The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga) (8 page)

Lovingly.

Pagonel could see that truth in every delicate stroke, in the favorable and painstaking use of light, in the frames, even, wrought of gold and as artistic as the paintings themselves.

One in particular caught the mystic’s eye and held him, and not only because of the subject – the only woman depicted in any of the hall’s masterpieces – but because of the sheer grace in the form, her form. She was dressed in a long white gown, her heavy crimson cape flying about her shoulders as she moved and played a beautiful morin khuur of burnished, shining wood, her fingers gracefully working the bow across the four strings.

The light in the hallway, dying as the sun set in the west, was not favorable at that time of day, but Pagonel remained, transfixed, until darkness filled the hall, and then some more.

A young brother entered the far end of the hall, a small man and exceptionally thin, given the way his robe seemed to flop about him with every step. Pagonel watched him closely as he lifted his hand and placed a tiny, glowing diamond upon a platter lined with crystal. He chanted quietly and moved along, placing a second enchanted diamond near to the middle of the room.

Again he moved down the hall, chanting, but his prayer was surely interrupted when he noted Pagonel standing before the one of the paintings.

“Master Pagonel,” he said with a seemingly polite bow, though the perceptive mystic caught a bit on unease accompanying the dip, for it was not offered sincerely and more out of necessity. “I am sorry if I have disturbed you.”

“Far from it,” the mystic replied. “I welcome the light, that I might continue to stare at this most lovely figure.”

The young brother, his narrow features seeming sharper in the diamond light, stared at the image before the man. “St. Gwendolyn,” he explained.

“I have heard this name.”

“A great warrior, so the legend claims,” the brother explained, moving near to the mystic.

“Legend? Is she not sainted, and does such an action not declare the legend as fact?”

The small man shrugged as if it did not matter.

“She has an interesting choice of weapon,” Pagonel said, motioning back to the picture and the woman. “One might expect a bow of a different sort on a battlefield.”

“St. Gwendolyn was known as a fine musician,” the monk explained.

“The morin khuur,” Pagonel replied. “A most difficult instrument to master.”

“Morin khuur?”

Pagonel pointed to the instrument, then turned his fingers to match the pose of Gwendolyn as she handled the bow.

“It is a violin,” the young monk explained.

“Ah,” said the mystic. “In To’gai, they have such an instrument and name it morin khuur.”

The monk nodded, and again, to perceptive Pagonel, he seemed as annoyed as enlightened by the news. The furrow in this one’s brow came quite easily, Pagonel noted, as if he was not a content man, by any means. He was young, quite young, perhaps in his early twenties and surely no aged master of the abbey, and yet he was handling the magical gemstones with ease and proficiency, as the lighted diamonds clearly reminded.

“Tell me of St. Gwendolyn,” Pagonel bade him. “A warrior, you say.”

“With her violin,” the monk explained. “So says the legend that when a band of powries gained the beach along the Mantis Arm and came at the brothers and sisters of her chapel, Gwendolyn took up her instrument and boldly ran to the front of the line. And so she played, and so she danced.”

“Danced?” There was more intrigue than surprise in Pagonel’s voice, as if he suspected where this might be going.

“Danced all about her line, all about the powrie line,” the monk went on. “They could not turn their attention from her, mesmerized by her movements and the beauty of her song, so it is said. But neither could they catch up to her with their knives and spiked clubs, no matter how furiously they turned in pursuit.”

“And thus they were not prepared when Gwendolyn’s allies struck them dead,” Pagonel finished, smiling and nodding at the monk.

“The powries were chased back to their boats,” said the monk. “The town was saved. It is considered a miracle in the Church, indeed, the miracle which allowed for the canonization of St. Gwendolyn.”

“You do not agree.”

The monk shrugged. “It is a fine tale, and one catered to admit a woman among the saints – a necessary action, I expect. Perhaps St. Gwendolyn was clever, and her ruse helped save the day from the powries. More likely, she bought the defenders enough space to launch some lightning or fire at the dwarves, driving them from the beach.”

“Ah,” the mystic said, nodding in understanding. “And there is the true miracle, of course, the barrage of magical energy from the sacred Ring Stones.”

The young monk didn’t reply, and stood impassively, as if the truth should be self-evident.

Pagonel nodded and turned his full attention to the painting once more, enchanted by the beautiful face, the thick black hair and the graceful twist of this exquisite woman. The movement was so extreme and in balance, the cloak flying wildly, and yet obviously she remained in complete control. The artist had done his work well, the mystic knew, for he felt as if he understood St. Gwendolyn, and felt, too, that she would have made a wonderful Jhesta Tu.

Might Gwendolyn still have a lesson for the Abellican Order, Pagonel wondered?

He turned to the young monk. “What is your name?”

“Brother Thaddius,” the man answered.

Pagonel smiled and nodded. “These are the Saints of the Abellican Church?”

He nodded.

“Tell me of them,” the mystic asked.

“I have my duties…”

“Bishop Braumin and the others will forgive you for indulging in my demands. I expect that this is important. So please, young Brother Thaddius, indulge me.”

*****

“What am I to do?” Braumin asked Viscenti a few nights later in the private quarters of Fio Bouraiy, where the two were separating dead Bou-raiy’s private items from the robes and gemstones reserved for the office of the Father Abbot..

“It falls to you,” Viscneti replied. “Of that, there is no doubt.”

“It?”

“Everything,” said Viscenti. “I do not envy you, but know that I will be there standing behind you, whatever course you chart.”

“A bold claim!”

“If not Braumin Herde – Bishop Braumin Herde – then who?” Viscenti asked. “Is there an abbot left alive after the De’Unneran Heresy?”

“Haney in St. Belfour.”

Viscenti snorted and shook his head. “A fine man, but one who was not even ready for that position, let alone this great responsibility we see before us. Besides, he is a Vanguardsman, as is Midalis who will be King.”

“Perhaps an important relationship then.”

Again, the skinny, nervous man snickered. “Midalis would not have it,” he declared, and Braumin couldn’t disagree. “Our new King is no fool and having a Vanguardsman as King and as Father Abbot would surely reek of invasion to the folk of Honce proper! Duke Kalas would not stand for it, nor would the other nobles.

“Abbot Haney would be the wrong choice, in any case,” Brother Viscenti went on. “He has no first-hand understanding of De’Unnero or his potential followers. He does not understand what drove the heretic, or even, I fear, the true beauty of Avelyn. He is no disciple of Master Jojonah!”

That last statement, spoken so powerfully, jolted Braumin upright. Just hearing the name of Jojonah bolstered him and reminded him of the whole point of…everything. Master Jojonah had trained Brother Avelyn, and had shown a young Brother Braumin and some other even younger brothers the truth of the Abellican Church, as opposed to the course Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart and his protégée De’Unnero had charted for Order.

Master Jojonah had been burned at the stake clinging to his beliefs, had gone willingly into the
arms of God – and had charged Brother Braumin with carrying on his bold course. So many others, too, had died for those beliefs. Braumin thought of brave brother Romeo Mullahy, who had leaped from the cliff at the Barbacan, the ultimate defiance of Marcalo De’Unnero, an action that had shaken De’Unnero’s followers and resonated within those who had opposed him.

And Brother Castinagis, one of Braumin’s dearest friends. The excitable fellow had never wavered, even in the face of certain death.

De’Unnero had burned him in his chapel in Caer Tinella.

“He is a good man,” Braumin at last replied. “He witnessed the miracle of Aida…”

“He is not even as worldly as Master Dellman, who serves him!” Viscenti interrupted. “Were he to ascend, then to those outside the Church, it would seem a power play by King Midalis, forcing his hand over the Abellican Church even as he strengthens his hold on Honce. We have walked that dark road already, my friend.”

Braumin Herde kept his gaze low, chewing his lips, and he nodded in agreement.

“Nay,” said Viscenti, “It falls to you. Only you. St.-Mere-Abelle is yours, surely. The Order is yours to chart.”

Braumin Herde shrugged, and it seemed more a shudder. “I want her back,” he said quietly.

Viscenti nodded and wore a wistful expression suddenly, clearly recognizing that his friend was speaking of Jilseponie.

“I feel as if I best serve the Church by enlisting our southern friends to fly me on their dragon to the Timberlands, that I might drag Pony back to St.-Mere-Abelle to save us all.”

“That we will not do,” came another voice, wholly unexpected, and both monks jumped and spun about to see Pagonel standing quietly in the shadows of the room.

“How did you get in here?” Viscenti shouted as much as asked.

“Have I upset you, brother?” the mystic asked. “I was offered free travel through the monastery, so I was told…”

“No, no,” Braumin put in, and he dropped his hand on Viscenti’s shoulder to calm the man. “Of course, you are welcome wherever you will go. You merely startled us, that is all.”

The mystic bowed.

“And heard us, no doubt,” said Viscenti.

“I took great comfort in your advice to Bishop Braumin,” Pagonel admitted. He stepped up before Braumin Herde. “I take less comfort in your expressed fears.”

The monk stared at him hard.

“I will not take you to Jilseponie, nor to her should you go,” Pagonel insisted. “She has done enough. Her tale is written, for the wider world at least. Besides, I have witnessed the power of Aydrian and believe that Jilseponie would best serve the world if she can instill in her son a sense of morality and duty akin to that she and her dead Elbryan once knew. You wish to go to her, to beg her to return and assume the lead in your wounded Order. This is understandable, but not practical.”

Clearly overwhelmed, Bishop Braumin fell back and into a chair, nearly tumbling off the side
of it as he landed hard and off-balance. “What am I to do?”

“Summon a College of Abbots,” said Master Viscenti. “I will nominate you as Father Abbot – none will oppose!”

“Abbots?” Braumin asked incredulously. “Myself and Abbot Haney are all that remain, I fear!”

“Then bring them all in, all together,” said Pagonel. “Summon every brother from every chapel and every abbey.” He lifted a fist up before him, fingers clutched. “This is the strongest position for the hand,” he explained. “Bring your Church in close and move outward one piece at a time.”

Braumin didn’t respond, but hardly seemed convinced.

“Brynn Dharielle and the dragon will fly south in the morning, going home,” the mystic explained. “I was to go with them, but I have quite enjoyed my journey through the catacombs of this wondrous place. With your permission, I will remain longer.”

Braumin Herde looked at the man curiously.

“Call them in,” Pagonel bade him. “I will stand beside you, if you so desire.”

“You have a plan,” said Viscenti, and it seemed as much an accusation as a question.

The mystic glanced over at him and smiled. “Our Orders are not so different, my friend. This I have come to understand. Perhaps there are lessons the Jhesta Tu have learned which will now be of use to Father Abbot Braumin Herde.”

He looked to Braumin.

The man who would rule the Abellican Church nodded. He summoned again the memories of Jojonah, and Mullahy, Castinagis and the others, and silently vowed to find the courage to lead. If Midalis would rebuild the kingdom, then Braumin Herde would rebuild the Abellican Church.

P
ART
2: T
HE
C
OLLEGE OF
A
BBOTS

M
aster Arri couldn’t help but smile as he looked down on the young couple dancing in the evergreen grove. The sun was high above in the east, stretched shadows from the pines about them so that they twirled and spun in light and then shadow, repeatedly, the woman’s white robes flashing, the man’s light green robes somewhat muting the effect, serving almost as a transition from light to darkness. Their smiles shone even in the shadows, though.

She was such a pretty thing, her light hair dancing in the breeze, her bright eyes shining back at the sun, her slender frame carrying her gracefully through the twirling dance. Her partner was heavier set, stocky and strong, with long and curly black hair and a beard that could house a flock of birds! His robe was open at the chest, and there too he was a shaggy one. Unlike the fair-skinned woman, his skin was olive, speaking of ancestry in the south, likely.

Master Arri should not be smiling, he knew. Indeed, he should be horrified by the scene before him, for though it was it was obvious that they were in love, they could not be. The wider world would not have it.

For Arri knew this woman, Sister Mary Ann of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea, the same monastery where Arri had been ordained as a brother and as a master of the Abellican Church. And while he didn’t know the man, he knew the truth of this one, Elliot, and had been watching him from afar since he had returned to the region from his wandering, to learn of the disaster that had befallen his beloved abbey. According to the folk of the nearby towns, Elliot was a Samhaist, that most ancient religion of Honce, a practice deemed heretical and driven out by the Church in the earliest days. The Samhaists and the Abellicans had battled long and hard for the soul of the people of the lands, the former with warnings of brimstone and divine retribution, the latter with softer promises of peace after death and a loving God.