DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (162 page)

He said not a word, but took Elbryan’s hand in a shake that became a hug, then took up Fielder’s reins and rode away.

“He has grown,” Belli’mar Juraviel observed.

Pony and Elbryan silently agreed; both were as upset by this farewell as was Roger. Pony slipped down from Symphony and went to Greystone; the ranger taking Symphony by the bridle, they walked the horses back to their small camp.

They packed what few supplies they needed and set out on the road south. Juraviel wrapped himself in a blanket to hide his wings and weapons, appearing as a young boy, and took a seat on Greystone behind Pony. They decided to go straight into Palmaris, through the northern gate, for, with the monsters retreating, the city had become more open of late, and they didn’t believe they would be denied passage.

There was little conversation among them as they crossed through the northern outskirts, past the houses, most empty, but some with family returned. They actually caught sight of Roger on the road ahead of them several times, but thought it best to let him go in alone. Given what had just transpired between Roger and Baron Bildeborough, approaching the gate beside him would cause unwanted attention.

So much so that, on Juraviel’s advice, they decided to set camp outside the city that night, to wait a day and let all thoughts of Roger Lockless pass from the minds of the city guards.

Still, things were quiet between them, and Elbryan in particular seemed in a somber mood.

“Is it Bradwarden?” Pony asked him as they ate supper, a fine stew of coneys Juraviel had shot.

The ranger nodded. “I was remembering his days in Dundalis, before you returned,” he admitted. “Or even back before that, when you and I were on the northern slope awaiting our fathers’ return from the hunt, when we heard the music of the Forest Ghost.”

Pony smiled, recalling that long-past, innocent time. She understood the source of Elbryan’s melancholy to be more than simple nostalgia, though, understood, and surely empathized with, the pangs of guilt that resonated through her lover’s every word.

Juraviel, sitting off to the side, recognized it, too, and was quick to jump into the conversation. “You thought he was dead,” the elf remarked.

Both Pony and Elbryan turned to regard him.

“To blame yourselves is foolish,” Juraviel went on. “The mountain fell on him, so you believed. What were you to do, begin digging your way back in with your bare hands? And you, Nightbird, with your arm torn and broken?”

“Of course we do not blame ourselves,” Pony argued, but her words sounded hollow, even to her.

“Of course you do!” Juraviel replied with a burst of mocking laughter. “That is the way with humans—and too often for my taste, their self-blame is justified. But not this time, and not with you two. You did all that you could, loyally, valiantly. Even with all you have heard, you doubt that it could be Bradwarden.”

“The evidence seems solid,” Elbryan remarked.

“But so does the evidence that the centaur was killed,” Juraviel replied. “There is something to this which you do not understand, and rightly so, for if it is indeed Bradwarden, then some force beyond your comprehension has kept him alive—or has brought him back from the dead. True?”

Elbryan looked to Pony, then both turned back to Juraviel and nodded.

“That alone should alleviate your guilt,” the elf reasoned, catching them in his logic trap. “If you were so certain that Bradwarden was killed, then how can you be blamed, by others or by yourselves, for leaving that foul place?”

“True again,” Elbryan admitted, managing a smile, glad indeed that the wisdom of the Touel’alfar remained by his side.

“Then look not to the road behind,” Juraviel said. “But to the road ahead. If it is indeed Bradwarden, if he is indeed alive, then he needs you now. And when we are done, when the centaur is freed, how much better all the world shall be.”

“And we can return to Dundalis with him,” Pony put in. “And all the children of those who return to that town to rebuild will know the magic of the song of the Forest Ghost.”

Now they were at ease. They finished their dinner, speaking of the days they would know when this dark road was traveled and put well behind them, speaking of their plans when peace again reigned in Honce-the-Bear, when the Timberlands were reclaimed, when the Church was put aright.

They went to sleep early, vowing to make the gates before the break of dawn, and both Pony and Elbryan slept soundly, their elven friend keeping a watchful guard.

A frustrated and angry Master Jojonah shuffled down the main hallway in the upper level of St.-Mere-Abelle, the long and grand corridor running along the top of the cliff wall overlooking All Saints Bay. Windows were spaced every few feet to the monk’s right, the eastern view, while the left-hand wall was dotted sporadically by wooden doors layered with carvings of intricate detail. Each door told a separate story, one of the fables that formed the basis of the Abellican Church, and usually Jojonah, who had only fully examined a score of the fifty doors in all his decades at St.-Mere-Abelle, would pause and look at a portion of yet another. After an hour of perusal, he might have fully scrutinized a six-inch-square block, reflecting on all of the hidden meanings. This day, though, feeling particularly foul, and in no mood for reflections on his strayed Order, the master just put his head down and rambled on, chewing his lips to keep from mumbling aloud.

He was taken by complete surprise, then, when a man blocked his path. He jumped back, startled, then looked up into the smiling face of Brother Braumin Herde.

“Brother Dellman is doing well,” the younger monk informed him. “They believe he will live, and will walk again, though not smoothly.”

Master Jojonah didn’t blink, his expression holding that angry stare and focusing it, not quite intentionally, on Brother Braumin.

“Is something wrong?” Braumin asked.

“Why would I care?” Jojonah blurted before he could consciously formulate a reply. He silently chastised himself immediately, using the unintentionally sharp retort as a personal lesson concerning just how angry and out-of-control he had become. He had erred badly because of that anger and frustration, had pushed Markwart too far. Of course he cared about Brother Dellman! Of course he was glad that the sincere young man was healing well. And of course, Master Jojonah did not want to take his outrage out on Brother Braumin Herde, in effect, his closest friend. He looked at the hurt and surprised expression on Braumin’s face, and formulated an apology.

Jojonah quickly bit back that reply, though, conjuring another image of Brother Braumin, one of the man lying lifeless in a wooden box. That image surely shook the old man, as painful a thought as a father might have for one of his children.

“Brother Braumin, you assume much,” Jojonah went on instead, keeping his voice sharp, and loud.

Braumin glanced around nervously, fearing they might be overheard, for there were indeed other monks in the long corridor, though none in the immediate area.

“Brother Dellman was injured badly,” Jojonah elaborated. “Through his own foolishness, I have been told. Well, men die, Brother Braumin. It is the greatest truth, the one inescapable fact of our existence. And if Brother Dellman had died … well, so be it. Better men than he have gone before.”

“What nonsense is this?” Brother Braumin dared to ask, quietly, calmly.

“The nonsense of your self-importance,” Jojonah snapped right back at him. “The nonsense to believe that any one man can make a difference, a real difference, in the course of human events.” The master snorted and waved his hand dismissively and started by. Brother Braumin reached out to grab him, but Jojonah roughly shoved the arm away.

“Get on with your life, Brother Braumin,” Jojonah scolded. “Find meaning where you will and secure your own little corner of the too-big world!”

Jojonah pounded off down the corridor, leaving poor Braumin Herde standing perplexed and wounded to his heart.

And Jojonah, too, was hurting. In the midst of his little speech he had almost succumbed to the despair he was spouting. But it was all for a noble purpose, he reminded himself now, finding again his inner center of harmony, throwing out all the bluster and a good deal of his anger in a great mental belch. He had berated Braumin, loudly, publicly, because he loved the man, because he wanted the man to keep away from him long enough for him to be far along the road with Master De’Unnero before Braumin even figured out that he was gone.

That was the safest course, Jojonah knew, given Markwart’s foul mood and increasing paranoia. Braumin had to lie low for the time being, perhaps for a very long time. Given the “accident” that befell Brother Dellman, the course Jojonah had set Braumin on, with his talk of Avelyn and the faults of the Church and his visit to Avelyn’s sacred grave, suddenly appeared to Jojonah as incredibly selfish. Battered by his own conscience, he had needed Braumin’s support, and thus, in his desperation, had pulled the man into his secret little war.

What consequences that might hold for Brother Braumin Herde stung Jojonah profoundly now. Markwart had won, it seemed, and he had been a fool all along to believe he could beat the powerful man.

The blackness of despair crept up around him again. He felt weak and sick, the same sickness he had known on the road to Ursal, as the strength and righteous determination ebbed away.

He doubted he would live to see the great doors of St. Precious.

Master Jojonah’s brutal treatment left Brother Braumin standing stunned in the long corridor. What could possibly have happened to so turn the master around?

Brother Braumin’s eyes widened; he wondered if that had indeed been Master Jojonah he had been speaking with, or if, perhaps, Markwart, or even Francis, had taken control of the man’s body.

Braumin calmed quickly, dismissing the notion. Possession was difficult enough on the unsuspecting who had never been trained in the use of the stones. Since Jojonah could use the soul stone, and use it well, he had definitely learned how to manipulate his spirit in such ways that would prevent such intrusion.

But what, then, had happened? Why had the master, after all these days, spoken so angrily and rudely to him? Why had the master practically disavowed all that the two of them had tried to accomplish, all that they considered Avelyn to stand for?

Braumin thought of poor Dellman and the unfortunate “accident.” Whispers among the younger monks hinted that it was no accident at all, but rather a coordinated maneuver by De’Unnero and the other two monks who had been working on the wheel with Dellman. And that line of thought led Braumin to only one answer: perhaps Jojonah was protecting him.

Braumin Herde was wise enough, and understanding enough of gentle Master Jojonah, to put aside his hurt and believe that to be the case. But still, it made little sense to him. Why would Master Jojonah change his mind now? They had already discussed in length the course this quiet rebellion must take, and that course was not one of great risk for Brother Braumin.

The monk was still standing in the long corridor, staring out the window at the dark waters of the cold bay below, musing over the possibilities, when a sharp voice from behind startled him. He turned to face Brother Francis, and in glancing around, had the distinct feeling that the monk had not been far away all along. Perhaps Jojonah had known of Francis’ spying, Braumin hoped.

“Saying your farewells?” Francis asked, smirking with every word.

Braumin looked back to the window. “To whom?” he asked. “Or to what? The world? Did you think I meant to jump out? Or perhaps you were only hoping as much.”

Brother Francis laughed. “Come now, Brother Braumin,” he said. “We really should not be arguing amongst ourselves. Not when such possibilities loom before us.”

“I admit that never have I seen you in so fine a mood, Brother Francis,” Braumin replied. “Has someone died?”

Francis let the sarcasm slide off his shoulders. “It is likely that you and I will be working together for many years to come,” he said. “We really must learn more of each other if we are to properly coordinate the training of first-year students.”

“First-year students?” Braumin echoed. “That is a job for masters, not immaculates …” As soon as he heard his own words, Brother Braumin could see where this all was leading, and he didn’t care for the path at all. “What do you know?” he asked.

“I know that there will soon be openings for two masters at St.-Mere-Abelle,” Francis said smugly. “Since few of the present group seems worthy, the Father Abbot will be left with difficult decisions, perhaps even waiting until those worthy in my class are promoted to immaculate in the spring. I had thought that your ascension to master would be assured, given that you are the highest-ranked immaculate and were chosen as second on the most important mission to Aida, but truthfully, it seems a bit doubtful.” He finished with another laugh and turned to leave, but Braumin wouldn’t let him get away that easily. He grabbed Francis roughly by the shoulder and spun him about.