word. He tucked the book under his voluminous robes and left the cellars, going straight to the privacy of his room. He thought that he should look in on Brother Braumin, but decided that course could wait, for there was another matter that had been weighing heavily on Jojonah for several days.

So he was soon descending once more into the lower levels of St.-Mere-Abelle, on the other side of the great abbey, down to the rooms Father Abbot Markwart had converted into dungeons. He was not really surprised when he was met by a monk standing guard, the young man moving to block his path.

“I’ll not stand and argue with you, young brother,” Jojonah blustered, trying to sound imposing. “How many years have passed since you traveled the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering?”

Indeed the formidable master was imposing to the poor young brother! “One year, Master,” he said softly. “And four months.”

“One year?” Jojonah boomed. “And yet you dare to block my way? I attained the rank of master before you were born, and yet you stand before me now, telling me that I cannot go on.”

“The Father Abbot—”

Jojonah had heard enough. He reached across, bringing his arm along the young monk’s side, and bulled his way past, staring hard at the young man, daring him to try and stop the move.

The young monk stuttered over a few protests, but only stamped his foot in impotent frustration as Jojonah continued on down the stairs. At the bottom two more young monks stood to block Jojonah’s way, but he didn’t even bother to speak with them, just continued on, pushing through, and again they didn’t dare try to physically stop him. One did follow, though, complaining every step, while the second ran back the other way—to inform Father Abbot Markwart, Jojonah knew.

He was treading on dangerous ground here, Jojonah knew, perhaps pushing the Father Abbot too far. But the book he had found had only bolstered his resolve to stand strong against Markwart’s injustices, and he vowed silently that he would not be turned away, whatever the punishment, that he would check on the poor prisoners, just to make sure they were alive and not being treated too badly. Jojonah was risking a great deal, and could rationally argue that the long-term greater good called for him to continue to remain quiet and obscure. But that course would not do much to help the poor Chilichunks and the heroic centaur; that argument, Jojonah knew, was one that men such as Markwart often used to justify ungodly or cowardly actions.

So he didn’t even care that he might be pushing Markwart to the very edge of rage. He pressed on, through one door, by another startled young monk, and down another stair. Then he paused, Brother Francis standing before him.

“You should not be down here,” Francis remarked.

“By whose command?”

“Father Abbot Markwart,” Francis answered without hesitation. “Only he, myself, and Master De’Unnero are to be allowed past the lower stairs.”

“A worthy crew,” Master Jojonah said sarcastically. “And why is that, Brother Francis? That you might torture the poor innocent prisoners in privacy?” He said it loudly, and took some satisfaction in the uncomfortable shuffling of feet he heard from the young guard standing behind him.

“Innocent?” Francis echoed skeptically.

“Are you so ashamed of your actions that they must take place down here, away from all prying eyes?” Master Jojonah pressed, moving forward another step as he spoke. “Yes, I have heard the tale of Grady Chilichunk.”

“An accident on the road,” Francis protested.

“Hide thy sins, Brother Francis!” Jojonah replied. “Yet they remain sins all the same!”

Francis snorted derisively. “You cannot comprehend the meaning of this war we wage,” he protested. “You show pity for criminals, while innocents pay dearly for their crimes against the Church, against all of Mankind!”

Master Jojonah’s answer came in the form of a heavy left hook. Brother Francis was not caught completely unawares, though, and managed to turn so the blow only grazed his face, and as Master Jojonah overbalanced from the miss, the younger monk leaped behind him, locking him in a tight choke hold and twisting hard, stealing the man’s balance.

Master Jojonah squirmed and twisted, but only for a moment, for the blood supply was cut short and his brain, starved, fast drifted into unconsciousness.

“Brother Francis!” the younger monk yelled, panicking, and he rushed forward, trying to separate the two. Francis willingly let go, allowing the heavy Jojonah to slump to the floor.

He heard the footsteps sharp against the wood. Pacing, pacing, and he fell into the rhythm of that stride, went along with it, let it carry him back to the world of the living. The light seemed harsh to his eyes, which had known so much darkness in the previous days, but as soon as he found his focus, he knew exactly where he was: propped in a chair in the private room of Father Abbot Markwart.

Markwart and Brother Francis stood before him, neither appearing very pleased.

“You attacked another monk,” Father Abbot Markwart began curtly.

“An impertinent subordinate needing a scolding,” Master Jojonah replied, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. “A brother desperately in need of a good thrashing.”

Markwart looked over at the smug Brother Francis. “Perhaps,” he agreed, merely to deflate the puffy young man. “And yet,” Markwart continued, turning his attention squarely back to Jojonah, “he was only acting as I instructed.”

Master Jojonah fought hard to maintain control, for he wanted, desperately wanted, to burst loose of his pragmatic bonds and tell Markwart, wicked Markwart, exactly what he thought of him and his so off-course Church. He just chewed his lip and let the old man continue.

“You abandon your duties to support the cause of Brother Allabarnet,” the Father Abbot fumed. “A worthy cause, so I thought, given the fate of poor Abbot Dobrinion, for the monks of St. Precious are in need of some morale at this dark time. And yet you abuse the free time I allow you and find yourself across the whole of the abbey, meddling in affairs which do not concern you.”

“Am I not to care that we have innocent prisoners hanging from dungeon walls?” Master Jojonah replied, his voice firm and strong. “Am I not to care that people who have committed no crimes and no sins, and a centaur who may indeed be a hero, stand in this supposedly holy sanctuary’s dungeons in chains, and are subjected to torture?”

“Torture?” scoffed the Father Abbot. “You know nothing of it!”

“Thus I tried to find out,” Jojonah countered. “Yet you would deny me that, would deny all eyes.”

Again Markwart scoffed. “I would not subject the frightened Chilichunks and the potentially dangerous Bradwarden to the private inquisitions of others. They are my responsibility.”

“Your prisoners,” Jojonah corrected.

Father Abbot Markwart paused and took a deep breath. “Prisoners,” he echoed. “Yes, they are. No sins, say you, yet they are in league with the thieves who hold the stolen stones. No crimes, say you, yet we have every reason to believe that the centaur was in league with the demon dactyl, and only the accidental destruction of Aida prevented him from joining in the rampage against all the godly people of the world!”

“Accidental destruction,” Jojonah echoed incredulously, sarcastically.

“That is the decision of my investigation!” Markwart yelled suddenly, moving very near the sitting master, and Jojonah thought for a moment that the man meant to strike him. “You chose at this time to pursue another course.”