De’Unnero ignored the man’s offered hand, his sharp gaze still scrutinizing Elbryan and Pony.
“Master De’Unnero,” a portly old friar interrupted, moving forward to stand beside the forceful man. “They have wounded. Pray give me the soul stone that I might tend them.”
Elbryan and Pony didn’t miss the flash of outrage crossing De’Unnero’s angular face, the man obviously not pleased that this other monk had so openly offered help, and magical help at that. Still, he had been put on the spot, in front of all the merchants and all his own procession, and so De’Unnero reached into his pouch and produced a hematite, handing it over.
“Abbot De’Unnero,” he corrected.
The portly monk bowed and walked past him, offering a glance and a smile at Elbryan and Pony as he moved into the group.
Predictably to Pony, for she had already made an accurate assessment of the man, Nesk Reaches started for the portly friar, holding up his slightly injured hand, playing the wound for all it was worth.
De’Unnero wouldn’t let the merchant leader go that easily, though. The monk grabbed Reaches roughly by the shoulder and turned him about. “You admit that this is your caravan?” he asked.
The merchant humbly nodded.
“What fool are you to be bringing people out in this danger?” De’Unnero scolded. “Monsters are thick in the region, and are hungry and hunting. The warning has been given across the land, yet here you are, out alone and hardly guarded.”
“Please, good friar,” Nesk Reaches stammered. “We were in need of provisions. We had little choice.”
“In need of good profits, more likely,” De’Unnero snapped. “Thinking to turn a few pieces of gold at a time when few caravans are running and goods are more valuable.”
Grumbles from the crowd told Elbryan and Pony, and De’Unnero, that the reasoning was sound.
De’Unnero let Nesk Reaches go then, and called out to the portly monk. “Be quick about it! We have been delayed too long already.” To Reaches, he added, “Where are you headed?”
“Amvoy,” the thoroughly intimidated merchant stammered.
“I will soon be sanctified as abbot of St. Precious,” De’Unnero explained loudly.
“St. Precious?” Nesk Reaches echoed. “But Abbot Dobrinion”
“Abbot Dobrinion is dead,” De’Unnero callously stated. “And I will replace him. And, merchant Reaches, I expect that you and your caravan, owing a debt to me, will attend the ceremony. In fact, I insist upon it. And I remind you that you would be wise to be generous in your offerings.”
He turned away then to his procession, motioning the monks out of the wagon circle. “Be quick,” he called to Master Jojonah, spinning about. “I’ll not waste our entire day at this business.”
Elbryan used the distraction to slip away to the horses, remembering that Symphony carried a gemstone in his breast which might be quite significant and telling to monks of St.-Mere-Abelle.
Pony, meanwhile, kept her eyes on the portly monk tenderly attending the many wounded. When De’Unnero’s group was safely away, she went up to the man, offering to help with conventional healing, tearing bandages and the like.
The monk looked at her sword, at the blood spattered on her pants and boots. “Perhaps you should rest,” he said. “You and your companion have done quite enough this day, from what I have heard.”
“I am not tired,” Pony said with a smile, taking as much of an initial liking to this man as she had a disliking to the other, De’Unnero. She couldn’t help but measure that man against Abbot Dobrinion, whom he would apparently replace, and the contrast sent a shudder along her spine. This monk, though, so sincerely at work to relieve the suffering, seemed more like the former abbot of St. Precious, whom Pony had met on a couple of occasions. She bent low and held the hand of the man the friar was attending, applying pressure in just the right spot to slow the bleeding of his torn hand.
She noticed then that the monk was not looking at her, or at the wounded man, but had settled his gaze on Elbryan and the horses.
“What is your name?” he asked Pony, his eyes drifting to study her.
“Carralee,” Pony lied, using the name of her infant cousin who had been killed in the first goblin raid on Dundalis.
“I am Master Jojonah,” the monk replied. “Well met, I would say, and fortunate for these poor folk that weparticularly you and your companioncame along when we did!”
Pony hardly heard the last few words. She stared hard at the portly man. Jojonah. She knew that name, the name of the one master of whom Avelyn had spoken fondly, the one man at St.-Mere-Abelle, Avelyn had believed, who had understood him. Avelyn hadn’t talked much with Pony about his colleagues during his days at the abbey, but he made it a point one night after too many “potions of courage,” as Avelyn called his liquor, to tell her about Jojonah. That fact alone relayed to the woman just how dear this old man had been to Avelyn.
“Your work is truly amazing, Father,” she remarked as Master Jojonah put a soul stone to use on the injured man. In truth, Pony soon realized that she was more powerful with the gemstones than this master of the abbey, a fact that pointedly reminded her of just how powerful Avelyn Desbris had been.
“It is a minor thing,” Master Jojonah replied when the man’s gash was mended.
“Not minor to me,” the man said, and gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough.
“But what a good man you are to do such work,” Pony said enthusiastically. She was acting purely on instinct now, following her heart, though her thoughts, were screaming at her to be cautious and shut up. She gave one nervous glance around, to make sure that no other monks had wandered back into the wagon circle, then continued quietly, “I once met another of your ChurchSt.-Mere-Abelle, is it not?”
“Indeed it is,” Master Jojonah replied absently, looking around for any others who might need his healing talents.
“A good man was he,” Pony continued. “Oh, such a good man.”
Master Jojonah smiled politely, but started to walk off.
“His name was Aberly, I believe,” Pony said.
The monk stopped abruptly and turned on her, his expression shifting from polite tolerance to sincere intrigue.
“No, Avenbrook,” Pony bluffed. “Oh, I cannot remember his name quite right, I fear. It was years ago, you see. And though I cannot remember the name, I’ll never forget the monk. I came upon him when he was helping a poor street beggar in Palmaris, much as you just helped that man. And when the poor man offered to pay him, fishing a few coins out of his raggedy pocket, Aberly, or Avenbrook, or whatever his name might have been, accepted graciously, but then arranged for the coins, along with more than a few of his own, to be returned to the poor man inconspicuously.”
“Indeed,” Jojonah muttered, nodding his head with her every word.
“I asked him why he did thatwith the coins, I mean,” Pony went on. “He could have just refused them, after all. He told me that it was just as important to protect the poor man’s sense of pride as his health.” She finished with a broad smile. The story was true, though it had happened in a tiny village far to the south and not in Palmaris.
“Are you sure you cannot remember the brother’s name?” Jojonah prompted.
“Aberly, Aberlyn, something like that,” Pony replied, shaking her head.
“Avelyn?” Jojonah asked.
“That might be it, Father,” Pony replied, still trying not to give too much away. She was encouraged, though, by the warm expression on Master Jojonah’s face.
“I said be quick!” came a shout from outside the wagon circle, the harsh bark of St. Precious’ new abbot.
“Avelyn,” Master Jojonah said again to Pony. “It was Avelyn. Never forget that name.” He patted her shoulder as he walked past.
Pony watched him go, and for some reason that she had not yet discerned, she felt a bit better about the world. She moved to Elbryan then, the ranger still standing right against Symphony, hiding the telltale turquoise.
“May we leave now?” he asked her impatiently.
Pony nodded and climbed up on Greystone, and with a wave to the merchant entourage, the pair trotted their mounts out of the wagon circle, going back to the south, up the slope and away from the monks, who were back on the road, heading to the west. Just over the ridge, Elbryan and Pony met up with Juraviel again, and they were quickly heading east, putting as much ground between themselves and the monks as possible.
De’Unnero began scolding Master Jojonah as soon as the older man rejoined the monk procession. His tirade went on and on, long after the group exited the valley.
Jojonah tuned it out almost immediately, his thoughts still with the woman who had helped tend the wounded. He felt warm inside, calm and hopeful that Avelyn’s message had indeed been heard. The woman’s tale had touched him deeply, had reinforced his positive feelings toward Avelyn, had reminded him once again of all that wasor all that could beright with his Church.
His smile as he pondered the tale only infuriated De’Unnero even more, of course, but Jojonah could hardly have cared less. At least in this tiradeon the edge of insanity, it seemedDe’Unnero was showing his temperament honestly to the younger, impressionable monks. They might be in awe of the man’s fighting prowesseven Jojonah was amazed by thatbut his verbal lashing of an old, impassive man would likely sour more than a few stomachs.
Finally realizing that Jojonah’s serenity was too entrenched to be shaken, the volatile master backed off and the procession went on its way, with Master Jojonah falling into position at the end of the line absently, trying to conjure images of Brother Avelyn’s work with the poor and sick. He thought of the woman again, and was glad, but as he pondered her tale, as he considered her and her companion’s obviously mighty role in the battle, his contentment fast shifted to curiosity. It made little sense to him that a man and a woman, obviously powerful warriors, would be making their way to the east from Palmarisand not in position as guard of one of the few, precious caravans that were trying to get through. Most heroes, after all, were making their name and reputation in the north, where the battle lines were more obvious. It occurred to Master Jojonah that this situation needed more investigating.
“The stone!” Abbot De’Unnero snapped at him from the front of the procession.
The man was hardly paying him any heed, so Jojonah bent low and quietly gathered another stone of similar size, then dropped it into the pouch in place of the hematite. Then he rushed over to De’Unnero, seeming obedient, and handed the pouch over. He breathed easier when the vicious master, no lover of magic other than his signature tiger’s paw, tucked the pouch away without a look.
They marched until the sun went down, putting several miles behind them before setting camp. A single tent was propped for De’Unnero, who went inside right after his meal with parchment and ink to further plan the grand ceremony of his appointment as abbot.
Master Jojonah said little to his companions, just moved off by himself quietly and settled amidst several thick blankets. He waited until all the camp had quieted, until several of the brothers were snoring contentedly, and then he took the hematite from his pocket. With one last glance around to make sure no one was taking any notice, he fell into the stone, connecting his spirit to its magic and then using that magic to let his spirit walk free of his body.
Without the corporeal bonds of his aged and too-heavy frame, the master set out at great pace, covering the miles in mere minutes. He passed by the merchant caravan, which was still circled in the valley.
The woman and her companion were not there, and so Jojonah’s spirit did not stay, but rather drifted up high, into the air, above the hilltops. He spotted a pair of campfires, one to the north and another in the east, and by sheer luck chose to investigate the eastern glow first.
Perfectly silent and invisible, the spirit glided in. He soon saw the two horses, the great black stallion and the muscled golden palomino, and then, beyond them, huddled about the fire, the two warriors talking to a third figure he did not know. He drifted closer cautiously, giving them all due respect, moving in a circuit about the perimeter of the camp to get a better look at this third member of the band.
If he had been in his corporeal form, Jojonah’s gasp would have been audible indeed when he saw the lithe figure, the angular features, the translucent wings!
An elf! Touel’alfar! Jojonah had seen statues and drawings of the diminutive beings at St.-Mere-Abelle, but even at the abbey the writing on the Touel’alfar was indecisive as to whether there really were such beings, or whether they were merely legend. After encountering powries and goblins and hearing the tales of fomorian giants, Jojonah was not logically surprised to learn that there really were Touel’alfar, but the sight of one still startled him profoundly. He spent a long time hovering about that camp, his gaze never leaving Juraviel while he listened to the conversation.
They were speaking of St.-Mere-Abelle, of the prisoners Markwart had taken, particularly the centaur.
“The man was proficient with the hematite,” the woman was saying.
“Could you defeat him in a battle of magics?” the strong man asked.
Jojonah had to swallow his pride when the woman nodded confidently, but any anger he might have felt washed away as soon as she explained.
“Avelyn taught me well, better than I had understood before,” she said. “The man was a master, indeed the one that Avelyn had called his mentor, the one man that Avelyn had loved at St.-Mere-Abelle. Avelyn always spoke highly of Master Jojonah, but in truth, the man’s work with the stones was not so strong, not compared to Avelyn, and not compared to my own.”
She had not said it in any boastful way, but merely matter-of-factly, and so Jojonah took no further offense. Instead he considered the deeper, richer implications of it all. She had been trained by Avelyn! And under his tutelage, this woman, who did not look as though she was near her thirtieth birthday, was stronger than a master of St.-Mere-Abelle. That notion, and he found from her tone that he believed her words, served to reinforce Jojonah’s continually mounting respect for Avelyn.