DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (193 page)

Braumin scoffed at the notion.

"You will not leave St.-Mere-Abelle unless I have that book," Francis said calmly.

"Why?" Braumin retorted. "So that you might put it on a shelf of forbidden tomes? So that you might bury it away with all the other truths that would tumble down the walls of your sacred institution? "

"There is no compromise here, brother," Francis stated. "I will have the book, or I will take it from your room while you are burning."

"Jojonah gave me that book," Braumin said. "He bade me to keep it safe."

"It will be safe," Francis replied. "And back where it rightfully belongs."

Brother Braumin closed his eyes, understanding that Francis would hold fast. He prayed to Master Jojonah for guidance then, to help him through this dilemma. Was it now his time to stand up for the truth? Was his fight to end so soon? Jojonah had wanted him to ascend the ranks of the Abellican Order, but if he left now, that would be impossible. Even if he managed to elude Markwart's executioners, he and his friends would be outside the Church, unable to bring about any positive change.

But if they stayed, Braumin believed, they would die, and soon.

His answer came in the form of an image, a memory of a faraway place, once the home of evil incarnate but now the tomb of a true saint. Braumin saw again the arm of Avelyn, sticking from the ground, uplifted, the final act of defiance against the demon dactyl, the final act of reaching for God.

Brother Braumin had his answer. Whatever God had in mind for him, he wanted to see that place again before he died. He moved to the side of his bed, bent down to the floor, and reached under it, then moved back to stand in front of Francis, locking the man's gaze with his own. Braumin gave a slight nod and turned over the book. "Read it," he said. "Read the words of another Brother Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle. Learn what once was, and know the truth of the man you serve."

Brother Francis didn't say a word, just moved past Braumin for the door, then out of the room.

"You gave it to him," Marlboro Viscenti said incredulously and fearfully. "Now he will surely betray us."

"If he meant to betray us, then Markwart would already have us," Braumin insisted.

"Then what are we to do? "

"Wait," Braumin answered, laying a comforting hand on Viscenti's shoulder. "Let Francis do as he promised. He will return to us."

Brother Viscenti wiped his hand across his lips and shuddered. He didn't question Braumin further, though, just stood with him, staring at the door, wondering.

In truth, if the door hadn't been there to block their vision, the two men would have still seen Brother Francis in the empty and dimly lit corridor, staring down at the tome Brother Braumin had given him. In one unacknowledged corner of his brain, Brother Francis understood that there might well be a measure of truth in Braumin's claims. Surely Francis had seen enough brutality perpetrated by his beloved Church to give some credence to the pessimistic man's arguments.

And now Francis held this ancient book, which could shatter the foundations of his beliefs, which could make a lie of his life and a devil of his master. If he opened the pages and read it, would he, too, be brought into the depths of heresy, as had Jojonah, and now these disciples of the man?

Brother Francis tucked the book under his arm and started briskly for the stairwells that would take him to the lower library, where he might rid himself of the dangerous tome. He had to pay another visit to Roger Billingsbury and had many other preparations to make, but they would wait, he decided. Burying this book in a dark corner of a dark place was far more important.

The fire burned low. They were fugitives now and had to take precautions, but the night was cold. Brother Braumin had allowed Dellman to light the small fire.

Braumin took some comfort as he considered his four companions. It was no small matter that they had all agreed to flee St.-Mere-Abelle and thus leave the Abellican Order. Even the youngest of them had been a member of the Order for a decade, not to mention the eight years of preparation required to be allowed entry into St.-Mere-Abelle, and now to throw all of that work away... .

And it was not just fear of Markwart's temper that had inspired the desertion, Brother Braumin realized, and he was warmed by that knowledge. He chuckled as he considered Marlboro Viscenti, the nervous man now crouching by the fire, his head darting from side to side as he scanned the darkness beyond the fire. Perhaps for Viscenti, fear of Markwart was enough of an inspiration.

Braumin recalled the reactions of the others when he'd told them that they were to run away from St.-Mere-Abelle with this kitchen hand who had some unknown tie to those who had once befriended Avelyn Desbris and Master Jojonah. His four friends were even more incredulous when Braumin had disclosed the source of his contact with the man. To think that Brother Francis had put them on this course! And yet, in trusting in Braumin's decision, in leaving St.-Mere-Abelle with him, these four young monks had passed the most important and difficult test thus far. Long before this last crisis, they had joined Braumin to carry on the work of Avelyn and Jojonah, but until this morning, the work had been naught but talk, secret meetings full of complaints, even hiding the feelings they'd had as they'd watched Jojonah burn. Now Markwart was apparently about to make his move against them. Each of them had been faced with a desperate choice: to hold fast beside Braumin and be executed or to betray the words and spirit of Jojonah.

Braumin wasn't sure which course his friends might have chosen had that critical moment come. He wanted to believe the others would have stood beside him, accepting Markwart's immoral judgment, as had Jojonah. He wanted to believe that he, too, would have held true. But fortunately, Brother Francis had offered them a third option, and at least postponed that supreme test of faith.

For Markwart would come after them, Braumin Herde did not doubt, and if the Father Abbot caught them, their lives would surely be forfeit.

Now, Braumin decided, his thoughts had to turn instead to the road ahead, to hopes of meeting the mysterious friends of Avelyn Desbris and finding confirmation of all he held dear.

He sought out Roger Billingsbury, who was sitting alone on the other side of the camp, drawing in the dirt with a stick. He was not surprised to find that Roger had drawn a rough map of the region, with pebbles representing St.-Mere-Abelle, the Masur Delaval, Palmaris, and some points far to the north.

"Your home?" Braumin asked, indicating those.

"Caer Tinella," Roger replied, "and Landsdown. Two towns on the northern edge of Honce-the-Bear. It was in Caer Tinella that I first met Elbryan, the one known as Nightbird."

"Friend to Bradwarden," Braumin said.

"I never met the centaur," Roger admitted, "though I saw him once, tied up at the back of a fast-traveling caravan, heading south for Palmaris."

Braumin Herde nodded. He had been part of that caravan, making the return trip from Mount Aida. "And is this Nightbird a disciple of Avelyn Desbris?" he asked.

"He was a friend of Avelyn's," Roger replied. "But in truth, his companion, Jilseponie —he calls her Pony—is the true disciple of the monk. No one in all the world can bring forth more powerful magics."

Braumin looked at him skeptically.

"I understand the doubts of one who has spent the bulk of his life in an abbey," Roger replied calmly, "but you will learn better."

Braumin was eager for that. He could hardly wait to meet this woman, Avelyn's student.

Brother Dellman, looking relaxed compared to the others, wandered over then and crouched low to examine Roger's map.

"How far from Palmaris are these towns?" Braumin asked.

"A week of hard marching," Roger replied.

"Is this where we will find the friends of Jojonah?" Dellman put in.

Roger shrugged and shook his head. "With the weather holding mild, they may have already left for their original home of Dundalis in the Timberlands." He pointed to the map as he spoke at a spot north of Caer Tinella.

"Another week, then?" Dellman asked.

"At least," Roger replied. "Dundalis is about the same distance north of Caer Tinella as Palmaris is south. There is only one road north from Caer Tinella —not a very good road—and I do not know if it is clear. Even before the monsters and the dactyl, the road to Timberlands was considered dangerous."

"If that is where Nightbird and Jilseponie are to be found, then that is where we shall go," Braumin declared.

"I want to find them as much as you do," Roger assured him, "but we can only guess where they are. They are fugitives of the Abellican Church, and that is no small matter. They might be in the northland or they might be in Palmaris. I could make a reasonable guess that Bradwarden, at least, did return to the north, for a centaur wouldn't be easy to hide on city streets!"

That brought a smile to Braumin's face, but Dellman glanced all around. "Should we be speaking openly of this? " he asked nervously.

"You fear that we might have spiritual visitors?" Braumin asked.

"It is possible that Brother Francis put us together with Roger and then let us out of St.-Mere-Abelle that he might follow our movements and find these two friends of Avelyn," Dellman explained.

That brought a frown to Roger's face, but Braumin remained calm. "I trust Francis —on this matter," he replied. "I do not know why. Surely he has given me no previous reasons to trust him, but this time, he seemed sincere."

"As he would feign if he was working as Markwart's agent," said Dellman.

Braumin Herde shook his head. "The Father Abbot could have accomplished what you fear using Roger alone. In fact, that course would have been easier, for Roger, no master of the gemstones, would never have suspected that the monks might be following him spiritually."

Dellman smiled, accepting that.

"As to Francis," Braumin went on, "I believe his tale of Master Jojonah's forgiveness was true, for Master Jojonah was dragged past him out of the College of Abbots, and certainly kindly Master Jojonah would have forgiven him."

"Is that not the whole point of who we are?" Brother Dellman interjected.

Braumin nodded. "And thus," he added, "it pained Brother Francis to watch Master Jojonah die so horribly. Perhaps it shook the foundations of his world."

"Your premise is correct, brother, but your conclusions ..." Dellman replied, shaking his head, not convinced. "Francis hated Master Jojonah. That much was obvious to us on our journey to Mount Aida. And he hates you even more, I believe."

"Perhaps he hates himself most of all," Braumin answered, staring out into the empty night —and he was confident that it was empty.

Brother Dellman followed that gaze into the darkness. He wasn't as confident as Braumin, but, in truth, it really didn't matter. The Father Abbot would have executed them had they stayed, they all knew, or he would have forced them into terrible confessions and retractions —the price of their souls for the sake of their bodies. Whether Markwart caught them on the road or descended upon them in St.-Mere-Abelle, the end would be the same.

Dellman and the others could only hope that Braumin's assessment of Francis was correct.

Master Theorelle Engress was probably the most benign and gentle monk Brother Francis had ever known. Completely unassuming, Engress was as old as Markwart and had been a fixture at St.-Mere-Abelle for more than five decades. He was not an ambitious man, having attained his rank merely as a matter of longevity rather than any great deeds. Humble and generous, much respected by all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle and all the Abellican Order, Engress went about his daily routines quietly, never speaking out of turn. He had been quite distressed, whispers said, about the trial and execution of Jojonah, but, as in all other matters, he kept his opinions to himself, arguing only when he deemed it necessary —as he had in the matter of Brother Francis' premature promotion to the rank of immaculate.

Maybe that was why Brother Francis found himself outside the gentle master's door late that same night he had ushered the conspirators out of St.-Mere-Abelle.

Master Engress, dressed in a nightshirt, showed no real surprise when he opened the door and found Francis standing in the hall. "Yes, brother?" he asked politely, managing a calm smile though it was obvious that Francis had disturbed his sleep.

Francis looked at the man numbly.

"Is there trouble afoot?" the master prodded. "The Father Abbot, perhaps? Does he wish to see me?"

"Not him, master," Francis said and swallowed hard. "Me."

Engress spent a long moment studying Francis. It was no secret that he had quietly opposed Francis' promotion to immaculate and had recently also spoken to the Father Abbot, arguing against Markwart's obvious plans to elevate the young monk to the rank of master. Then Engress stepped back and invited Francis into his chamber.

Francis sat down in a chair beside the small night table, sighed deeply, and put his chin in his hand.

"It has nothing to do with your qualifications, you understand," Master Engress said to him, "or with your character."

Francis looked at the old man, his gentle eyes, deep with wisdom, his soft mane of thick white hair —so different from Markwart's newly shaved head!—with a puzzled expression, "No," he explained. "This is not about my rank or any promotion I have been given or am soon to receive. It has nothing to do with the hierarchy or politics of St.-Mere-Abelle. It is about...me."

At first, Engress regarded the surprising young man suspiciously. But, apparently coming to the conclusion that this was no trick by Francis to assure promotion, the gentle master sat down on the chair opposite the troubled monk, even placed one of his leathery old hands on Francis'.

"You are distressed, brother," Engress said. "Pray alleviate your burden."

Francis looked up at him, stared deeply into those wise dark eyes. "I ask for Penitence," he said.

Engress's surprise was obvious. "Would not the Father Abbot better suit such a blessing upon you?" he asked calmly. "He is your mentor, after all —"

"In some matters, yes," Francis interrupted, "but not in this."

"Then speak, brother," Engress said kindly. "Of course I am willing to bestow the blessing, if you are truly repentant."

Francis nodded, then again fumbled, searching for the right words —and quickly discovered that there were no right words for this. "I killed a man," he blurted. It took every bit of strength within him to sit straight and square his shoulders as he made the admission.

Engress's eyes widened, but he, too, kept his emotions under control. "You mean that your actions contributed to the death of a man."

"I mean that I struck the man, and as a result of that blow, he died," Francis said. A tremor coursed through him; he bit his lip to keep it from quivering. "On the road," he explained, "coming back from St. Precious. It was I who struck the younger Chilichunk —Grady."

"I have heard of this," Engress replied, "though I was told that Grady Chilichunk died merely as a result of the rigors of the journey."

"He died because I hit him . . . hard," Francis said. "I did not mean to do it —at least not to kill him." Francis then poured out the whole story, a great cleansing. He told Engress of how Grady was spitting on the Father Abbot and that he, Francis, had only wanted to protect the Father Abbot, had only demanded respect from Grady.

Engress remained calm, even reassured Francis at several points that crimes against God are made with the heart and not the body, and thus, if it was truly an accident, then Francis could put his conscience at rest.

But the troubled Francis did not stop there. He told of Jojonah and the College of Abbots, of how Jojonah had forgiven him before being dragged to his death. Again, Master Engress was calm and forgiving, but still Francis was not finished. He told Engress of Braumin Herde and the other heretics.

"I let them go, master," Francis admitted. "I have gone against the wishes of Father Abbot Markwart and showed Brother Braumin the way out."

"And why would you do such a thing?" Engress asked, obviously stunned as well as intrigued.

Francis shook his head, for he had not answered that question, even to himself. "I did not want them killed," he admitted. "It seems so brutal — too brutal!—a punishment for their errors of judgment."

"The Father Abbot will tolerate no heresy," Master Engress reasoned.