Authors: R.A. Salvatore
There was a threat to all mankind in sharing the mysteries of the gemstone magic with the common folk—not of war or of uncontrolled power, but a threat of secularizing the spiritual, of stealing the mysteries of life and the glory of God. What good would the Church do the world, Francis wondered, if, in its quest to become more compassionate, it took from the populace the one true inspiration of faith, the promise of eternal life? Soul stones or not, everybody would one day die, and how much darker that moment would be, to the one whose life had come to its end and to those loved ones left behind, if there was no faith in life eternal. Men who entered the Abellican Order trained for years before entering St.-Mere-Abelle or any of the other abbeys, and then they trained for many more years before learning the secrets of the gemstones. The Abellican monks understood the reality of the gemstones, the orbiting rings and the stone showers, but they could place that reality within the cocoon of their greater faith as inspired by the years of study. But what of the common man, the man not privy to the days, weeks,
months, years of meditation? Might that man come to see the soul stones, the very fabric of the Abellican religion, as a
natural
occurrence, no more mysterious than the fires he kindled for warmth or the catapults the King’s army used to batter the castles of enemies?
Francis didn’t know, and he feared that it would take a wiser man than he to comprehend the implications of Markwart’s final warning.
What he did know, however, was the reality of the situation in St.-Mere-Abelle; and even beyond his private doubts about how far Braumin and his friends should be allowed to open the Church, the young master understood that they would find more enemies than allies at the prime abbey. Thus was Francis, so close an ally to the demon that Markwart had become, walking a delicate line. If he strayed too far against Markwart, he would, in effect, be implicating himself, thus diminishing his own voice. And yet, he could hardly support the dead Father Abbot. He knew now that Markwart had been very wrong; and even aside from that truth that was in his heart, Francis knew that the Church would be inviting disaster if it continued to follow Markwart’s path, that the populace would turn against it, and that Braumin and his followers would successfully establish the church of Avelyn Desbris.
It was all too troubling for the young master, the former bishop of Palmaris, the former lackey of Markwart—positions all, he feared, far beyond his abilities and experience.
Now the road to St.-Mere-Abelle lay before him, the road to the past and the future, the road to the wounded masters—such as gentle Machuso, no doubt—who would need reassuring, and to the more volatile and confident masters—the names Bou-raiy and Glendenhook stood out most prominently in his thinking—who would resist change and would likely resist demeaning the memory of Father Abbot Markwart, a man whom they had gladly served.
Yes, Bou-raiy, Francis told himself; and an image of the man, holding a burning branch in one hand and cheering as the pyre around the heretic Jojonah caught flame, rattled him.
He heard the door open behind him and turned to see Abbot Braumin entering.
“So you have not yet departed,” said the abbot. “I had hoped to see you before you began your journey.”
Francis nodded, though he hardly saw any point to Braumin’s seeing him off. The two did not see things eye to eye, as Braumin painted the world, it seemed to Francis, too much in black and white. Though Braumin had not been pleased when Francis had retracted his support of Jilseponie for mother abbess, they had come to an understanding.
“Did you find any time alone with Abbot Je’howith before he departed?” Braumin asked.
Francis chuckled. “Do you fear that I did?”
“Fear?”
Francis chuckled again. “I did speak to him, and he told me, I expect, exactly
what he told you that morning before the final meeting with King Danube,” said Francis. “Abbot Agronguerre seems a fine choice, a man possessed of a healing soul. Exactly what is needed within the Church, I would say.”
“So you support his nomination?”
“I would like to learn a bit more about Agronguerre, but from what I already know, yes,” answered Francis.
“And was that all Abbot Je’howith expressed to you?” asked Braumin.
Francis looked at the man hard, tried to get a feeling for the trouble about which his words were hinting. “The memory of Markwart,” he stated more than asked.
Braumin nodded slightly, his expression grim.
“Believe me, brother, I am more confused by that issue than are you,” Francis assured Braumin.
“But you know the evil that Markwart had become?” Braumin pressed.
“I know the mistake the man made,” Francis pointedly answered.
“You step backward,” Braumin accused.
Francis thought about that for a moment, and almost agreed. “Sideways,” he corrected. “There was error in Father Abbot Markwart’s reasoning, to be sure, but there was also a ring of truth that Abbot Braumin would do well to hear.”
Francis saw the man’s face get very tight.
“We have been through this before,” Francis remarked, holding up his hands as a peace gesture. “We are not of so different beliefs that you should fear me, Abbot Braumin. I go to St.-Mere-Abelle to speak the truth of the events in Palmaris.”
“Which truths?” the skeptical Braumin demanded.
Francis chuckled yet again. “You—we—are both too young for such cynicism,” he said. “The painful events in Palmaris brought resolution, though at a price too high for any of us to be satisfied. Markwart was wrong—he admitted as much to me before he died—and so I threw my support behind Braumin Herde and Jilseponie.”
“But not enough to nominate her, as you said you would,” Braumin reminded him.
“Not enough to destroy that which is left of the most stable institution in all the kingdom,” Francis corrected. “We will find our common way, I believe, but by small steps and not ground-shattering leaps. The people are confused and frightened, and it is our duty to comfort them, not to provide more confusion.” He fixed Braumin with a determined stare. “I am not your enemy,” he declared. “And neither need be the memory of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart.”
Braumin asked, “What of Jojonah? What of Avelyn?”
“Resurrect those memories in the light of our recent revelations,” Francis answered without hesitation, “bring them up beside Elbryan the Nightbird as victors over the darkness. Yes, I intend to work to those very ends, my brother. Master Jojonah forgave me, though he knew he was a doomed man—no small feat! And I will see him properly interred in consecrated ground, his good name fully restored.”
“And Avelyn?” the abbot prompted.
“Avelyn must be investigated … honestly,” Francis replied. “I will second the nomination to beatify Brother Avelyn, should you begin the canonization process at the College of Abbots. I will second it with all my heart and with my voice strong and full of conviction. But that does not mean that I believe him to be a saint. It means only that I believe him worthy of the investigation that might lead us to that end. Let us see what the man truly espoused and accomplished. Let us decide rationally if Avelyn truly saw a better course for the Church or a path that would lead to our destruction.”
“Do you mean to balance his canonization on a matter of philosophy?” Abbot Braumin asked, shaking his head, his eyes wide.
“Not his sainthood, no,” answered Francis, “but rather, his belief. I may be willing to vote for his sainthood without necessarily believing that his methods would be the appropriate course for the Church. It is his intent that will determine the decision of the canon inquisitors. But neither will my support for his canonization be wholly based upon the man’s intentions for the Abellican Church, if he even had any such intentions.”
He paused and watched as Abbot Braumin digested the words, the man finally coming to nod his head in agreement.
“Travel your road carefully and wisely, brother,” Braumin said. “I expect that you will find fewer brothers of like heart than those opposed.”
“The Church changes slowly,” Francis agreed, and Braumin took his leave.
Master Francis Dellacourt, thirty years old and feeling as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, left St. Precious soon after, an escort of nearly a score of monks, brothers who had come to Palmaris in the procession that had brought Father Abbot Markwart to this fated city, beside him.
“W
hat is left for us here?” Pony asked in all seriousness, curling her lips into an obviously manipulating pout. She was in Tomnoddy’s, a bustling tavern that reminded her, somewhat painfully, of Fellowship Way in its best days.
“What isn’t?” Belster O’Comely responded, smiling as he asked the question and without any sharpness in his tone. He was glad to see Pony excited about something again—about anything—even if that happened to be a decision that the portly innkeeper did not necessarily agree with. Also, Belster was happy that Pony had come to him, begging him to go north. They had been through a fair amount of arguing in the last days of the struggle, when Pony had laid bare Belster’s prejudice against the dark-skinned Behrenese. “We’ve got our friends, after all, bonds made fast in the turmoil.”
“Prym O’Brien’s going north,” Pony reminded him.
“He’s been saying that every fair day since last summer,” Belster replied. “Doubt that he’ll ever do it.”
“It is time to go home, Belster,” Pony said seriously. “I know that, and so I’ll
be leaving in two days. I hope that you will share my road to Caer Tinella and to Dundalis, for there I will need you, I fear.”
“To do what, girl?” Belster asked.
“To rebuild,” said Pony without the slightest hesitation. “To put up a new Howling Sheila on the very spot of the previous, on the stone foundation that had once served as the base for Elbryan’s home.”
“Probably a house there already,” Belster mumbled, reaching for his foaming drink and draining half the mug.
“Tomas assured me that the place would be mine, should I ever return,” Pony said. “I mean to hold him to that promise, even if it means tearing down his own house in the process!”
“Bringing some of them gemstones with you, are you?” Belster snipped, and he wanted to take back the words as soon as he spoke them, seeing the cloud suddenly cross Pony’s fair face.
“I will raise the tavern,” the woman said quietly, “the Howling Sheila, or perhaps I shall call it Fellowship Way in honor of the Chilichunks. More enjoyable will the task be if Belster O’Comely walks the road with me, but even if you do not, I leave in two days.”
“You mean to run a tavern?” Belster asked skeptically. “After all that you have seen and done? You’re not thinking that to be a bit of a boring task, girl?”
“I mean to run a tavern,” Pony replied sincerely. “I mean to sit with Roger on a hillock at sunset and hear the piping of Bradwarden as it drifts through the forest. I mean to tend the grove.…” Her voice trailed off, and Belster turned a sympathetic gaze on her.
“Are you sure that you’re not just running away?” he asked her bluntly. “Haven’t you tasks left unfinished right here?” Even as he spoke the question—a question that he knew Pony would not answer—Belster considered her last statement more carefully and found the insight that convinced him of her convictions. Pony had chosen not to go north with Elbryan’s caisson, had chosen not to be present when the ranger was lowered into the cold ground. How could he refuse her request now? Pony and Elbryan had saved his life, and the lives of all his friends, during the days of the dactyl and in the troubled times immediately following the demon’s fall. Pony and Elbryan had stood beside Belster and all the others, at great personal peril; and the innkeeper had no doubt at all that if the demon had captured him and put him in the very pits of blackness, Pony and Elbryan would have come for him, would have given their very lives to save him.
“Two days?” he asked. “Have you talked to Dainsey?”
“Dainsey is staying,” Pony replied, referring to the woman who had served the Chilichunks at Fellowship Way before Markwart had taken them hostage, and then had served as Belster’s companion in the tavern when he had reopened it at Pony’s request. “She has become sweet on a particular young man, and never would I take her from that.”
“The poor girl’s deserving some happiness,” Belster agreed, for Dainsey Aucomb
had indeed lived a trying life. The innkeeper gave a belly laugh and emptied his mug, then wiped the foam from his lips and glanced at Pony—to find her staring at him hard.
“Two days?” he asked again.
Pony’s stern look melted into a smile. “Meet me at the front doors of St. Precious,” she instructed. “And don’t you be late! I want an early start and a long day’s ride.”
“Well, bring a horse for me, then,” Belster said with a resigned sigh. “If I’m to go back to that wilderness, I’m planning to spend all my funds beforehand.” He finished and turned to the barkeep, motioning for the man to refill his mug.
Pony kissed him on the cheek and rushed out of Tomnoddy’s, heading straight for St. Precious and a meeting with Abbot Braumin that she knew would pain her friend profoundly.
She found him in his office, the same office that had served for Abbot Dobrinion Calislas, and for Bishop Francis. Brother Anders Castinagis, arguably the most fiery of the followers of Jojonah, was there with Braumin, and Pony heard his agitated voice long before she entered through the room’s open door.
“Come in, come in!” Braumin said to her, motioning to a chair at the left-hand side of his desk. Castinagis was standing, Pony noted, his big hands planted on the front of the desk, his eyes locked on the new abbot of St. Precious. “We were just discussing Master Francis’ departure,” Braumin explained. “He set out this day for St.-Mere-Abelle, to bring the word to our brethren and to confirm the appointment of Brother Viscenti to the rank of master.”
That last statement caught Pony by surprise, and her blue eyes widened. “So soon?” she asked. When her words brought a somewhat crestfallen look to Braumin, she quickly added, “Well, never was there a man more deserving.”