“By your own words you have committed treason against the Church and the King,” Je’howith proclaimed as the soldiers surrounded Jojonah. “Have you any offering of defense?” He turned about to face the congregation. “Will any others speak for this man?”
Jojonah stared up at the gathering, at Braumin Herde, and the man dutifully remained silent.
The Allheart soldiers swarmed over the master, and with Markwart and Je’howith’s blessings, so did many monks, beating him, dragging him away. As he was ushered out the door, he saw Brother Francis standing quietly, taking no part, seeming distressed and helpless.
“I forgive you,” Jojonah said to the man. “As does Avelyn, as does God.” He almost added the forgiveness of Brother Braumin, but could not go that far in trusting Francis.
And then he was gone, dragged from the room as the mob gained momentum.
Many were still in their seats, sitting quiet and stunned, including Brother Braumin. He caught sight of Francis staring up at him, but had only a glare to offer in return.
Later that same cold Calember day, Master Jojonah, stripped naked and placed in an open cage on the back of a wagon, was taken through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle village, his porters crying out his sins and crimes to the nervous townsfolk.
Insults became spit, became stones hurled Jojonah’s way. One man ran up to the cart with a sharpened stick, stabbing the monk hard in the belly, opening a vicious wound.
Brothers Herde, Viscenti, and Dellman, and all the other monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, and all the visiting abbots and masters, watched it solemnly, some with horror, some with satisfaction.
For more than an hour Jojonah was carted about the streets, and he was a battered and broken man, hardly conscious, when the Allheart soldiers at last dragged him from the cart and lashed him to a stake.
“You are damned by your actions,” Markwart proclaimed above the frenzy of the excited crowd. “May God show you mercy.”
And the pyre was lit beneath Jojonah’s feet.
He felt the flames biting at his skin, felt his blood boiling, his lungs charring with every breath. But only for a moment, for then he closed his eyes and he saw…
Brother Avelyn, reaching for him with outstretched arms…
Jojonah never screamed, never cried out at all.
It was, to Markwart, the biggest disappointment of the day.
Braumin Herde watched the whole of the execution as the flames climbed higher, engulfing his dearest friend. Beside him, both Viscenti and Dellman turned to leave, but Herde grabbed them and would not let them go.
“Bear witness,” he said, and they were the last three monks to leave the awful scene.
“Come,” Braumin Herde bade them when at last it was over, when the flames had died away. “I have a book you must see.”
In the crowd of villagers, Roger Lockless also watched. He had learned much since his flight from the road south of Palmaris, from the monster that had destroyed Baron Bildeborough. In the last few hours alone, he had learned of Jojonah and the freeing of the half-man, half-horse prisoner, and while the news had given him hope, this sight had brought only despair and disgust.
But he watched, and understood then that the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order was indeed his enemy.
Far from that place, in the lands north of Palmaris, Elbryan held Pony close on an empty hillock, watching the rise of Sheila. The war with the monsters was over, but the war with the greater enemy, they both knew, was only beginning.
The Demon Apostle
This one’s for Gary, the purest warrior.
Contents
Master - Table of Content
Dedication
PART ONE
THE ROAD HOME
1 Passion for Life
2 Jojonah’s Legacy
3 Private Fun
4 Precautions
5 A Proper Good-bye
6 Sitting on the Fence
PART TWO
CHURCH AND STATE
7 Shifting Winds
8 The Bishop’s Initiatives
9 Trailblazing
10 The Humanist
11 Friends in the Forest
12 In Motion
13 Partings and Greetings
14 Grabbing at the Soul
15 The Elven View of the World
PART THREE
POLITIC
16 Lessons
17 A Measure of Trust
18 Queen Vivian’s Garden
19 Allies of Choice and Necessity
20 Regrets
21 Destiny
PART FOUR
THE HEART AND SOUL OF CORONA
22 Seeds
23 Unleashed
24 The Light of Perspective
25 To the North
26 The Assassin
27 Looking Death in the Eye
28 Consequences
29 The Guest of Bi’nelle Dasada
30 Darkness and Light
31 The House of the Holy
PART FIVE
MIRROR IMAGE
32 The Blessed Upper Hand
33 Miles Apart
34 One-upmanship
35 The Smell of Prey
36 Unwelcome Homecoming
37 A Miracle in the Waiting?
38 A Sacrifice of Conscience
39 A Clash of Philosophy
Epilogue
P A R T O N E
The Road Home
Winter is settling on the land, Uncle Mather, but somehow, fittingly, it seems quiet and soft, as if the season will be gentle this year, as if Nature herself, like all the folk of the land, is in need of respite. I do not know how I recognize that this will prove true, but I cannot deny that which my ranger instincts tell me. Perhaps it is just that I am in need of respite, Uncle Mather, and I know that Pony is, as well. Perhaps my belief that the season will be gentle is no more than hopeful thinking.
Still, Pony, Juraviel, and I heard few reports of fighting, even of any sightings of goblins, powries, or giants all during our return trip from St.-Mere-Abelle. Our journey north from Palmaris to the sister towns of Caer Tinella and Landsdown was without incident, with the only substantial garrison in the region being a contingent of Kingsmen sent from Ursal to reinforce Palmaris. They subsequently struck out north of the city to help secure the resettlement of the handful of communities in the region north of Palmaris farms.
We have heard of few skirmishes in the weeks since our arrival; mostly it has been quiet, comfortably so. Tomas Gingerwart, who leads the three hundred daring settlers, and Shamus Kilronney, captain of the Kingsmen brigade, speak hopefully of a return to normalcy by the time winter relinquishes its grip on the land.
A return to normalcy?
They do not understand. Many have died, but many will be born to take their places; many homes have been burned to the ground, but they will be rebuilt. And so in the coming months the region may outwardly resemble what we once knew as our "normal" lives.
But I have trod this road before, Uncle Mather, after the first sacking of Dundalisbefore I came to know the Touel'alfar, before I found you and I know the scars of this war will be lasting. It is in the hearts of the survivors where the mark of the demon dactyl will remain, in the grief of those who lost friends and family, the shock of those displaced, the pain of those who return to their former villages to find a blackened field. Though they do not yet know it, the very definition of what is normal has changed. The aftermath of war may be more painful than the fighting itself.
Would I see the world the same way had the goblins not come to Dundalis those years ago? Not only was the course of my life changed by my rescue by the Touel'alfar and the training they gave me, but so were my perspectives on reality itself my view of duty, of community, even of mortality, that greatest of human mysteries.
And so these people are changed in ways they do not yet understand.
My greatest concern is for Pony. The first destruction of Dundalis of which she and I were the only su
rvivors and in which her entire family was slaughtered nearly broke her, sent her careening down a road that led her to Palmaris and a new life, one in which she could not even remember her tragic past. Only the love of her adoptive parents saw her through that dark time; and now they, too, have become victims of evil. Tragedy has visited Pony again.
When we ran out of St.-Mere-Abelle, our mission there complete, our friend Bradwarden freed, she nearly turned around and went back. Had she re-entered that structure, gemstones in hand, she would have wreaked devastation before meeting her ultimate end.
And she didn't care, Uncle Mather, for herself or for those she might have killed. So blind was her rage at the discovery of the mutilated corpses of her dead adoptive parents that she was ready to destroy St.-Mere-Abelle and all in it, to destroy all the world, I fear, in one mighty outpouring of rage.
She has been quiet since we left the abbey and crossed the Masur Delaval into lands more familiar. Setting Belster O'Comely in place as the new proprietor of fellowship Way has helped to calm her, I believe, helped her to find a bit of "normalcy" in her life once more.
But I fear for her and must watch over her.
For myself, I know not what the lasting emotional effects of this latest struggle will be. As with all the survivors, I will grow from the losses, will find new insights as I contemplate the nearness of death. I hold few fears now. Somehow, amid all the carnage, I have found an inner peace. I know not what waits after death, Uncle Mather, and I know that I cannot know.
A simple, foolish sentence that sounds, and yet it strikes my heart and soul as a profound revelation. What I understand now is the inevitability of death, whether through battle, disease, or simply age. And because I understand and accept that, I no longer fear life. How strange that is! It seems to me now that no problem is too daunting and no obstacle too imposing, for all that I have to do is remind myself that one day I will be no more, that my body is ultimately food for the worms, and I am not afraid to try. Many times recently I have been asked to stand before hundreds of men and women and explain to them the course I think we should all follow. And while to many people to a younger Elbryan, perhaps that would have been uncomfortable fearing how the audience might view my words, fearing that I would do something foolish, like trip and fall down before them all now that nervousness seems a petty, stupid thing.
All I need do when so asked is to remind myself that one day it will not matter, that one day I will be gone from this world, that one day, centuries hence, someone might find my bones and the embarrassing stumble, should it ever happen, seems like little to fear indeed.
So the land is at peace, and Elbryan is at peace, and greater indeed will that peace become if I can find a way to calm Pony's emotional turmoil.
—ELBRYAN WYNDON
CHAPTER 1
Passion for Life
The room was dark, the curtains drawn, but the ranger could see the gray of the predawn sky around their lace-trimmed edges. Instinctively he reached behind him, seeking the comforting, warm feel of his lover's body, but she was not there.
Elbryan rolled over, surprised. Pony was not in the bed, nor even in the room, he realized as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. With a groan, for he was not accustomed to sleeping in any bed, let alone a soft one
—and this one was especially pillowy, for the folk of the towns had given the ranger the finest bed in Caer Tinella—Elbryan rolled off the bed to his feet, straightened, and stretched. He went to the window, noting that Pony's fine sword was not beside his own. That did not alarm him, though; as he came more fully awake, he could guess easily enough where she was.
When he pulled aside the curtains, he found that it was later than he had believed. The sky was thick with gray clouds, but he could tell that the top half of the sun was already peeking over the horizon. And the days this time of year were shortest of all, for they were now in the month of Decambria, the twelfth and last, and the winter solstice was less than three weeks away.
A scan of the forest north of the town showed the ranger the expected firelight. He went through a series of slow, exaggerated movements then, sliding low to the floor then back up, arms wide stretching, as he limbered up his six-foot three-inch, two-hundred-and-ten-pound, muscular frame. Then he pulled on his clothes and cloak quickly, wanting to join his love, and took up the magnificent Tempest, his elven-forged sword, the sword of his uncle Mather, the emblem of his position as ranger.
His room was on the northern edge of town, as he had requested, and so he saw few of the townsfolk as he rushed away—past a corral and the skeletal remnant of the barn he and Juraviel had burned on one escape from the monsters who had previously held Caer Tinella—and out into the forest.
A blanket of snow had settled thickly about the region only a week ago, but the weather had turned warmer since then. Now a low fog clung above the ground, blurring the trails, hiding the leafless branches. But the ranger knew the small, sheltered field he and Pony had chosen for their morning ritual: the elven sword dance, bi'nelle dasada.
He came upon her quietly, both not wanting to disturb her and also to glimpse her at the dance in its truest form.
And then he saw her and his heart was softened, and all his body felt warm.
She was naked, her feminine frame veiled only by the morning mists, her strong muscles glistening as they moved through the perfectly balanced interplay of bi'nelle dasada, weaving a wondrous dance of balance and motion. Elbryan could hardly believe how much he loved her, how much the sight of her thrilled and moved him. Her thick blond hair was longer now, reaching several inches below her shoulders and trailing her with every turn, as the sparkle of her blue eyes seemed to lead her. She held Defender, a fine, slender sword, its silverel blade shining in the dull morning light or sparkling suddenly with an orange flare whenever it caught the reflection of the campfire she had lit nearby.
The ranger crouched and continued to admire her, thinking it ironic, for it used to be Pony who spied on him at bi'nelle dasada in the days when she desired to learn the intricacies of the dance. How well she had studied! His admiration was twofold — one part of him impressed by the beauty of her movements, the level of harmony she had achieved in so short a time, and the other based in simple lust. He and Pony had not been intimate in several weeks, not since before the end of summer on the road to St.-Mere-Abelle to rescue Bradwarden, when she had unexpectedly broken their vow of abstinence and seduced him. Elbryan had tried to repeat that passionate scene several times since, but Pony had steadfastly refused. Looking at her now, he was nearly overwhelmed. Her allure was undeniable, the smoothness of her skin, the soft curves of her honed body, the movements of her hips, her legs, so shapely and strong. Elbryan could not imagine anyone more beautiful or enticing. He realized that he was breathing more heavily, that he was suddenly very warm—and though the day was not cold for the season, the air was surely not warm!
Embarrassed, feeling then that he was invading Pony's privacy, the ranger pushed the lustful thoughts from his mind and fell fully into the meditative calm afforded him by his years of discipline with the Touel'alfar. Soon he left Elbryan Wyndon behind, taking on the calm attitude of Nightbird, the warrior title given him by the elves.
He untied his cloak and let it fall to the ground, then quietly pulled off the rest of his clothing. Taking Tempest in hand, he walked from the brush. So deep in concentration was Pony that she did not notice his approach until he was within a stride of her. She turned to face him, startled, and did not match his smile with her own.
Her expression, jaw set firm and blue eyes blazing intently, caught Nightbird off guard. He was even more surprised when Pony moved suddenly, throwing her sword into the ground near his feet so forcefully that its tip dug inches into the hardened earth.
"I—I did not mean to disturb you," the ranger stammered, at a loss, for he and Pony had shared
bi'nelle dasada for weeks, had sword-danced together since he had taught it to her, the two working as one
that they might bring their fighting styles and movements into perfect harmony. Also, both of them had come to substitute the sword dance for a different form of intimacy, the one that they had agreed they could not now share.
Pony did not reply, except to halve the distance between them, staring up at him, breathing hard, sweat glistening on her neck and shoulders.
"I will leave if you desire," the ranger started to say, but was cut short as Pony reached up suddenly, grabbing the hair on the back of his head, moving her body against his, and pulling his face down, while she came up on tiptoe, locking him in a hungry kiss.
Tempest still in hand, the ranger's arms went around her, but loosely, unsure where this might be heading.
Pony showed no signs of relenting, her kiss growing more passionate, hungrier, with each passing second. The meditative state was long gone from Elbryan; no more was he the elven warrior. Still, he kept his wits about him enough finally to push Pony back a bit, to break the kiss and stare at her questioningly. For though they had proclaimed their love for each other openly, though they were — in the eyes of all who knew them; in their hearts; and truly, they believed, in the eyes of God—husband and wife, they had vowed to abstain from marital relations for fear that Pony, whose duties were no less demanding and dangerous than Elbryan's, would become pregnant.
Elbryan started to ask Pony about that pact of abstinence, but she interrupted him with a growl. She reached over and pulled Tempest from his grasp and threw the sword to the ground, then went back at Elbryan, locking him in a deep kiss, her hands roaming about his back, and then lower.
Elbryan hadn't the strength to protest. He wanted Pony so very badly, loved Pony so very deeply. Still locked in the passionate kiss, she slid down to the ground, pulling her lover atop her. The ranger wanted this moment to last, wanted to savor the beauty of lovemaking with Pony, so he tried to slow things down.
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