“Then what am I to do?” Braumin asked.
“Nothing,” Master Jojonah replied somberly, but without hesitation, for he had thought through this situation quite carefully.
Brother Braumin gave an incredulous, even derisive, snort.
“The situation has changed,” Master Jojonah explained. “Ah, Braumin, my friend, I blame myself. When I learned of the plight of the Father Abbot’s unfortunate prisoners, I could not keep away.”
“You went to them?”
“I tried to go to them, but was stopped, and roughly so,” Jojonah explained. “I underestimated the Father Abbot’s reaction. In my foolhardiness, I overstepped the bounds of good sense, and have pushed Markwart too, too far.”
“Never could compassion be called foolhardy,” Brother Braumin was quick to put in.
“But still, my actions have forced Markwart to act,” Jojonah replied. “The Father Abbot is too strong and too entrenched. I have not lost my heart or my way, I assure you, and I will go against Markwart openly when I deem the time is right, but you must promise me here and now that you will take no part in that battle.”
“How could I ever make such a promise?” Brother Braumin firmly replied.
“If you ever loved me, you will find the way,” Master Jojonah replied. “If you believe in what Avelyn says to us from his grave, you will find a way. Because if you cannot make that promise, then know that my road has reached its end, know that I will not follow the course of opposing Markwart. I must be alone in this; I must know that no one else will suffer for my actions.”
There came a long pause, and finally Brother Braumin nodded. “I will not interfere, though I feel that your request is ridiculous.”
“Not ridiculous, my friend, but practical,” Master Jojonah replied. “I will go against Markwart, but I cannot win. I know that, and so do you, if you can put your bravado aside and be honest with yourself.”
“If you cannot win, then why raise the fight?”
Jojonah gave a chuckle. “Because it will weaken Markwart,” he explained, “and publicly raise issues which may find a root of truth in the hearts of many in the Order. Think of me as Brother Allabarnet, planting seeds in the hope that, in days when I am no more, they will live on and bear fruit for those who follow my footsteps. Think of me as one of the original craftsmen at St.-Mere-Abelle, who knew that they could not live long enough to see their vision of the abbey fulfilled, but who went to their dedicated labors anyway, some spending their entire lives working on the intricate carvings of a single door, or cutting the stone for the original foundation of this magnificent structure.”
The poetic words struck Braumin deeply but could not push him past his desire not only to wage battle, but to win. “If we truly believe in Brother Avelyn’s message, then we cannot stand alone,” he said. “We must take the fight”
“We do believe and we will, in the end, win out,” Master Jojonah interrupted, seeing where this was going and knowing it to be a fool’s ending. “I must hold faith in that. But for both of us to go against Markwart now would set our cause far, far back, perhaps beyond retrieval. I am an old man, and feeling older by the day, I assure you. I will begin the war against Markwart, and against the current way of the Church itself, and that will perhaps entice some of the Order to begin looking at our routines, our supposed traditions, in a new light.”
“And what is my place in this hopeless war?” Brother Braumin asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.
“You are a young man, and will almost certainly outlive Dalebert Markwart,” Master Jojonah calmly explained. “That is, forgoing any unfortunate accidents!” He didn’t have to speak the name of Dellman to conjure the unpleasant images into Brother Braumin’s mind.
“And then?” Braumin asked, his tone growing more composed.
“You will quietly spread the word,” Master Jojonah replied. “To Viscenti Marlboro, to Brother Dellman, to all who will listen. Building on the little I will accomplish, you will find allies where you will, but take great care to make no enemies. And above all,” Jojonah said, moving to a corner of the rug beside his desk, then pulling it back to reveal a secret compartment in the floor, “you will protect this.” He took the ancient text out of the compartment and handed it to a wide-eyed Braumin.
“What is it?” the young monk asked breathlessly, understanding that he was holding something of great importance, that this old book was part of the reason for Master Jojonah’s surprising decisions.
“It is the answer,” Jojonah replied cryptically. “Read it quietly, secretly, and then hide it safely away and put it out of your thoughts. But not out of your heart,” he added, patting Braumin’s strong shoulder. “Play along with Father Abbot Markwart’s games if you must, even to the extent of ambitious Brother Francis.”
Braumin’s face screwed up with incredulity.
“I am counting on you to become a master of St.-Mere-Abelle,” Jojonah firmly answered that look. “And soonperhaps even as my replacement. It is not out of the question, because Markwart wants to give open signs that he is waging no private battle against me, and our friendship is widely known. You must find your way to that spot and spend your years in ways that will place you in line for a position as abbot of one of the other abbeys, or perhaps even in line for the position of Father Abbot itself. Aim high, my young friend, because the stakes are so tragically high. Your reputation remains impeccable and impressive beyond Markwart’s inner circle. When you have attained the pinnacle of your power, however high that might be, then secure your friends and decide how to continue the holy war that Brother Avelyn began. That might mean passingthe book and the dreams along to a younger, trusted ally, and following a course similar to mine. Or the situation might call for you and your allies to openly wage the battle within the Church. Only you will know.”
“You ask much.”
“No more than I have asked of myself,” Jojonah said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “And I believe that you are a finer man than ever was Jojonah!”
Brother Braumin scoffed at that remark, but Jojonah shook his head and would not back down. “It took me six decades to learn what you already have placed firmly in your heart,” the old master explained.
“But I had a better teacher,” Brother Braumin replied with a grin.
That brought a smile to beleaguered Jojonah’s sagging face.
Braumin turned his attention to the book, holding it higher between himself and the master. “Tell me more,” he insisted. “What is in here?”
“Brother Avelyn’s heart,” Jojonah replied. “And the truth of what once was.”
Braumin eased the book back down in front of him and tucked it under his voluminous robes, close to his heart.
“Remember all that I told you of the fate of theWindrunner, and hold that in comparison to the former ways of our Order,” Jojonah explained.
Braumin hugged the book even tighter, giving a solemn nod. “Fare well, my friend, my teacher,” he said to Jojonah, fearing he would never see the man again.
“Fear not for me,” Master Jojonah replied. “For if I were to die today, I would die contented. I have found my heart and the truth, and have passed that truth on to able hands. We will win out, in the end.”
Brother Braumin came forward suddenly and wrapped the large man in a great hug, holding it for a long, long time. Then he turned abruptly, not wanting Master Jojonah to see the moisture that had gathered in his eyes, and rushed out of the room.
Jojonah wiped his own eyes and quietly closed the door behind the man. Later that day, he, De’Unnero, and a score and five young escorts set out from the great gate of St.-Mere-Abelle. It was a formidable force accompanying the would-be abbot, Jojonah noted, twenty-five monksfourth-and fifth-year students, herecognizedwearing heavy leather protection and well-armed with sword and heavy crossbow. The old master sighed at the sight; he knew that this group was more to ensure De’Unnero’s immediate and absolute dominance at St. Precious
than to protect the would-be abbot on the road.
But what did it matter? Jojonah did not feel as though he had much fight in him; the road to St. Precious seemed imposing enough.
He hesitated as the gates of the abbey swung closed behind him, wondering if he should go back in and confront Markwart openly, should make his last stand here and now and be done with it, because he felt very mortal this day, as though he was running out of time.
But he felt weak and sick, as well, and did not turn about to go and find Markwart.
He lowered his head, in shame and out of sheer weariness, and gradually tuned in to the speech that sharp-tongued De’Unnero was giving to all the group, himself included. The man barked commands about how they would proceed, a marching order, protocol for the road, and he insisted from one and all, particularly from Jojonah, for he moved right up to stand before the man, that from this moment forward he be addressed as Abbot De’Unnero.
The title assaulted Master Jojonah’s every sensibility. “You are not an abbot yet,” he reminded the man.
“But perhaps some of you need practice with assigning me the title,” De’Unnero retorted.
Jojonah held his ground as the man crowded forward.
“This comes from the Father Abbot himself,” De’Unnero stated, unrolling a parchment with a snap of his arm. On it was written Markwart’s latest edict, proclaiming that henceforth, Brother Marcalo De’Unnero would be known as Abbot De’Unnero. “Have you anything else to argue, Master Jojonah?” the man asked smugly.
“No.”
“Just no?”
Master Jojonah didn’t back down, and didn’t blink, his gaze boring holes into the accursed document.
“Master Jojonah?” De’Unnero prompted, and his tone explained what he was waiting for.
Jojonah looked up to see that wicked smile, to see that De’Unnero was, in fact, putting him on trial in front of the younger monks. “No, Abbot De’Unnero,” he said, hating every word, but realizing that this was not the fight he wanted.
With Jojonah put in his place, De’Unnero motioned for the procession to begin, and so they marched, in precise order, to the west.
It seemed to Master Jojonah that the road had just become much longer.
CHAPTER 27
The Escape
“They are gone?” Father Abbot Markwart asked Brother Francis later that same afternoon, the old man remaining in his private room for most of the day, not wanting any confrontations with Master Jojonah, whom he suspected was on the very edge of explosiveness. He had pushed Jojonah right to that edge purposely, and then pushed him out of the way, for Markwart feared that the old master had some fight left in him, a public brawl Markwart did not want. Let Jojonah go to Palmaris and do battle with De’Unnero!
“Master… Abbot De’Unnero led them away,” Brother Francis explained.
“Now the interrogation of the prisoners might commence in full,” Markwart said, with such coldness that Brother Francis felt a shiver run along his spine. “Have you the enchanted armband that was taken from the centaur?”
Brother Francis reached into a pocket and produced the elvish item.
“Good,” Markwart said with a nod. “He will need it to survive this day.” He started for the door, Francis scurrying to keep up.
“I fear that the other prisoners will need it more,” the young monk explained. “The woman, in particular, is looking gravely ill.”
“They need it, but we do not need them,” Markwart said ferociously, turning on the younger man.
“Perhaps someone could tend them with the soul stone, then,” Francis stuttered.
Markwart’s laugh pierced him to the heart. “Did you not hear me?” he asked. “We do not need them.”
“Yet we’ll not let them go,” Brother Francis reasoned.
“Indeed we will,” Markwart corrected, and before the smile could widen on the younger man’s face, he added, “We’ll let them go to face the wrath of God. Leave them alone in their dark holes.”
“But Father Abbot”
Markwart’s stare silenced him. “You worry about individuals when all the Church is at stake,” the old man scolded.
“If we do not need them, then why keep them imprisoned?”
“Because if the woman we seek thinks we have them, she may walk right into our grasp,” Markwart replied. “It matters little whether they are alive or dead, as long as she thinks they are alive.”
“Then why not keep them that way?”
“Because they can bear witness!” the Father Abbot growled, moving his wrinkled old visage right up to Brother Francis, nose-to-nose. “How might their tale be received? Will those listening understand the greater good served by their suffering? And what of the fate of the woman’s son? Would you desire to answer to those charges?”
Brother Francis took a deep breath and steadied himself, reminded once again of the depth of the old Father Abbot’s obsession, and of his own deep involvement. Again the young monk found himself at a crossroads, for in his heart, despite what his obedience to the Father Abbot and the Church might be telling him, he knew that this torture of the Chilichunks and the centaur was a wicked thing. Yet he, too, was inescapably a part of that wicked thing, and unless Markwart prevailed, his complicity would be revealed for all the world to see. The woman was sickly because her heart had broken on the road when her son had died.
“The woman’s perception is everything,” Markwart went on. “It matters not whether her parents are truly alive or dead.”
“Whether they are alive or have been killed,” Francis corrected aloud, though muttering it under his breath too low for the Father Abbot, who was stalking toward the stairs once more, to hear. The young monk took another deep breath, but when he blew it out, the flickering flame of compassion in his heart went dark yet again. This was a tasteless, nasty business, he decided, but it was all for the good, and he was following the edicts of the Father Abbot of the Abellican Church, the man closest to God in all the world.
Brother Francis picked up his pace, rushing past Markwart to open the doors to the stairwell.
“Pettibwa? Oh, Pettibwa, why don’t ye answer?” Graevis Chilichunk called repeatedly. The night before, he had been talking to his wife through the walls of their adjoining cells, and though he couldn’t see her, for the darkness was absolute, the sound of her voice had been comforting indeed.
Not that Pettibwa had offered much comfort with the content of her words. Grady’s death had grown like a canker in the woman’s heart and soul, Graevis knew, and though he had taken the brunt of the punishment, was battered and half starved, his old bones protesting his every movementand with more than a few of them broken, he was surehis wife was in worse shape by far.
He called out again and again, pleading with her.
Pettibwa couldn’t hear him, for her thoughts and all her sensibilities were turned inward, were locked in the image of a long tunnel and a bright light at its end, in the image of Grady standing at the exit of that tunnel, holding his hand out to her.
“I see him!” she cried. ” ‘Tis Grady, me boy.”
“Pettibwa?” came Graevis’ call.
“He’s showing me the way!” Pettibwa exclaimed, with more strength than she had shown in many, many days.
Graevis understood what was happening here, and his eyes widened in panic. Pettibwa was dying, was willingly leaving him and all this horrid world! His first instinct was to scream out to her, to bring her back to him, to plead with her not to leave him.
He remained silent; he caught himself in time to realize how selfish such a course would be. Pettibwa was ready to go, and so she should, for surely the next life would be a better place than this.
“Go to him, Pettibwa,” the old man called with a trembling voice, tears streaming from his dull eyes. “Go to Grady and hug him, and tell him that I love him, too.”
He went quiet then, all the world seemed to hush, so much so that Graevis could hear the rhythmic breathi
ng of the woman in the adjoining cell. “Grady,” she muttered once or twice, and then there came a great sigh, and then…
Silence.
Sobs shook the old man’s broken body. He pulled against his chains with all his strength until one of his wrists popped out of joint and waves of pain made him lean back against the wall. He brought one hand in close to wipe the tears and snot from his face, and then, with strength that he didn’t believe he still possessed, Graevis stood straight and tall. This would be his last act of defiance, he understood.
Concentrating, conjuring images of his dead wife to bolster his courage, Graevis tugged with all his might against the shackle holding that injured hand. He ignored the pain, pulling the hand tight into the shackle, and then on some more. He didn’t even hear the crack of bone, but just pulled on, like a wild animal, tearing his skin, crushing his hand into the shackle.
Finally, after minutes of agony, the hand pulled free and Graevis’ legs went weak beneath him.
“No ye don’t,” he scolded, lifting himself straight and turning for the remaining length of chain. In one movement Graevis leaped up over his extended hand, twisted and turned and threw that shackled arm up over his head so that when he came back down, the chain was looped about his neck. He was up on his tiptoes and could relieve the choking pressure.
But not for long, he knew as his legs began to weaken and his body slumped, the chain pulling tight about his throat.
He wanted to find that tunnel, wanted to see Pettibwa and Grady beckoning to him.
“I told you he was evil!” Father Abbot Markwart roared at Brother Francis when they came upon the hanging man. “But even I did not understand the depth of it, apparently. To take his own life! What cowardice!”
Brother Francis wanted to agree wholeheartedly, but a nagging part of his conscience would not let him dismiss it that easily. They had found the woman, Pettibwa, in the adjoining cell, dead, and not by her own hand. Francis could only assume that Graevis knew she had died, and that had been the final burden, the one that pushed the battered old man past all sanity.
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