They were opposites in temperament, as well: Avelyn calm and reverent, always in control, and Quintall a "firework," as Master Siherton, the class overseer, often appropriately referred to him.
"Is it near?" Avelyn asked after a few more unrewarded turns.
"Halfway," Quintall answered coldly, "if that."
Avelyn sighed deeply and put his aching arms into motion.
Quintall offered a disgusted snort; he would have had the bucket up by this time and the pair could have gone off and gotten their midday meal. But it was Avelyn's turn to crank, and the taskmasters were particular about such things. If Quintall tried to sneak in and push that crank, it would likely cost them both their meal.
"He is an impatient one," noted Master Jojonah, a portly man of about fifty, with soft brown eyes and rich brown hair that showed not a speck of gray.
Jojonah's skin was tanned and smooth, except for a fan of lines spreading out from each of his eyes — "credibility wrinkles," he called them.
"Firework," explained Master Siherton, tall and angular and thin, though his shoulders were wide, protruding many inches from either side of his skinny neck. Siherton's features befit his rank of class overseer, the disciplinarian of the newest brothers. His face was sharp and hawkish, his eyes small and dark — and smaller still on those many occasions that he squinted ominously at his young students. "Quintall is full of passion," he added with obvious admiration.
Jojonah regarded the man curiously. They were inside the abbey's highest chamber, a long, narrow room with windows overlooking the rough ocean breakers on one side and the abbey courtyard on the other. All twenty-four-one novice had been forced to leave because of illness — brothers of the newest class were out in the courtyard, tending their chores, but the focus of the two masters was Avelyn and Quintall, considered the exceptional novices.
"Avelyn is the best of the class," Jojonah remarked, mostly to gauge Siherton's reaction.
The taller man shrugged noncommittally.
"Some say that he is the best in many years," Jojonah pressed. It was true enough; Avelyn's incredible dedication was fast becoming the talk of St.-Mere-Abelle.
Again, the shrug. "He is without passion," Siherton replied.
"Without human passion because he is closer to God?" Jojonah replied, thinking that he had finally caught Siherton.
"Perhaps because he is already dead," the tall man said dryly, and he turned to glare at his counterpart.
Master Jojonah settled back on his heels but met the penetrating stare firmly. It was no secret that Siherton favored Quintall among this most important class, but the man's overt insult of Avelyn, the choice of every other master — and reportedly of Father Abbot Markwart as well — surprised him.
"We received news this day that his mother died," Siherton said evenly.
Jojonah looked back at the courtyard, to Avelyn at work as always as though nothing was amiss. "You have told him?"
"I did not bother."
"What macabre game do you play?"
Again came that annoying shrug. "Would he care?" Siherton replied. "He would say that she is with God now, and so she is happy; and then he would go on."
"Do you mock his faith?" Jojonah asked rather sharply.
"I despise his inhumanity," replied Siherton. "His mother has died, yet will he care? I think not. Brother Avelyn is so smug within the cocoon of his beliefs that nothing can unbalance him."
"That is the glory of faith," Jojonah said evenly.
"That is a waste of life," Siherton retorted as he leaned out the window.
"You, Brother Quintall!" he called.
Both the novices stopped their work and looked up at the window. "Go to your meal," Master Siherton instructed. "And you, Brother Avelyn, do come and join with me at my — at Master Jojonah's chambers." Siherton pulled back into the hall and eyed Jojonah.
"Let us see if our young hero has any heart at all;" Siherton remarked coldly, and he stalked off toward the stairwell that would lead him down to the master's quarters.
Jojonah watched him for a long moment, wondering which of them it was, Siherton or Avelyn, who was truly lacking in heart.
"You are using this loss for a most unworthy point," Jojonah insisted when he caught up to Siherton three levels below.
"He must be told," Siherton replied. "Let us not miss the opportunity to measure this man in whom we may soon put so much trust."
Jojonah caught Siherton by the shoulder, stopping him in mid-stride.
"Avelyn has spent eight years proving himself worthy," he reminded the taller man. "Unbeknownst to him, he has been under constant scrutiny these last four years. What more would Siherton demand?"
"He must prove that he is a man," the hawkish master growled. "He must prove that he can feel. There is more to spirituality than piety, my friend.
There is emotion, anger, passion."
"Eight years," Jojonah repeated.
"Perhaps the next class —"
"Too late," Master Jojonah said quietly. "The Preparers must be selected from this class, or from one of the three previous, and not a man among the seventy-five admitted in the last three years has shown the promise of Avelyn Desbris." Jojonah paused and spent a long while studying the other man. Siherton knew the truth of Jojonah's words, and seemed now caught within that truth, helpless in the face of reality. His arguments against Avelyn would be duly noted, but they rang hollow in light of the choices before the abbey. And even with any credible arguments, Siherton's posture, bordering on anger, on outrage, seemed so out of place.
"Why, my dear Siherton," Jojonah said a moment later, figuring it out, "you are jealous!"
Master Siherton growled and turned away, heading for the door to Jojonah's private room.
"Our misfortune to be born between the showers," Jojonah said, sincerely sympathetic to Siherton's frustration. "But we have our duty. Brother Avelyn is the best of the lot."
The words stung Siherton profoundly. He stopped at the door, bowed his head; and closed his eyes, conjuring images of the young Avelyn. Always working or praying; there were no other recollections of Avelyn to be found. Strength, or weakness? Siherton wondered, and he wondered, too, about the potential danger of having one so devout getting involved with the precious stones. There were pragmatic matters concerning the magic which might not sit well in a man so deep in faith, in a man so obviously convinced that he understood the desires of God.
"Father Abbot Markwart is quite pleased with the young man," Jojonah remarked.
True enough, Siherton had to admit, and he understood that he would not win any debate he might wage against the selection of Avelyn as one of the Preparers. The position of the second Preparer remained wide open, though, and so the tall master decided then and there that he would use his energy to put forth a student better to his liking. Someone like Quintall, a young' man full of fire and full of life. And, because of that passion, because of worldly lusts, a man who could be controlled.
He was not surprised; his lip didn't quiver.
"Pray tell me, Master Siherton, was it peaceful?" he heard himself ask.
Master Jojonah was glad to hear the sympathetic question. Avelyn's lack of initial response to the news that his mother had died had lent credence to Siherton's complaints. "The messenger said that she died in her sleep,", Jojonah interrupted.
Master Siherton eyed his peer sternly, considering the lie, for the messenger, a young boy, had only delivered news of the death and had offered no details surrounding it. Master Jojonah hadn't even conversed with the messenger.
In a rare display of sympathy, with Jojonah glaring at him out of the corner of his brown eye, Siherton let it go.
Avelyn nodded, accepting the news.
"You will want to leave at once," Siherton offered, "to join your father at your mother's gravesite."
Avelyn stared at him incredulously.
"Or you may choose to stay," Jojonah put in immediately, seeing the lure.
If
Avelyn left St.-Mere-Abelle for any reason, he would have to wait until the following year to enter. His reentry would be guaranteed, but his position as a Preparer — though he had no idea that he would be offered such a position or even that there was such a thing — would be lost.
"My mother is already buried, I assume," Avelyn responded to Siherton,
"and my father has surely left her grave to return home. Given the short time since their departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, he has yet a long road before him."
Master Siherton squinted ominously and leaned close over Avelyn, glaring openly. "Your mother has died, boy," he said slowly, accentuating each syllable.
"Do you care?"
The words hit young Avelyn hard. Did he care? He wanted to punch out at the tall master for even insinuating otherwise. He wanted to fly into a rage, tear the room — and anyone who tried to stop him — apart!
But that would be a disservice to Annalisa, Avelyn knew, an insult to the memory of the gentle woman. Avelyn's mother had lived in the light of God.
Avelyn had to believe that, or else all of her life — and all of his own life -
- would be no more than a lie. The reward for such a life, for such a good heart, was a better existence in a better place. Annalisa was with God now.
That thought bolstered the young man. He straightened his shoulders and looked squarely at the imposing Master Siherton.
"My mother knew that she would not make it home," he said quietly, aiming his words at Jojonah. "We all knew it. She lived on, in sickness, only to see me enter the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle. It was her glory that I join the Abellican Church, and I would be stealing that glory if I left now." He sucked in his breath, bolstering his declaration.
"The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle, God's Year 816," Brother Avelyn said without the slightest quiver in his voice. "That is my place. That is the vision that allowed Annalisa Desbris to pass on peacefully from this world."
Master Jojonah nodded, seeing the calm and logical reasoning, and at once impressed with, and frightened of, the depth of this young man's faith. It was obvious that Avelyn had loved his mother dearly, and yet, there was a sincerity in his. demeanor. In that, Jojonah could clearly see Siherton's point. Either Avelyn had a direct line to God or the young man simply had no idea of what it was to be human.
"May I go?" Avelyn asked.
The question caught Jojonah off guard, and as he considered it, he came to realize that Avelyn's stoicism was, perhaps, not so deeply rooted. "You will be excused from your duties this day," the master stated.
"No," Avelyn replied without hesitation. He bowed his head as soon as he realized that he had just spoken against a master's command, an offense that could lead to exile from the abbey. "Please allow me to continue my duties."
Jojonah looked to Siherton, who was shaking his head disgustedly. Without a word, the tall master stalked from the room.
Jojonah suspected that young Brother Avelyn should be careful in the coming weeks. Master Siherton would see to his dismissal if given any real cause. The gentle master hesitated for a long while, making sure that Siherton would be far away by the time that Avelyn left the room.
"As you wish, Brother Avelyn," Jojonah subsequently agreed. "Be away, then. You have a few minutes left for your midday meal."
Avelyn bowed deeply and exited the room.
Jojonah folded his hands on his desk and spent a long while staring at the closed door. What was it about Avelyn that really bothered Siherton? he wondered. Was it, as Siherton insisted, the young man's apparent inhumanity? Or was it something more profound? Was Avelyn, perhaps, a higher standard, a shadowy mirror, held up before all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, a testament of true faith that seemed so rare in these times, even in the holy abbey?
That thought shook Jojonah as he looked around at his decorated chamber, at the beautiful tapestry he had commissioned from the gallery of Porvon dan Guardinio, among the most respected artists in all the world. He considered the gold leaf highlighting the carved hardwood of the room's support beams, the rich rug from some exotic land, the cushiony chairs, the many baubles and trinkets on his vast bookshelf, every one of them worth more gold than a common laborer would make in a year.
Piety, dignity, poverty, that was the pledge offered upon entering the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle. That was the standard. Jojonah glanced around the room again, reminding himself that most of the other masters, even some of the tenth-year immaculates, had chambers more richly adorned.
Piety, dignity, poverty.
But pragmatism, too, should be part of that pledge, so said Father Abbot Markwart, and so had declared the abbey's. previous leaders, dating back more than two centuries. In Honce-the-Bear, wealth equalled power, and without power, how could the Order hope to influence the lives of the common folk? Wasn't God better served by strength than by weakness?
So went the widely accepted argument that allowed for relaxing some aspects of the holy pledge.
Still, Master Jojonah could see why a student such as Avelyn Desbris would so unnerve Master Siherton.
That night, Avelyn retired to his room, thoroughly exhausted, both emotionally and physically. He had spent all his waking hours at demanding work, volunteering for the most difficult parts of each task. He had lost count of the buckets he had cranked up from the well — somewhere near fifty — and had gone right from that heavy work to removing loose stones near to the northern end of the abbey's top wall, pulling them free and piling them neatly for the masons who would follow the next day.
Only the call to vespers, the ceremony heralding eventide, had interrupted Avelyn's frantic pace. He went quietly to the service, then skipped his evening meal altogether and went right to his
chamber, a five-foot-square cubicle with a single stool, which doubled as a table for Avelyn's candle, and a cot — little more than a flat board and a blanket — that folded down from one wall.
The work was ended now, and the ache settled in. Despite his weariness, Avelyn Desbris could hardly sleep. Images of his mother flooded his thoughts; he wondered if he might see a vision of her now, a visitation of her spirit before it went to its place in heaven. Would Annalisa come to say goodbye to her youngest child, or had she already said her farewells to Avelyn in the courtyard outside of St.-Mere-Abelle?
Avelyn rolled off the cot and fumbled with his flint and steel, finally getting the candle lit. He glanced around in the shadowy light, as if expecting Annalisa to be standing in a comer waiting for him.
She wasn't, to Avelyn's ultimate disappointment.
The young man settled on the edge of his cot, head bowed, hands resting on his sore thighs. He felt the first tears leaking from his eyes and tried to deny them. To cry would be a weakness, Avelyn reasoned, a lack of faith. If what he believed, what he truly held in his heart, could not sustain him in a time of death, then of what value was it? The Abellican Church, the ancient scriptures, promised heaven to those deserving, and who could be more deserving than gentle and generous Annalisa Desbris?
A tear rolled down Avelyn's cheek, then another. He dropped his head lower, brought his hands up. to cover his eyes, his wet eyes.
A sob lifted Avelyn's bowed shoulders. He tried to deny it, tried to fight back. He recited the Prayer of the Dead, the Prayer of the Faithful, the Prayer of Eternal Promise, all in a row, forcing his voice to hold steady.
Still the tears came; every so often his even tone was broken by a sniffle or a sob.
He went through the recitals again, and again. He prayed with all his heart, wrapping the words around images of his mother, often intoning her name between lines of verse. He was on the floor then, but did not know how he had gotten there. On the floor and curled up like a baby, wanting his mother, praying for his mother.
Finally, after more than an hour, Avelyn composed himself and sat back on the cot, taking several deep breaths to fight away the last of the sobs. He thought long and hard then, considering his grief, searching his soul for the weakness that
had come into his faith.
Soon enough, he had his answer, and Avelyn was glad. He was not crying, he realized, for Annalisa, for he did indeed hold faith that she had passed on to a deserved better existence. He was crying for himself, for his brothers and sisters, for his father, for all who knew Annalisa Desbris and would not be graced by her presence in this life again.
Avelyn could accept that. His faith was intact and solid, and so he was not desecrating the memory of his mother. He moved to blow out the candle, then changed his mind and settled back on the cot. Still his eyes searched the corners of the shadowy room for his mother's spirit.
Perhaps he would find her in his dreams.
Two men walked quietly away from Brother Avelyn's closed door. "Are you satisfied?" Master Jojonah asked Master Siherton when they were far away.
Indeed Siherton had been pleased to hear Avelyn crying, to know that the too — dedicated young man was possessed of human emotions, but the sound of Avelyn's sobs had not changed the stern master's general attitude toward Avelyn.
He gave a slight nod to Jojonah and started away.
"I have been given the blessings of Father Abbot Markwart to show young Brother Avelyn the stones," Jojonah called after him.
Siherton stopped dead in his tracks, fought down the angry protest that rose in his throat, and then nodded again, only slightly, and continued on his way.
It was settled then. Brother Avelyn Desbris would be one of the Preparers.
Avelyn tried to keep his head bowed, his eyes to the floor, as befitted his lowly station, but he couldn't help notice some of the splendors that surrounded him as he followed Master Jojonah through the winding corridors of the Abbot's Maze, the most private and revered place in all of St.-Mere-Abelle, and one that a first-year novice would certainly not expect to visit.
Jojonah's explanation for the tour had been weak, some remark about an area that needed cleaning. After only a few weeks in the abbey, Avelyn knew enough about the routine to understand that students much older and more experienced than he were the normal choice for any tasks, however menial, in the Abbot's Maze. He also knew that nothing special was going on, that many of the older students would have been available to Master Jojonah.
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