The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga)

by R. A. Salvatore

  He straightened his shoulders and steeled his broken jaw.

  He knew what must first be done.

  *****

  Brother Mars hunched low and tried to remain inconspicuous as he went about his work in tending the wounded soldiers, and traveled the battlefield perimeter as far as possible from St.-Mere-Abelle’s wall. Normally, he was an imposing man, solid as a monastery wall, so it was said, and never one to shy from confrontation. But now, at this time, after the whispers of Brother Thaddius in the great hall of the monastery, after this disastrous battle, the man believed that a low profile alone could save him.

  They knew.

  It all made sense now. The masters of St.-Mere-Abelle had placed him in the background of the great battle, out of the way manning one of the high catapults. By all rights, Mars should have been on the front lines, for despite his young age and short training, few at the monastery, few in all the Church, could outfight him.

  But no, they knew the truth of his loyalties, as Brother Thaddius had warned.

  And it was the truth, the man admitted to himself out there on the bloodstained field. Mars had thrown his loyalty to Marcalo De’Unnero. He had remained under the command of Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy as a spy, mostly, for his heart lay with the vision of De’Unnero, even if some of the man’s tactics seemed a bit extreme.

  De’Unnero did not believe that the sacred gemstones should be out of Church control, or that their blessing should be offered so liberally to the common folk of Honce-the-Bear.

  De’Unnero did not believe that the peasants should be coddled. No, loyalty to God was a difficult and demanding task, one requiring vigilance and sacrifice.

  To Brother Mars, Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy and those others, Bishop Braumin and his allies, were weak and soft.

  But they had won the day, and so, Brother Mars lamented, the Abellican Church might never recover.

  More immediate concerns weighed on Brother Mars this day, however, concerns for his own future, or lack thereof. The masters suspected his turn from their way and toward De’Unnero. They surely would not tolerate him now with De’Unnero dead and the cause so badly disrupted.

  He thought of his coming fate – and he was certain things would fall this way – with him in the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle, chained to the wall and fed food not fit for the rats. Even though he was outside of the monastery at that time, hoisting another wounded soldier over his shoulder to carry to the brothers with the soul stones, Mars felt as if the walls were closing in around him, suffocating him, damning him.

  He knew what he must do. He kept at his work until the call for Vespers, the sunlight fast fading. Off in a far corner of the battlefield, he stripped off his bloody robes and threw on the shirt of a man killed in the battle. He crawled to the farthest point where he could remain undercover and as soon as darkness fell, he put his feet under him and ran off into the night.

  He didn’t stop running until he came upon the town of St.-Mere-Abelle, some three miles inland.

  The place was overfilled with soldiers, men from every corner of Honce, and more than a few from Alpinador, even. Mars understood the nature of war, and knew enough to realize that many of these people would remain in St.-Mere-Abelle, would make of it their home.

  So would he.

  Doors of the common rooms, taverns, and inns of the town were thrown wide by order of Prince Midalis, who was surely soon to be crowned King of Honce-the-Bear.

  From one of those rooms, where songs of lament, of loss, of victory and of hope all blended together in the many toasts and laments offered by the men, Brother Mars stared up the long hill toward the silhouette of the dark monastery beneath the starry skies.

  Not so long ago, his heart had leaped with joy at the whispers that Marcalo De’Unnero approached St.-Mere-Abelle and would claim the Church as his own. How thrilled was Mars to believe that he could throw off his façade, discard this lie his life had become, and proclaim openly his support for De’Unnero! How he had hoped that he would stand beside that man, the greatest warrior the Abellican Order had ever known, to reshape the Order into one of sacrifice and valor and utter devotion!

  Guilt brought many pained squints to Mars’s eyes that night as he replayed the disastrous battle. He should have been stronger. He should have gone to Marcalo De’Unnero in the great hall and fought beside the man.

  He conjured the image, burned forever into his memory, of De’Unnero lying dead on the stairs beside the woman called Sadye. Brother Mars should have been there, fighting with his idol, dying beside De’Unnero if that, too was God’s will.

  He should have.

  But he had failed.

  *****

  At first glance, the brown-skinned man seemed quite out of place in this monastery, the mother abbey of the Abellican Church, but Pagonel walked with a quiet confidence and ease, and if he was out of place, no one had bothered to tell him.

  He was a small man, well into middle age, thin and wiry, though not a nervous and excitable type like Brother Viscenti. He walked in sandals, or barefoot, as he was now, and in either case, a shadow made no less noise than he. He wore a tan tunic and loose-fitting pants, tied at the waist with a red sash, the Sash of Life, the highest rank of the Jhesta Tu mystics of Behren.

  He stood in a grand hallway now, the Court of Saints, lined on one side by windows looking out over All Saints Bay, and on the opposite wall by grand paintings of the heroes of the Abellican Order, amazing works of arts that each stood twice the height of Pagonel. Few who were not of the Abellican Order had ever seen this place, but Bishop Braumin had offered Pagonel free rein of St.-Mere-Abelle, naming the mystic as one of the true heroes of the battle that had, in Braumin’s words, “defined the world.”

  Pagonel hadn’t even really fought in that battle, not conventionally at least, although if he had, then surely many would have fallen before him. He was Jhesta Tu, and a grandmaster of that martial art. An Allheart Knight’s shining armor would not protect him from the lethal hands of Pagonel, for the mystic could strike with the speed of a viper and the strength of a tiger. A warrior’s sword would never get close to striking him, for Pagonel could move like the mongoose, faster than the sword hand, faster than the eye.

  But no, he hadn’t fought in the battle, other than to fight against the battle. When Midalis and Aydrian and their closest cohorts had engaged in their duel in the great hall of the monastery, Pagonel, riding the dragon Agradelious, had flown low about the larger battlefield, calling for peace, insisting that the victor would emerge from within St.-Mere-Abelle, no matter the outcome on the field. He had saved many men and women that day outside of St.-Mere-Abelle, and in the aftermath, many indeed had come to him with their thanks and praise.

  None of that had been lost on Bishop Braumin. On Braumin’s word, Pagonel could go where he pleased in St.-Mere-Abelle, and could stay as guest of the Church for as long as he desired.

  Truly the mystic had been pleasantly surprised by what he had found in the quieter corners of the great monastery, whose walls ran a mile long atop the cliff wall, and where secret stairways led to quiet rooms full of wondrous treasures – of sculpture, painting, glassworks, tapestries, and jewelry design.

  As in this hall, lined with huge paintings meticulously and lovingly crafted.

  Lovingly.

  Pagonel could see that truth in every delicate stroke, in the favorable and painstaking use of light, in the frames, even, wrought of gold and as artistic as the paintings themselves.

  One in particular caught the mystic’s eye and held him, and not only because of the subject – the only woman depicted in any of the hall’s masterpieces – but because of the sheer grace in the form, her form. She was dressed in a long white gown, her heavy crimson cape flying about her shoulders as she moved and played a beautiful morin khuur of burnished, shining wood, her fingers gracefully working the bow across the four strings.

  The light in the hallway, dying as the sun set in the west, was not favorable at t
hat time of day, but Pagonel remained, transfixed, until darkness filled the hall, and then some more.

  A young brother entered the far end of the hall, a small man and exceptionally thin, given the way his robe seemed to flop about him with every step. Pagonel watched him closely as he lifted his hand and placed a tiny, glowing diamond upon a platter lined with crystal. He chanted quietly and moved along, placing a second enchanted diamond near to the middle of the room.

  Again he moved down the hall, chanting, but his prayer was surely interrupted when he noted Pagonel standing before the one of the paintings.

  “Master Pagonel,” he said with a seemingly polite bow, though the perceptive mystic caught a bit on unease accompanying the dip, for it was not offered sincerely and more out of necessity. “I am sorry if I have disturbed you.”

  “Far from it,” the mystic replied. “I welcome the light, that I might continue to stare at this most lovely figure.”

  The young brother, his narrow features seeming sharper in the diamond light, stared at the image before the man. “St. Gwendolyn,” he explained.

  “I have heard this name.”

  “A great warrior, so the legend claims,” the brother explained, moving near to the mystic.

  “Legend? Is she not sainted, and does such an action not declare the legend as fact?”

  The small man shrugged as if it did not matter.

  “She has an interesting choice of weapon,” Pagonel said, motioning back to the picture and the woman. “One might expect a bow of a different sort on a battlefield.”

  “St. Gwendolyn was known as a fine musician,” the monk explained.

  “The morin khuur,” Pagonel replied. “A most difficult instrument to master.”

  “Morin khuur?”

  Pagonel pointed to the instrument, then turned his fingers to match the pose of Gwendolyn as she handled the bow.

  “It is a violin,” the young monk explained.

  “Ah,” said the mystic. “In To’gai, they have such an instrument and name it morin khuur.”

  The monk nodded, and again, to perceptive Pagonel, he seemed as annoyed as enlightened by the news. The furrow in this one’s brow came quite easily, Pagonel noted, as if he was not a content man, by any means. He was young, quite young, perhaps in his early twenties and surely no aged master of the abbey, and yet he was handling the magical gemstones with ease and proficiency, as the lighted diamonds clearly reminded.

  “Tell me of St. Gwendolyn,” Pagonel bade him. “A warrior, you say.”

  “With her violin,” the monk explained. “So says the legend that when a band of powries gained the beach along the Mantis Arm and came at the brothers and sisters of her chapel, Gwendolyn took up her instrument and boldly ran to the front of the line. And so she played, and so she danced.”

  “Danced?” There was more intrigue than surprise in Pagonel’s voice, as if he suspected where this might be going.

  “Danced all about her line, all about the powrie line,” the monk went on. “They could not turn their attention from her, mesmerized by her movements and the beauty of her song, so it is said. But neither could they catch up to her with their knives and spiked clubs, no matter how furiously they turned in pursuit.”

  “And thus they were not prepared when Gwendolyn’s allies struck them dead,” Pagonel finished, smiling and nodding at the monk.

  “The powries were chased back to their boats,” said the monk. “The town was saved. It is considered a miracle in the Church, indeed, the miracle which allowed for the canonization of St. Gwendolyn.”

  “You do not agree.”

  The monk shrugged. “It is a fine tale, and one catered to admit a woman among the saints – a necessary action, I expect. Perhaps St. Gwendolyn was clever, and her ruse helped save the day from the powries. More likely, she bought the defenders enough space to launch some lightning or fire at the dwarves, driving them from the beach.”

  “Ah,” the mystic said, nodding in understanding. “And there is the true miracle, of course, the barrage of magical energy from the sacred Ring Stones.”

  The young monk didn’t reply, and stood impassively, as if the truth should be self-evident.

  Pagonel nodded and turned his full attention to the painting once more, enchanted by the beautiful face, the thick black hair and the graceful twist of this exquisite woman. The movement was so extreme and in balance, the cloak flying wildly, and yet obviously she remained in complete control. The artist had done his work well, the mystic knew, for he felt as if he understood St. Gwendolyn, and felt, too, that she would have made a wonderful Jhesta Tu.

  Might Gwendolyn still have a lesson for the Abellican Order, Pagonel wondered?

  He turned to the young monk. “What is your name?”

  “Brother Thaddius,” the man answered.

  Pagonel smiled and nodded. “These are the Saints of the Abellican Church?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me of them,” the mystic asked.

  “I have my duties…”

  “Bishop Braumin and the others will forgive you for indulging in my demands. I expect that this is important. So please, young Brother Thaddius, indulge me.”

  *****

  “What am I to do?” Braumin asked Viscenti a few nights later in the private quarters of Fio Bouraiy, where the two were separating dead Bou-raiy’s private items from the robes and gemstones reserved for the office of the Father Abbot..

  “It falls to you,” Viscneti replied. “Of that, there is no doubt.”

  “It?”

  “Everything,” said Viscenti. “I do not envy you, but know that I will be there standing behind you, whatever course you chart.”

  “A bold claim!”

  “If not Braumin Herde – Bishop Braumin Herde – then who?” Viscenti asked. “Is there an abbot left alive after the De’Unneran Heresy?”

  “Haney in St. Belfour.”

  Viscenti snorted and shook his head. “A fine man, but one who was not even ready for that position, let alone this great responsibility we see before us. Besides, he is a Vanguardsman, as is Midalis who will be King.”

  “Perhaps an important relationship then.”

  Again, the skinny, nervous man snickered. “Midalis would not have it,” he declared, and Braumin couldn’t disagree. “Our new King is no fool and having a Vanguardsman as King and as Father Abbot would surely reek of invasion to the folk of Honce proper! Duke Kalas would not stand for it, nor would the other nobles.

  “Abbot Haney would be the wrong choice, in any case,” Brother Viscenti went on. “He has no first-hand understanding of De’Unnero or his potential followers. He does not understand what drove the heretic, or even, I fear, the true beauty of Avelyn. He is no disciple of Master Jojonah!”

  That last statement, spoken so powerfully, jolted Braumin upright. Just hearing the name of Jojonah bolstered him and reminded him of the whole point of…everything. Master Jojonah had trained Brother Avelyn, and had shown a young Brother Braumin and some other even younger brothers the truth of the Abellican Church, as opposed to the course Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart and his protégée De’Unnero had charted for Order.

  Master Jojonah had been burned at the stake clinging to his beliefs, had gone willingly into the arms of God – and had charged Brother Braumin with carrying on his bold course. So many others, too, had died for those beliefs. Braumin thought of brave brother Romeo Mullahy, who had leaped from the cliff at the Barbacan, the ultimate defiance of Marcalo De’Unnero, an action that had shaken De’Unnero’s followers and resonated within those who had opposed him.

  And Brother Castinagis, one of Braumin’s dearest friends. The excitable fellow had never wavered, even in the face of certain death.

  De’Unnero had burned him in his chapel in Caer Tinella.

  “He is a good man,” Braumin at last replied. “He witnessed the miracle of Aida…”

  “He is not even as worldly as Master Dellman, who serves him!” Viscenti interrupted
. “Were he to ascend, then to those outside the Church, it would seem a power play by King Midalis, forcing his hand over the Abellican Church even as he strengthens his hold on Honce. We have walked that dark road already, my friend.”

  Braumin Herde kept his gaze low, chewing his lips, and he nodded in agreement.

  “Nay,” said Viscenti, “It falls to you. Only you. St.-Mere-Abelle is yours, surely. The Order is yours to chart.”

  Braumin Herde shrugged, and it seemed more a shudder. “I want her back,” he said quietly.

  Viscenti nodded and wore a wistful expression suddenly, clearly recognizing that his friend was speaking of Jilseponie.

  “I feel as if I best serve the Church by enlisting our southern friends to fly me on their dragon to the Timberlands, that I might drag Pony back to St.-Mere-Abelle to save us all.”

  “That we will not do,” came another voice, wholly unexpected, and both monks jumped and spun about to see Pagonel standing quietly in the shadows of the room.

  “How did you get in here?” Viscenti shouted as much as asked.

  “Have I upset you, brother?” the mystic asked. “I was offered free travel through the monastery, so I was told…”

  “No, no,” Braumin put in, and he dropped his hand on Viscenti’s shoulder to calm the man. “Of course, you are welcome wherever you will go. You merely startled us, that is all.”

  The mystic bowed.

  “And heard us, no doubt,” said Viscenti.

  “I took great comfort in your advice to Bishop Braumin,” Pagonel admitted. He stepped up before Braumin Herde. “I take less comfort in your expressed fears.”

  The monk stared at him hard.

  “I will not take you to Jilseponie, nor to her should you go,” Pagonel insisted. “She has done enough. Her tale is written, for the wider world at least. Besides, I have witnessed the power of Aydrian and believe that Jilseponie would best serve the world if she can instill in her son a sense of morality and duty akin to that she and her dead Elbryan once knew. You wish to go to her, to beg her to return and assume the lead in your wounded Order. This is understandable, but not practical.”