The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga) (11 page)

“We are well ahead of the College of Abbots,” Viscenti ominously warned, for the formal meeting of the remaining Masters and Abbots of the Abellican Order wasn’t set until the fourth month of 848, or perhaps even longer if the Gulf of Corona was still impassable and the brothers from Vanguard could not safely make the trip south. “These dramatic changes you are instituting are hardly approved.”

“Necessity drives our decisions,” Braumin replied.

“You rely wholly on the counsel of one who is not of the Church.”

“Brother, who is left among the Church to counsel us?” Braumin countered. “Brother Dellman and Abbot Haney? Dellman is with us – we know that much. He has been an ally since the days of Jojonah and our quiet revolt against the edicts of Dalebert Markwart. And he has been young Abbot Haney’s invaluable advisor and confidant these last years up in Vanguard at St. Belfour. King Midalis will support us, as well. There are leaders of the other abbeys, and indeed other brothers, who will no doubt bristle at these changes, and some perhaps who will openly argue. But I will be elected as the next Father Abbot, and with you, and Dellman, and Abbot Haney by my side, and following the guidance of Pagonel, we will rebuild the Abellican Order.”

“With women, open to ascend to any rank? And with these dramatic changes in a training regimen that has stood for centuries?”

“Do you see another choice?”

“No,” Viscenti admitted, and he gave a self-deprecating chuckle. Ever was Viscenti the worrywart, they both knew all too well.

“Dangerous times,” Braumin admitted, and he patted his friend on the shoulder. “But not as terrifying as that which we faced last midsummer, yes?”

Viscenti could only laugh at that, for it seemed a trivial matter when measured against the recent events at St.-Mere-Abelle, when De’Unnero and Aydrian had come to kill them all – and with an army behind them that made De’Unnero’s victory seem almost a foregone conclusion!

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the Jhestu Tu, and Braumin greeted Pagonel with a warm hug. “So many have come in,” the Bishop said. “You think them all worthy?”

“I think you need many dedicated disciples to fill your church and to undo the damage of the last years,” Pagonel replied. “Fortunately, I found many willing and able to serve in such a role. Eager, indeed. Your Order excluded half of your possibilities, my friend, and now they are ready to take their rightful place.”

“The women, you mean,” said Viscenti.

“Of course, and many, I found, were quiet adept with the Ring Stones, though their practice and variation with the gems is limited,” the mystic replied. “But they will learn, and are eager for this opportunity, and more eager to help the church they love. You are very fortunate, Bishop Braumin, in that you have a congregation at your call to replace the many your church has lost.”

“So all that you have sent to our gates have affinity with the sacred Ring Stones?” Braumin asked hopefully.

“No,” Pagonel replied. “Not half. Affinity with the stones is a rarer thing than you believe.”

Crestfallen, Braumin looked to Viscenti. He had hoped for an opening here, where only one great alteration of tradition would be needed, that of allowing women in large numbers to join the Order.

“All the women, at least?” Viscenti asked.

“Not half, I believe,” said the mystic. “Affinity is no more common in women than in men, it seems. But those who have come to your gates are able, all of them, and they will serve you well.”

“How do we proceed from here?” asked Braumin.

“I will train your brothers to train the newcomers, and themselves as they go forward. The martial techniques will be precise and broken into three distinct disciplines of fighting. And I will select from among your ranks a team of four to train privately by my tutelage.”

“The College of Abbots is in just a few months,” Viscenti remarked. “It would be good if we had something worthwhile to show them.”

“You will,” Pagonel promised, and with a bow, he left the room.

The very next day, the newcomers, nearly a hundred women and half that number of men younger than would normally enter St.-Mere-Abelle, were gathered in a large room to begin their journey under the watchful eyes of Pagonel and a score of older brothers.

So it went as the year turned to 848, and through the first month of the year. By the second week of the second month, Pagonel had made his choices.

“Three women,” Viscenti lamented to Braumin, who sat with Master Arri of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.

“Who is the fourth?” asked Arri, but Viscenti could only shrug.

Arri turned to Braumin. “This is the band you will send to reclaim St. Gwendolyn?”

Viscenti’s eyes widened when Braumin nodded, for he had heard nothing of any such journey.

“I should accompany them,” Arri remarked.

“You must stand for your brother at the College of Abbots, as we agreed,” Braumin reminded. “I will do all that I can for Brother Mars, but the accusations against him are strong.”

“And I will speak for your ascension to the role of Father Abbot,” a resigned Arri replied with a nod.

“And hopefully, when the college is adjourned, Abbot Arri, Brother Mars and Sister Mary Ann can return to a reclaimed St. Gwendolyn.”

“It would seem as if I have missed much of your plotting,” Viscenti remarked, and he didn’t sound happy about it.

“Everything is moving quickly,” Braumin replied with a grin.

No sooner had he spoken, when a courier rushed to the still-opened door with news that the mystic would see them in the private training area he had been given for his personal recruits. The three hustled down to the secluded chamber and found Pagonel alone in the place, seeming quite at ease. He motioned to some chairs he had set out, inviting them to sit and be at ease.

“One of your younger brothers has taught me of your saints,” the mystic explained. “As with those heralded in my own order, many came to their place of historical importance through their actions in desperate battle, and so, with your permission good Bishop, I have modeled the roles of your newest students after the legends of your church.”

Viscenti’s eyes widened with surprise, but Braumin seemed unfazed, and motioned for Pagonel to continue.

“Sister Elysant,” Pagonel called, holding his arm out toward an open door at the side of the room. A small woman, barely five feet tall and barely more than a girl, with long light brown hair entered the room. Her frame was slender but solid. She was quite pretty, the brothers noted, with eyes that seemed to smile, even though her face was set determinedly. She strode solidly to the mystic, carrying a quarterstaff that seemed far too large for her. She moved up to Pagonel and dipped a low bow, then turned to the three monks and bowed once again.

Pagonel barked out a sharp command, and Elysant leaped into a fighting stance, legs wide and strongly planted, staff slowly turning like a windmill before her.

“Elysant fights in the tradition of St. Belfour, the Rock of Vanguard,” Pagonel explained. “She will invite the enemy to attack her in close combat, but they will not easily dispatch her, or move her. Sister Elysant is the tower, turning the blows.”

“Saint Belfour was a bear of a man,” Braumin said with skepticism. “Elysant is a wisp of a creature.”

“Her center is low, her balance perfect,” Pagonel replied. “You could not move her, Bishop Braumin, though you are twice her weight.”

“Quite a claim,” Braumin replied. “Do you agree, sister?”

Elysant smiled confidently and twirled her quarterstaff.

“Sister Diamanda,” Parongel called and a second woman came rushing through the door. Her
hair was short and flaxen, her jaw a bit square, and her face somewhat flat, showing her to have northern heritage – Vanguard, likely, or perhaps even a bit of Alpinadoran blood. She was much taller than Elysant, and broad-shouldered. Every movement she made spoke of strength. Like her predecessor, she bowed to Pagonel and to the monks, then added a third, matched, to Elysant. Unlike Elysant, however, Diamanda carried no weapon.

Pagonel barked out his command again, and Diamanda leaped to Elysant’s side, her hands coming up like viper heads before her, while the smaller woman altered her stance and sent her staff into position to protect Diamanda.

“St. Bruce the Striker,” Pagonel explained, referring to an Abellican warrior of the 5th Century, from the region of Entel, deadly with his hands and credited with turning back a boat of Jacintha warriors single-handedly.

“And Sister Victoria!” the mystic called, and in came the third, as tall as Diamanda but much thinner. Her hair was red, long and loose, her eyes shining green, and her movements graceful, making her approach seem as much a dance as a walk. She carried a long and slender sword tucked into the rope belt of her robe. She offered her respectful bows to Pagonel, the monks and her sisters, then drew her sword on Pagonel’s command.

“St. Gwendolyn,” Master Arri remarked, his smile shining brightly.

“Indeed,” Pagonel confirmed. “The Battlefield Dancer.”

“The rook, the bishop and the knight,” Bishop Braumin added, remembering the chess matches and Pagonel’s description of the knight.

“Three women,” Viscenti said, and he didn’t sound impressed or confident.

“Is there to be a fourth?” Braumin asked. “You indicated four. The queen, perhaps?”

“Not from among the newcomers, for none of them have enough proficiency with the Ring Stones to properly compliment the martial training I will provide. But yes, with your permission. I would like the young brother who taught me of your saints, Thaddius by name.”

“So your queen is to be the only man among the four,” Braumin said with a snort.

“In the tradition of St. Avelyn,” Pagonel replied.

“Brother Thaddius is strong in the Ring Stones,” Viscenti remarked.

Braumin nodded, and kept staring at Pagonel. Thaddius was strong in the Ring Stones, and from what Braumin knew of him, he was strong on tradition, as well. Braumin had been watching the promising young brother closely, for he had heard rumors that Brother Thaddius had spoken with admiring tones for Marcalo De’Unnero and the man’s distorted vision of godliness. Surely one such as young Brother Thaddius would not be pleased with these dramatic changes, or with having so many women brought into the Church!

And perhaps that was part of Pagonel’s ploy, Braumin realized, for he had learned not to underestimate this wise and exotic man, who always seemed to be thinking two layers beneath the surface.

“There may be a problem with Brother Thaddius,” Viscenti whispered into Braumin’s ear, apparently considering the same rumors.

But Braumin waved Viscenti back, and said to Pagonel, “Granted.”

“I will have them every day, all the day,” Pagonel insisted.

“They are yours to teach.”

The mystic bowed, and motioned to his team to begin their work. As the three women launched into all manner of stretching and focused breathing, Pagonel accompanied the others out of the room.

“The College of Abbots convenes in the fourth month,” Braumin reminded him as they parted at the doorway. “Will they be ready?”

“I have much work to do, but much substance with which to work,” Pagonel assured the man. “Pray tell Brother Thaddius of his new lot in life. I am sure he will be overjoyed.”

Braumin smiled at the sarcastic tone, which he took as confirmation of his silent guess regarding the mystic’s choice. “I will send him to your side immediately.”

“Grant him a soul stone,” Pagonel said, and he glanced back into the room at the three women. “There will be many wounds and much blood spilled.”

The smile left Braumin’s face and he looked past Pagonel to the young sisters, second-guessing his decisions.

And not for the first time.

And surely not for the last time.

*****

“Are they ready?” Braumin asked Pagonel as the season began to turn. The third month of Bafway was in full swing and winter was letting go of the land. There was still some snow, but the roads were open, though muddy. Still, a band traveling light could cross the tamed lands of Honce-the-Bear. Word had come from other abbeys that many brothers were on their way.

“I would like years more with them, particularly with Elysant,” Pagonel admitted. “Her movements are solid, her work with the staff commendable, but her skin is not yet properly toughened. There is no way to accelerate that.”

“Dolomite,” Braumin said immediately.

Pagonel looked at him curiously. “One of your gemstones?”

“A mineral, a rock – dolostone, actually, but yes. It can be used to cast an enchantment to toughen the skin and strengthen the constitution.”

“Elysant has little affinity with the Ring Stones,” Pagonel said. “If any.”

“But Brother Thaddius does, and used in conjunction with a soul stone, he could impart the enchantment…”

“Brother Thaddius has enough to do already, should trouble arise,” Pagonel interrupted. “The other sisters can use the stones, though they are not nearly as proficient or powerful as Thaddius.”

“The other sisters? Victoria? She is not old enough. My friend, we do not even allow brothers of less than four years in St.-Mere-Abelle to handle the stones. Brother Thaddius is one of very few exceptions!”

“My band is exceptional. By design.”

Braumin started to reply, but paused and grinned. “Dolomite. There is a way,” he said, and then grew somber. “But are they ready?”

“As I said, I would prefer more time. But yes, they move in wonderful coordination and have learned enough of the basics of their disciplines to complete our task. None of them were novices to fighting when I discovered them, and they have been willing students to alter their techniques. They will make the journey to St. Gwendolyn and scout the road and the monastery. If they are challenged, they will acquit themselves well.”

“You have watched the training of the others from afar. Are there any brothers you would wish to see in the challenge?”

“Do you ask me to seek unfair advantage before the exhibition?”

“It has to work,” Braumin said bluntly.

“It will. A band of third year brothers, if you would, Bishop Braumin.”