Back in his private room at St.-Mere-Abelle, the Father Abbot looked down at the hematite resting in his hand. He thought again of how complete this last spiritual journey had been, of how he felt as if he could actually pull his corporeal form along with him instead of sending his spirit back to it. What power that might bring! To be in any place at any time, and without leaving any hint of a trail.
Possibilities . . . possibilities. Perhaps he could reach all the way to Ursal, all the way to King Danube's court, all the way to the King himself.
Brother Francis had found the Father Abbot in fine spirits that day, and it had given him hope that his news concerning Braumin and the others would be received with some measure of tranquillity. And after a brief moment when Markwart's face had gone bright red and he'd seemed on the verge of an explosion, the Father Abbot had calmed considerably, had even managed a crooked grin.
"And they, all five, have run off?" Markwart asked calmly.
Francis nodded.
"You are certain of this —Braumin Herde and the other conspirators have left St.-Mere-Abelle?"
"They are gone, Father Abbot," Francis dutifully answered, lowering his gaze.
"St.-Mere-Abelle is a large place," Markwart remarked. "There are many shadows."
"I believe that they are gone," Francis replied, "out of the abbey altogether, and I doubt they mean to return."
"And what did they take with them?" Markwart asked, his voice a growl of rising rage.
Francis shrugged, surprised by the question.
"The gemstones," Markwart clarified, barking out the words. "Did they take any of the sacred stones? "
"No, Father Abbot," Francis blurted. "No, I am certain they did not."
"The words of a fool," Markwart retorted sharply. "Have a dozen brothers inventory the sacred stones at once."
"Yes, Father Abbot," Francis replied, turning to go, and thinking himself foolish for not anticipating that Markwart would fear another theft. Certainly news of more heretics fleeing the abbey would cause the Father Abbot to wonder if the curse of Avelyn Desbris had visited him again.
"Where are you going? " Markwart yelled as Francis took a step away.
"You said to see to the inventory," the flustered brother protested.
"When we are done!"
Francis rushed back to the desk, standing straight as if waiting for a judgment to be passed upon him.
Markwart paused for a long while, rubbing his wrinkled old face many times. As the seconds passed, and as he considered all the ramifications, his face seemed to brighten.
"And, Father Abbot, I fear that the kitchen boy, Roger Billingsbury by name," Francis went on, "has also fled the abbey."
"And I should care about this because ..." Markwart prompted.
Brother Francis stared long and hard at the surprising man. Was it not Markwart who had asked him to compile a list of workers at the abbey? And was it not Markwart who had told Francis that he believed there might be a spy working within the abbey? Suddenly Francis wondered if he had been wise to mention Roger. He had assumed that the Father Abbot had scrutinized his list, been led to the same conclusions that Francis had drawn; for, given the lack of other potential enemies, it had not been difficult for Francis to discern that Roger was the most likely prospect.
"The hired peasants often leave," Markwart reminded him, "by your own words. A complaint you had concerning compiling the list, if I recall."
Francis considered these words carefully, surprised that the Father Abbot was attempting to dispel the notion of a conspiracy between Braumin's group and the suspicious kitchen boy. Up to now, Markwart's suspicions had bordered on paranoia —or at least had seemed the result of a carefully constructed plan to divert all blame for everything that had happened at St.-Mere-Abelle over the last few years to Avelyn, Jojonah, and their followers.
"I do not understand, Father Abbot," Francis replied.
Markwart looked at him quizzically.
"Your present demeanor," Francis explained. "I had thought that you would be outraged by this desertion."
"Outraged?" Markwart echoed incredulously. "Outraged that our enemies would take an action so helpful to our cause? Do you not understand, young brother? Braumin Herde's desertion of the abbey spells the end of Jojonah's little conspiracy, as sure an admission of guilt as I have ever seen."
"Or an admission of fear, Father Abbot," Francis dared to say.
He backed off a step from Markwart's great desk as the Father Abbot stared at him. "They would have had nothing to fear if they had followed the rules of the Order," Markwart stated with a wry smile. "It brings me great pleasure to know that I inspire fear among heretics. Perhaps when they are caught —and they will be caught, do not doubt—we might study them closely, that we can measure and record their level of terror."
Francis shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he thought of the punishments Markwart might exact, as he considered the fate to which he might have inadvertently led Braumin and the others.
"You seem distressed, brother," Markwart remarked.
Francis felt as if he were withering under the old Father Abbot's scrutiny. "I only fear ..." he started to say but then paused, seeking a different, and better, direction for his argument. "That Brother Braumin has strayed, I do not doubt," he said at length, "as well as the others."
"But..." Markwart prompted.
"But there was once a true calling in their hearts —in Brother Braumin's, at least," said Francis.
"And you believe that we might help them to find their way back to the proper road?"
Francis nodded. "Perhaps with leniency," he said, "perhaps with generosity. Would it not be better for the Church, and for your legacy, if you could take the proteges of Jojonah and bring them back into the flock? Would it not serve our God better if someone of Brother Braumin's talent was brought back to the proper road? And then, in all likelihood, he would become a credible and fanatic critic of Jojonah and Avelyn, a prime example of one who had sunk to the darkness, but was climbing again into the light." Francis was desperately improvising here, for he did not want to see any more executions of brothers of the Order. But while he liked the simple logic and the sound of his words, the monk understood that he was chasing a shooting star. Even if Markwart agreed, would Braumin Herde? Francis doubted it. More likely, the stubbornly principled fool would denounce Markwart all the way to the stake. Still, Francis, more desperate about this matter than he would have previously guessed, pressed on. "I only wonder if we might not turn this situation into an even greater gain."
"No, Brother Francis, that is not what you wonder," Father Abbot Markwart said solemnly, standing up and walking around the desk. "No, what I recognize here is not pragmatism but compassion."
"And compassion is a virtue," Francis said quietly.
"True," Markwart agreed, draping his arm about Francis' shoulders, an unusual gesture for the normally detached man and one that made Francis more than a little uncomfortable.
"But true only if the empathy is placed upon one deserving," Markwart went on. "Would you offer leniency to a goblin? To a powrie?"
"But they are not human," Francis started to argue, his voice rising at first, but falling off weakly as Markwart began to laugh at him.
"Nor are heretics human," Markwart retorted suddenly, angrily, but again he calmed quickly and continued in a cool, controlled manner. "Indeed, heretics are less than goblins and powries because they, formerly being human and thus possessed of a soul, have thrown aside the gift of God, have insulted the One who created them. Pity the powries before the heretics, I say, for powries are devoid of this gift, are wretched creatures indeed. Powries and goblins are evil, because evil is their nature; but the true heretic, the one who turns his back on God, is evil by choice. That, my brother, is the epitome of sin."
"But if one is lost, Father Abbot, can we not rescue that soul?" Francis reasoned.
This time, the Father Abbot didn't mock the notion with laught
er but rather silenced Francis with a stern and uncompromising glare. "Take care, Brother Francis," he warned gravely. "You are bordering on the very tenets that brought about the downfall of Jojonah, and of Avelyn before him, the very idealistic and foolish notions that forced Braumin Herde and his fellow conspirators out of St.-Mere-Abelle."
"By the words of St. Gwendolyn, does not love beget love?" Francis replied, taking great care to control his tone so that he sounded as if he was merely asking for clarification and guidance, not disagreeing with the Father Abbot.
"St. Gwendolyn was a fool," Markwart said casually.
Francis fought hard to control his expression, but his eyes did widen and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from gasping. No words of insult were permitted against saints —that much Francis knew clearly from his years of study, a tenet that was spelled out again and again in Church canon.
"Do not seem so surprised," Markwart said. "You are soon to be a master ... perhaps," he added slyly, casting a sidelong glance at him. "And as a master, you must understand and admit the truth. Gwendolyn was a fool; most of my colleagues know that beyond doubt."
"The process of her canonization was without protest," Francis argued.
"Again, out of pragmatism," Markwart explained. "Gwendolyn was the only potential candidate among the women of the Church, and if you carefully read the history of that troubled time, you will understand that it was necessary to placate the women. Thus, a saint was born. Do not misunderstand me, my young student, Gwendolyn was possessed of a generous heart and a warm nature. But she never —as Jojonah never—appreciated the larger truth of our purpose.
"Take care," Markwart said again. "Fear that you might become a humanist."
"I do not know the term," Francis admitted.
"Fear that you might place the rights of the individual above the greater good," Markwart explained. "I thought that I had dispelled this weakness in you during our dealings with the Chilichunks, but apparently it is rooted deep. And so I make it clear to you now, the last warning I shall ever offer you. There are those, Avelyn and Jojonah among them —and this was their biggest sin—who believe the Abellican Church should be the caretaker of the flock, the healer of all wounds, spiritual and physical. They would have us live as paupers, and walk among the peasants with the sacred stones, bettering the lives of all."
Francis cocked his head curiously, for that did not sound very much like sin.
"Fools!" Markwart snapped sharply. "It is not the place of the Church to cure the ills of the world; it is the responsibility of the Church to offer a greater hope of a world beyond this world. Would St.-Mere-Abelle inspire anyone if it became nothing more than a collection of hovels? Of course not! It is our splendor, our glory, our power that offers hope to the rabble. It is the simple fear of us, the emissaries of a vengeful God, that keeps them walking the true path of enlightenment. I cannot stress this truth to you enough, and I warn you never to let it out of your thoughts. Are we to open the doors of our abbey? Are we to hand out gemstones to peasants? Where, then, will be the mystery, young brother? And without the mystery, where, then, will be the hope?"
Francis was trying desperately to digest this surprising speech; and surely some of Markwart's argument resonated profoundly. But Francis could not help but see some inconsistencies. "But we do hand out gemstones, Father Abbot," he dared to remind him, "to merchants and nobles."
"It is a balance," Markwart admitted. "We do sell, and even give away, some of the stones, but only in exchange for greater wealth and power. Again, we have a standing to support that the peasants might look to us for hope. It is our solemn duty to maintain the Church above the common rabble, and sometimes, sadly, that forces us to work beside the secular powers of state and the merchant class." Markwart chuckled ironically then, but he sounded somewhat sinister to Brother Francis.
"But fear not, young brother," the Father Abbot finished, leading Francis to the door, "for now the Abellican Order is blessed with a leader who has both will and way to correct some of the more distasteful necessities of the past."
Overwhelmed, Brother Francis bowed to his superior and walked off in a stupor. He was honestly afraid for Brother Braumin and the others, but he was more afraid that he would have to witness their eventual punishment —was even more afraid that Braumin, or more likely one of his weaker cohorts, would be brought back to St.-Mere-Abelle and would break under the inevitable torture and name Francis as the one who had ushered them out of the abbey.
Would Father Abbot Markwart consider the loyalty Francis had always shown him and be lenient, or would the "greater good" dictate a very different course of action?
CHAPTER 11
Friends in the Forest
The Masur Delaval was exceptionally bright this day under a gentle sun. Whenever a puffy cloud covered that sun, Roger and his five companions were reminded that winter had just begun. The air was not warm —and neither was the spray kicked up by the huge ferry, its square front slapping hard against the waves.
The group had taken a roundabout route to get to this point, fearing pursuit from St.-Mere-Abelle, and also wanting to change their appearances —grow some facial hair and acquire clothes other than their telltale brown robes. Now, finally, they had Palmaris in sight, and it was with more than a little trepidation that they approached the city of Marcalo De'Unnero. No doubt the abbot of St. Precious had been informed of their desertion by now, and despite their best efforts at disguise, Braumin and the others did not doubt that the dangerous man would recognize them if he saw them.
So, despite Roger's desire to look in on some of the companions he had known in the northland who were still, presumably, in Palmaris, the group came off the ferry on the Palmaris wharf intent on moving straight out to the north. They found little trouble navigating the quiet streets, having only occasionally to turn down an alleyway to avoid some marching soldiers.
After less than half an hour, in sight of one of the northern gates, they found another problem, though, for no one was getting in or out of the city without a complete inspection by the grim-faced city guard.
"Perhaps we should have taken a stone or two," Brother Castinagis offered, "amber, at least, that we might have walked across the river north of the city."
A couple of the others —most vigorously, Brother Viscenti—nodded their heads in agreement.
"Any theft of stones would have ensured that Markwart would have hunted us relentlessly," Brother Braumin reminded them. Viscenti's bobbing head immediately started shaking side to side.
"Then how are we to get out of here?" Castinagis asked.
Braumin had no answer, and so he looked at Roger.
Roger accepted the responsibility without complaint; in fact, he took it as a great compliment. Now that his reputation had been put on the line, the young man began to assess the problem. In the end, his plan was really very simple. Since the weather had held fairly mild, many wagons were rolling out of the gates. Farmers from south of the city were rushing through Palmaris northward, bearing hay and other supplies to farmers who had recently reclaimed their lands from the monsters.
Roger guided the five monks along to a street lined with taverns —and filled with the wagons of farmers who were inside, getting one last drink before heading north.
Into the hay they went, two men to a wagon. It was stuffy, damp, and uncomfortable; but soon enough the wagons were rolling along, and they were safe from any casual inspection. They heard the guards at the gate questioning the farmers, but they were interrogated perfunctorily.
The first wagon out on the road north of the city held Brothers Castinagis and Mullahy. They crawled from under the hay as the oblivious farmer drove along, and they dropped out of the wagon and trotted behind it for some distance, then moved to the side of the road and waited.
Several wagons rolled by, some going north, some back to the city. Then the pair spotted Brothers Dellman and Viscenti walking quickly down the road, and soon after, the four met with R
oger and Braumin Herde.
"Once again you have proven your resourcefulness," Brother Dellman congratulated Roger.
"Not so much, really," Roger replied, though he was thrilled by the compliment. "The road should be easier the rest of the way. The first few miles will have the eyes of many farmers upon us, I am sure, but after that, the houses are sparse and widely spaced, and we should be able to get all the way to Caer Tinella without answering too many questions."
"And there we will find the friends of Avelyn?" Braumin asked.
It was a question Roger had heard a hundred times since their departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, and one that he had not been able to answer. He could guess that Pony and Elbryan had gone back to Caer Tinella, especially since they had Bradwarden in tow, but he couldn't be certain. He looked around at the five monks, every one of them hanging hopefully on his answer, as they always were when this question was posed. Their expressions reminded Roger of just how desperate these men had become. They were intelligent, and every one of them had lived for at least twenty years, Braumin Herde for more than thirty. Yet on this issue, they seemed almost like children, needing the guidance of a parent —in this case, Roger.
"We will find them, or we will find the way to them," Roger offered. The monks' smiles widened. Brother Viscenti immediately began spouting hopeful possibilities, surmising how the friends of Avelyn might help put the world in order.
Roger allowed him his ridiculous fantasies without question. He pitied this man, and all of them, or at least sympathized with them. They had thrown away everything, had branded themselves heretics —and they all knew the punishment for that! All they had now were their principles. No small thing, Roger knew.
But you couldn't eat principles.
And principles wouldn't stop the thrust of a sword. Or cool the heat of a burning pyre.
They walked until late that night, putting as much ground between them and Palmaris as possible. Still, when they set their camp on a quiet and lonely hillock, the lights of Palmaris remained in sight, across the miles.
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 149
