"It was God's will," Markwart said with finality. "All of it. You are to speak nothing of what you have witnessed. Return now to the room that Master Siherton assigned to you. Your punishment will be determined and revealed later this same day."
Avelyn's thoughts whirled, too confusing a jumble for him to utter even a sound of protest. He staggered away as if he had been struck. Markwart verbally hit him again when he got to the door.
"Brother Pellimar succumbed this morning to his grievous wounds," the Father Abbot informed Avelyn.
Avelyn turned, stunned. Pellimar would carry scars forever, but surely he had mended. Then Avelyn understood. The previous night, at the party, Pellimar had been loose with his tongue. Too loose. Even to utter the, name of the island without Father Abbot's permission was forbidden.
"A pity," Markwart went on. "That leaves only you and Quintall of the four who went to Pimaninicuit. You will have much work before you."
Avelyn stepped out of the room, into the stone corridor, and vomited all over the floor. He staggered away, half blind, half insane.
"He is being watched?" Markwart asked Siherton.
"Every step," the tall master replied. "All along, I feared this response from him."
Master Jojonah snorted. "Avelyn worked alone on Pimaninicuit, yet the hoard he retrieved is inarguably the finest ever brought back from the island.
How can you doubt his value?"
"I do not," Siherton replied. "I only wonder when those qualities that give Avelyn such value will become dangerous."
Jojonah looked at Markwart, who was nodding grimly. "He has much work to do," the Father Abbot told them both. "Committing his adventures to the page, cataloguing the stones, even seeking out their true strength and deepest secrets. The crystal amethyst most of all. Never have I seen such a magnificent stone, and Avelyn, as its Preparer, has the finest chance to discern its true measure."
"Perhaps I can persuade him to our way of thinking before he is finished his work," Jojonah offered.
"That would be most fine," replied Markwart.
Siherton gave his fellow master a dubious glance. He did not believe that Avelyn, so full of idealism and ridiculous faith, could be corralled.
Jojonah noted the look and could not disagree. He would try, though, for he was fond of young Brother Avelyn and he knew the alternative.
"The summer solstice," Father Abbot Markwart remarked. "At that time, we will discuss the future of Brother Avelyn Desbris."
"Or lack thereof," Master Siherton added, and from his tone, it wasn't hard for Jojonah to figure out which event would most please the hawkish, brutal man.
Avelyn found himself secluded from the rest of the monks over the next few weeks. His only contacts were with Siherton, Jojonah, and a couple of other masters, as well as the pair of guards — more tenth — year immaculates, who remained with him wherever he went and Quintall, who was often at work beside him in the room of the Ring Stones.
Disturbing questions haunted the young monk every day. Why did they have to kill the men of the Windrunner? Couldn't Father Abbot Markwart have simply imprisoned them? Or, if this procedure was always the case, then why didn't the monastery simply man its own ship and send only trusted monks to Pimaninicuit?
Every logical argument ran smack into a wall, though, for Avelyn knew that he would not impress any change over his superiors and the way of the Abellican Order. And so he worked, as he was instructed, penning the tale of his adventures in great detail, studying and cataloguing the newest stones, their type, their magic, their strength. Whenever he was allowed to handle a magical stone, Master Siherton was at his side, a potent and lethal gem in hand.
Avelyn realized his place now, and truly he felt like one of the Windrunner's crew. His only solace came in his many discussions with Master Jojonah, to whom he still felt a bond. But while Jojonah continually tried to explain the necessity for the actions taken upon the monks' return, Avelyn simply would not accept it.
There had to be a better way, he believed, and despite the potential for disaster, there could be no justification for murder.
The spring of 822 was late when his work neared completion, and Avelyn noted with some concern that Master Jojonah spoke with him less and less, noted with some concern the tender master's sympathetic expression whenever he looked upon Avelyn.
Avelyn grew uneasy, and then desperate. So much so that he chanced to pocket a gemstone, a hematite, one day. Fortune was with him, for a mistake by Quintall caused a minor explosion that afternoon, and though no one was hurt and nothing too badly damaged, it proved enough of a distraction for the theft to go unnoticed, at least for the moment.
Back in his cell, Avelyn fell into the powers of the stone. He didn't really know what he would do, other than spy on the masters and confirm his fears of his approaching fate.
His spirit walked free of his body, passed through the porous wood of the door and past the pair of oblivious guards. Avelyn felt that tug of the stone, wanting possession, but his will was strong and he resisted, floating invisibly down the corridor and finally to Father Abbot Markwart's door.
Inside, Avelyn glimpsed Siherton and Jojonah with the Father Abbot, the old man livid about the mishap in the stone room.
"Brother Quintall is a bumbler," Jojonah pointed out.
"But a loyal one," Siherton snapped back, an obvious comparison to Avelyn.
"Enough of this," demanded Markwart. "How goes the work?"
"The cataloguing is nearly complete," answered Siherton. "We are ready for the merchants."
"What of the giant crystal?"
"We have found no practical use for it," Siherton replied. "Avelyn —
Brother Avelyn" he corrected with a derisive snort, "is convinced that it is thick with magic, but how to extract that magic and what purpose it might serve, we do not know."
"It would be folly to auction it," Jojonah put in.
"It would not bring a good price unless we could determine its powers,"
Father Abbot Markwart agreed.
"There are merchants who would purchase it simply for the mystery," Siherton argued.
Avelyn could hardly believe what he was hearing. They were talking about a private auction of the sacred stones! How much that notion diminished the sacrifice of Thagraine and Pellimar, of the Windrunner's crew and of Dansally!
The thought of unbelieving merchants plying the gift of the stones, to amuse guests, perhaps, or even for sinister purposes, wounded Avelyn deeply. His spirit drifted out of the room, unable to bear any more of the sacrilegious talk.
He was heading back for his physical coil when he realized that time was against him. His spirit hovered there in the hall. The missing hematite. would surely be discovered, and even disregarding that stone, Avelyn's future was far from secure.
What was he to do? And how could he tolerate any of this madness, this insult to God?
Master Siherton came out of Markwart's room alone, his boots clicking on the floor as he made his way in the direction of the stone room. To check on the damage from Quintall's misstep, no doubt, the spying Avelyn realized; to check on the lists of reorganized stones.
Tugged by a sense of urgency, Avelyn gave in to the hematite, his spirit floating fast for Siherton's back.
The pain as he entered the man's body was excruciating, beyond anything Avelyn had ever felt. His thoughts mingled with Siherton's; their spirits clashed and battled, shoving and pushing for possession. Avelyn had struck the man off guard, but even so, the straggle was nothing short of titanic. Avelyn realized then that an attempt at possession was akin to fighting an enemy on his home ground.
If any had been about to bear witness, they would have seen Siherton's body lurching back and forth across the corridor, slamming into walls, clawing at its own face.
Then Avelyn felt the weight of a corporeal form again. He knew instinctively that Siherton's spirit was nearby, locked in some dimensional pocket that Avelyn did not understand. And he had co
ntrol of the body; it moved to the commands of his spirit!
Avelyn went off with all speed to the stone room, entering forcefully and snapping his glare over the two guards and Quintall before they could utter a word of protest.
"You remain," Avelyn commanded one of the guards. "You," he said to Quintall, "your punishment has not yet been determined."
"Punishment?" Quintall echoed breathlessly. He had been told that there would be no consequences from his mishap, and indeed, such minor problems had not been uncommon in the month in which he and Avelyn had been at work with the new stones. Just a week before, Avelyn had melted a leg of one table while examining a ruby sprinkled with carnallite!
"Brother Avelyn was not —" Quintall began to protest.
"To your room and prayers!" the voice of Siherton commanded.
"Yes, my master," said a cowed Quintall, and he moved off out of the room.
"Be gone!" Avelyn commanded the other guard, and the man ran out of the room, swiftly passing Quintall in the hall.
Then Avelyn and the remaining guard began selecting and collecting stones: the giant crystal amethyst, a rod of graphite, a small but potent ruby, and several others, including turquoise and amber, celestine and a tiger's paw, a chrysoberyl, or cat's eye, some gypsum and malachite, a sheet of chrysotile, and a piece of heavy magnetite. Avelyn placed them in a bag, and in it he placed, as well, a small pouch of tiny carnallites, the one stone whose magic could be brought forth only a single time. Avelyn then went to the other end of the room and pocketed a valuable emerald, not an enchanted one, but one used as an example of a particular cut, and then he, bade the guard to follow him — and quickly, since the use of the hematite was draining the monk and Siherton's spirit was nearby, trying, Avelyn knew, to find some route back to its body.
They made their way to the secluded cell that held Avelyn's body, the master's voice quickly and forcefully dismissing the two men who stood guard in the hall.
The one remaining guard, the man from the stone room, opened the door on Siherton's order. There stood Avelyn's corporeal form, as he had left it, clutching the hematite. Avelyn in Siherton's body stepped past the guard and deftly took the hematite, then instructed the guard to shoulder the inanimate body and follow him.
"Brother Avelyn is to be punished for treason against the Order" was all the explanation he offered, and the guard, who had heard rumors to that effect for weeks now, did not question the news.
It was vespers, so few were about to observe the master and the guard, bearing his extraordinary burden, as they made their way to the abbey roof overlooking All Saints Bay. The guard, as instructed, placed the body at the base of the low wall and stepped back.
Avelyn waited for many moments, gathering his strength. He bent over the body, slipping the hematite and one other stone, into its hand, tying the gemstone sack to the body's rope belt.
"The stones will allow us to find the body," he explained to the guard, noting that the man was growing increasingly suspicious. "They will take from Brother Avelyn the last of his physical strength as he dies."
The guard's face screwed up with curiosity, but he did not dare to question the dangerous master.
Avelyn knew that he had to be quick — that he had to be perfect.
With great effort, Avelyn tore his spirit free of Siherton's corporeal form and reentered his own, coming to his physical senses even as Siherton's body shivered with the return of his own spirit.
Avelyn was up, quick as a cat, clutching the stones in one hand and grabbing Siherton by the front of his robe with the other. Before the guard could come to the master's aid, Avelyn hauled the stunned Siherton and himself over the rail.
They plummeted past the abbey walls, down the cliff face, into the gloom, Siherton screaming his protests.
Avelyn kicked and pushed the man away, then called upon the second stone he held, the malachite.
Then he was floating, Siherton continuing to plummet.
Avelyn continued to push out as he descended gently past the angled cliff.
Near the bottom, he pulled the amber from his pouch. He touched down lightly on the water, as he had done in an exercise that seemed to him a million years ago.
He was glad that Siherton's body was not in sight; he could not have borne that spectacle.
Using the amber, he walked across the cold water to a point where he could get ashore, then he moved off down the road.
He knew that he would never look upon St.-Mere-Abelle again.
He used the stones. With the malachite, he floated gently over cliffs that any pursuing monks would spend hours climbing down. With the amber, he crossed wide lakes that his pursuers would have to circumvent. Using a chrysoberyl, a cat's-eye, he could see clearly in the dark and move along at daylight pace without the telltale glow of a light. At the first town he entered, he happened upon a caravan of several merchant wagons, and there he sold the common emerald, giving him all the funds he would need for a long, long time.
He put miles and miles behind him, between him and that terrible place called St.-Mere-Abelle. But the young monk could not pull his mind far from the horrors he had witnessed, the encroaching evil that nibbled at the very heart of all that young Avelyn Desbris had held dear.
He learned the truth of it one cold night as he lay curled beneath a tree, under the stars, under the heavens. As if his thoughts were magically transported, or his prayers for guidance divinely answered, his eyes looked across the scores of miles to a land of great jagged mountains, to a smoking cone in its midst, and the black devastation behind a slowly creeping line of red lava.
Avelyn understood then — all of it — for it was not without precedent.
This gloom that had come to Honce-the-Bear had come before in a definite shape and manner that was oft-told in the historical volumes at St.-Mere-Abelle. All of it: the cancer that had grown in his world, the unpreparedness, the ungodliness of St.-Mere-Abelle. The monks were the sentinels of God and yet even they had given in to complacency, to the cancer. And because of that lapse, the darkness had returned.
Half-crazed, his entire world shattered, Avelyn understood. The dactyl was awake. The brooding demon that forever haunted the race of man had come back to the world. He knew it to be true. In all his heart, young Avelyn Desbris recognized the darkness that had murdered Taddy Sway and Bunkus Smealy, the evil that had destroyed the Windrunner and left his dear Dansally cold in cold water, the wickedness that had forced Brother Pellimar to "succumb" to his wounds.
He awoke, from his fitful sleep before the dawn.
The dactyl was awake!
The world did not understand the coming darkness.
The dactyl was awake!
The Order had failed; their weakness had facilitated this tragedy!
The dactyl was awake!
Avelyn ran off — one direction seemed as good as any other. He had to tell the world of the evil. He had to prepare the men and women of Honce-the-Bear, and all of Corona. He had to warn them of the demon, warn them of the Order! He had to somehow show them their own unpreparedness, their own weakness.
The dactyl was awake!
CHAPTER 20
The Oracle
"How many lights do you see?" The words were spoken in the elvish tongue, one that Juraviel was using more and more with Elbryan. The young man knew all the word's, all the common phrases, now, after five years in Andur'Blough Inninness, and only his inflections still needed perfecting.
Juraviel held a candle, as did Elbryan; and a couple of stars had appeared in the sky, the sun just gone behind the mountainous western horizon.
The young man spent a long moment studying Juraviel. Elbryan's lessons had turned more toward philosophy during the fall and winter of God's Year 821 to 822, and he had learned that even the simplest questions carried, many layers of subtle meanings. Finally, convinced that this was but a prelude to his lesson, and nothing dramatic, the young man looked up and did a quick count of the stars, noting four.
"They are separate, then," Juraviel stated. "Your light and mine, and those of the stars."
Elbryan's brow furrowed. Slowly, hesitantly, as if he expected to be rebuked, he nodded his head.
"So if you pinched the light from your candle, you would stand in darkness," Juraviel reasoned.
"More than now," Elbryan was quick to reply. "But still I would have some of your light."
"Then my light is not contained within the flame," Juraviel went on, "but rather, it spreads far and wide. And what of the light of the stars?"
"If the light in the stars was contained within the stars, then we would not see the stars!" Elbryan growled in mounting frustration. There were times, such as this, when he hated simple elven logic. "And if the light in your candle was contained within the candle, them I would not see it."
"Exactly," replied the elf. "You may go now."
Elbryan stamped his foot as Juraviel turned away. The elf was always doing this to him, leaving him with questions that he could not answer. "What are you talking about?" the young man demanded.
Juraviel looked at him calmly, but made no move to respond.
Elbryan took the cue — it was his lesson, after all. "You are saying that the light, since it is not contained, is a shared thing?"
Juraviel didn't blink.
Elbryan paused for a long while, backtracking the conversation; considering the options. "One light," he said finally.
Juraviel smiled.
"That was the answer," said Elbryan, gaining confidence. "One light."
"I count a dozen stars, at least, now," replied the elf. Elbryan looked up. It was true enough; the night was fast deepening, the stars coming out in force.
"A dozen sources of the same light," Elbryan reasoned, "or of different lights that all join together. Because I see them, they blend. The lights become one."
"One and the same," agreed Juraviel.
"But must I see them for this to be true?" Elbryan asked eagerly, but his anticipation dissipated as he saw the frown immediately come over the elf.
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