“How do we proceed from here?” asked Braumin.
“I will train your brothers to train the newcomers, and themselves as they go forward. The martial techniques will be precise and broken into three distinct disciplines of fighting. And I will select from among your ranks a team of four to train privately by my tutelage.”
“The College of Abbots is in just a few months,” Viscenti remarked. “It would be good if we had something worthwhile to show them.”
“You will,” Pagonel promised, and with a bow, he left the room.
The very next day, the newcomers, nearly a hundred women and half that number of men younger than would normally enter St.-Mere-Abelle, were gathered in a large room to begin their journey under the watchful eyes of Pagonel and a score of older brothers.
So it went as the year turned to 848, and through the first month of the year. By the second week of the second month, Pagonel had made his choices.
“Three women,” Viscenti lamented to Braumin, who sat with Master Arri of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.
“Who is the fourth?” asked Arri, but Viscenti could only shrug.
Arri turned to Braumin. “This is the band you will send to reclaim St. Gwendolyn?”
Viscenti’s eyes widened when Braumin nodded, for he had heard nothing of any such journey.
“I should accompany them,” Arri remarked.
“You must stand for your brother at the College of Abbots, as we agreed,” Braumin reminded. “I will do all that I can for Brother Mars, but the accusations against him are strong.”
“And I will speak for your ascension to the role of Father Abbot,” a resigned Arri replied with a nod.
“And hopefully, when the college is adjourned, Abbot Arri, Brother Mars and Sister Mary Ann can return to a reclaimed St. Gwendolyn.”
“It would seem as if I have missed much of your plotting,” Viscenti remarked, and he didn’t sound happy about it.
“Everything is moving quickly,” Braumin replied with a grin.
No sooner had he spoken, when a courier rushed to the still-opened door with news that the mystic would see them in the private training area he had been given for his personal recruits. The three hustled down to the secluded chamber and found Pagonel alone in the place, seeming quite at ease. He motioned to some chairs he had set out, inviting them to sit and be at ease.
“One of your younger brothers has taught me of your saints,” the mystic explained. “As with those heralded in my own order, many came to their place of historical importance through their actions in desperate battle, and so, with your permission good Bishop, I have modeled the roles of your newest students after the legends of your church.”
Viscenti’s eyes widened with surprise, but Braumin seemed unfazed, and motioned for Pagonel to continue.
“Sister Elysant,” Pagonel called, holding his arm out toward an open door at the side of the room. A small woman, barely five feet tall and barely more than a girl, with long light brown hair entered the room. Her frame was slender but solid. She was quite pretty, the brothers noted, with eyes that seemed to smile, even though her face was set determinedly. She strode solidly to the mystic, carrying a quarterstaff that seemed far too large for her. She moved up to Pagonel and dipped a low bow, then turned to the three monks and bowed once again.
Pagonel barked out a sharp command, and Elysant leaped into a fighting stance, legs wide and strongly planted, staff slowly turning like a windmill before her.
“Elysant fights in the tradition of St. Belfour, the Rock of Vanguard,” Pagonel explained. “She will invite the enemy to attack her in close combat, but they will not easily dispatch her, or move her. Sister Elysant is the tower, turning the blows.”
“Saint Belfour was a bear of a man,” Braumin said with skepticism. “Elysant is a wisp of a creature.”
“Her center is low, her balance perfect,” Pagonel replied. “You could not move her, Bishop Braumin, though you are twice her weight.”
“Quite a claim,” Braumin replied. “Do you agree, sister?”
Elysant smiled confidently and twirled her quarterstaff.
“Sister Diamanda,” Parongel called and a second woman came rushing through the door. Her hair was short and flaxen, her jaw a bit square, and her face somewhat flat, showing her to have northern heritage – Vanguard, likely, or perhaps even a bit of Alpinadoran blood. She was much taller than Elysant, and broad-shouldered. Every movement she made spoke of strength. Like her predecessor, she bowed to Pagonel and to the monks, then added a third, matched, to Elysant. Unlike Elysant, however, Diamanda carried no weapon.
Pagonel barked out his command again, and Diamanda leaped to Elysant’s side, her hands coming up like viper heads before her, while the smaller woman altered her stance and sent her staff into position to protect Diamanda.
“St. Bruce the Striker,” Pagonel explained, referring to an Abellican warrior of the 5th Century, from the region of Entel, deadly with his hands and credited with turning back a boat of Jacintha warriors single-handedly.
“And Sister Victoria!” the mystic called, and in came the third, as tall as Diamanda but much thinner. Her hair was red, long and loose, her eyes shining green, and her movements graceful, making her approach seem as much a dance as a walk. She carried a long and slender sword tucked into the rope belt of her robe. She offered her respectful bows to Pagonel, the monks and her sisters, then drew her sword on Pagonel’s command.
“St. Gwendolyn,” Master Arri remarked, his smile shining brightly.
“Indeed,” Pagonel confirmed. “The Battlefield Dancer.”
“The rook, the bishop and the knight,” Bishop Braumin added, remembering the chess matches and Pagonel’s description of the knight.
“Three women,” Viscenti said, and he didn’t sound impressed or confident.
“Is there to be a fourth?” Braumin asked. “You indicated four. The queen, perhaps?”
“Not from among the newcomers, for none of them have enough proficiency with the Ring Stones to properly compliment the martial training I will provide. But yes, with your permission. I would like the young brother who taught me of your saints, Thaddius by name.”
“So your queen is to be the only man among the four,” Braumin said with a snort.
“In the tradition of St. Avelyn,” Pagonel replied.
“Brother Thaddius is strong in the Ring Stones,” Viscenti remarked.
Braumin nodded, and kept staring at Pagonel. Thaddius was strong in the Ring Stones, and from what Braumin knew of him, he was strong on tradition, as well. Braumin had been watching the promising young brother closely, for he had heard rumors that Brother Thaddius had spoken with admiring tones for Marcalo De’Unnero and the man’s distorted vision of godliness. Surely one such as young Brother Thaddius would not be pleased with these dramatic changes, or with having so many women brought into the Church!
And perhaps that was part of Pagonel’s ploy, Braumin realized, for he had learned not to underestimate this wise and exotic man, who always seemed to be thinking two layers beneath the surface.
“There may be a problem with Brother Thaddius,” Viscenti whispered into Braumin’s ear, apparently considering the same rumors.
But Braumin waved Viscenti back, and said to Pagonel, “Granted.”
“I will have them every day, all the day,” Pagonel insisted.
“They are yours to teach.”
The mystic bowed, and motioned to his team to begin their work. As the three women launched into all manner of stretching and focused breathing, Pagonel accompanied the others out of the room.
“The College of Abbots convenes in the fourth month,” Braumin reminded him as they parted at the doorway. “Will they be ready?”
“I have much work to do, but much substance with which to work,” Pagonel assured the man. “Pray tell Brother Thaddius of his new lot in life. I am sure he will be overjoyed.”
Braumin smiled at the sarcastic tone, which he took as confirmation of h
is silent guess regarding the mystic’s choice. “I will send him to your side immediately.”
“Grant him a soul stone,” Pagonel said, and he glanced back into the room at the three women. “There will be many wounds and much blood spilled.”
The smile left Braumin’s face and he looked past Pagonel to the young sisters, second-guessing his decisions.
And not for the first time.
And surely not for the last time.
*****
“Are they ready?” Braumin asked Pagonel as the season began to turn. The third month of Bafway was in full swing and winter was letting go of the land. There was still some snow, but the roads were open, though muddy. Still, a band traveling light could cross the tamed lands of Honce-the-Bear. Word had come from other abbeys that many brothers were on their way.
“I would like years more with them, particularly with Elysant,” Pagonel admitted. “Her movements are solid, her work with the staff commendable, but her skin is not yet properly toughened. There is no way to accelerate that.”
“Dolomite,” Braumin said immediately.
Pagonel looked at him curiously. “One of your gemstones?”
“A mineral, a rock – dolostone, actually, but yes. It can be used to cast an enchantment to toughen the skin and strengthen the constitution.”
“Elysant has little affinity with the Ring Stones,” Pagonel said. “If any.”
“But Brother Thaddius does, and used in conjunction with a soul stone, he could impart the enchantment…”
“Brother Thaddius has enough to do already, should trouble arise,” Pagonel interrupted. “The other sisters can use the stones, though they are not nearly as proficient or powerful as Thaddius.”
“The other sisters? Victoria? She is not old enough. My friend, we do not even allow brothers of less than four years in St.-Mere-Abelle to handle the stones. Brother Thaddius is one of very few exceptions!”
“My band is exceptional. By design.”
Braumin started to reply, but paused and grinned. “Dolomite. There is a way,” he said, and then grew somber. “But are they ready?”
“As I said, I would prefer more time. But yes, they move in wonderful coordination and have learned enough of the basics of their disciplines to complete our task. None of them were novices to fighting when I discovered them, and they have been willing students to alter their techniques. They will make the journey to St. Gwendolyn and scout the road and the monastery. If they are challenged, they will acquit themselves well.”
“You have watched the training of the others from afar. Are there any brothers you would wish to see in the challenge?”
“Do you ask me to seek unfair advantage before the exhibition?”
“It has to work,” Braumin said bluntly.
“It will. A band of third year brothers, if you would, Bishop Braumin.”
“Third year? Not those of the new class? And all men? That hardly seems fair.”
“There is nothing fair about it,” Pagonel assured him with a sly look. “I have trained my beautiful sisters in the harmony of the Jhesta Tu. Pray have many soul stones about to heal the bruises of your brothers, and if you have a stone to mend their feelings…”
The mystic turned and walked away.
*****
“This is highly unusual, Bishop,” Abbot Haney said to Braumin when he met up with the man in St.-Mere-Abelle near the end of the fourth month of 848, the last of the invitees to arrive for the College of Abbots. “A serious breach of protocol.”
Beside Haney, Master Dellman shuffled nervously from foot to foot.
Braumin looked around the wide room, to see many accusing stares coming back at him. They had all been thrown off balance by what they had found at the mother abbey. So many youngsters – too young, by Church edict! And so many women! It was not without precedent that women could be brought into the Order, but not here in St.-Mere-Abelle, and surely not in such numbers! The Sovereign Sisters of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea were not subject to the training of the brothers who entered the Church, and were not expected to assume the tasks and roles of the young brothers.
Until now.
Braumin matched stares with Viscenti, and could see the man squirming where he stood. Their unannounced changes had left the visiting brothers mystified and uneasy, and for many, unhappy.
Braumin continued his scan of the room. It struck him how young this gathering was! Indeed, the Church had been decapitated, with most of the older masters and abbots killed in the Heresy. How many of these men standing about him were abbots, he wondered? How many of the Abellican abbeys were without abbots? And how few masters remained? Most of the brothers here did not look old enough to have formally attained that rank. Normally, the College of Abbots was reserved for abbots and their highest ranking masters alone, but Braumin had specifically tailored the invitation to all and any who would come. And many had, and perhaps this was the largest gathering the Abellican Church had ever known.
But they were so young!
Braumin’s scan finally brought him back to his dear friend Dellman and Abbot Haney. Dellman offered him a nod of encouragement, though he could see the fear in the man’s eyes.
He focused on Haney, the young Vanguardsman who was perhaps his greatest rival for the ascent to the rank of Father Abbot. They were not enemies, though, and Braumin thought highly of the man, and he saw in Haney’s eyes more sympathy than anger; the man was clearly uncomfortable by the grim tone of the gathering.
“Welcome, brothers!” Bishop Braumin suddenly shouted, formally opening the College of Abbots. He looked across the room to the contingent representing St. Gwendolyn, and pointedly added, “And sister!”
All eyes turned to Sister Mary Ann, who stood resolute and unbending.
As she had since Master Arri had brought her in to St.-Mere-Abelle months before. The accusations against her were tremendous, and she would not deny them! In her heart, she had done nothing wrong, and Braumin found it very hard to find fault with such an attitude. She would have fit right in with his band of conspirators in the bowels of St.-Mere-Abelle in the days of Markwart, he believed.
He doubted if that would save her, though, given the frightened mood of the gathering.
They were in no humor to hear of any Samhaist.
“Tonight we feast, tomorrow we argue,” Bishop Braumin announced. He paused though, and put on a sly smile. “Though perhaps we will argue tonight, as well, yes? The age of the new brothers! And sisters, so many sisters! Too many sisters! And yes, my brothers, the whispers you have heard are true. There are many within this abbey, in the robes of an Abellican, who have no affinity with the stones.”
Many calls came back at him, none supportive, and more than a few gasps could be heard among the brothers. Braumin had expected as much, and certainly understood. Every brother in here, and Sister Mary Ann, too, had spent years proving an affinity with the sacred Ring Stones as part of the selection process for ordainment. Many had known friends through their years of training who had been denied entry into the Order because they could not feel the power of the gemstones.
And now, without consultation, Bishop Braumin had thrown that rule aside.
Braumin let the commotion die down, and tossed a wink at the nervous Viscenti.
“It is, or will be, all up to debate and argument, of course, brethren,” he said.
“But you have already brought them in,” one brother of about Braumin’s age remarked loudly.
“Temporarily, perhaps, though I hope that is not the case,” Braumin replied. “You have seen the scars of the battle that was waged here at St.-Mere-Abelle – on your way into our repaired gates, you passed a grave holding scores of bodies. In this very hall, there is wood holding back the wind where once there was a grand window of colored glass. The window of the Covenant of Avelyn, shattered by the entrance of a true dragon! I say none of this to diminish the losses that many of you have suffered at your own abbeys and chapels. Witness Master Arri her
e, and Sister Mary Ann, perhaps all that remain of the brothers and sisters of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.
“But know that new King Midalis required of St.-Mere-Abelle a measure of strength that we simply no longer possessed,” Braumin went on. “I could have recalled many of you to my side – such an edict would have been well within my power as the steward of the position with the death of Father Abbot Bou-raiy! I could have emptied many of your chapels, abbeys even, to solidify this, the Mother Church of Saint Abelle.”
He paused and let that sink in, and was glad to see the nods of agreement from many of the monks, even some he recognized as masters, and one or two he assumed were now serving as abbots.
“But a man from Behren, a hero of the battle, has shown me a different way,” Braumin explained. “If you have heard the tales of the battle of St.-Mere-Abelle, then you have heard the name of Pagonel, a mystic of the Jhesta Tu. A hero of the day, I say! There are hundreds now alive who would have perished had not Pagonel flown about them on the dragon Agradeleous, calling for them to stand down as the fate of the lands, state and church, were determined in this very hall.
“This very hall where Marcalo De’Unnero was defeated. This very hall where the shadow of the demon dactyl was cleansed from the soul of Aydrian Wyndon! At my bidding, Pagonel of the Jhesta Tu remains at St.-Mere-Abelle to this day, and his generosity cannot be overstated. He has revealed to us secrets of his Order.”
Unsure of how much he should tell rather than show, Braumin paused there and measured the gathering. Every eye was intently upon him, many doubting, some horrified, others intrigued.
“Come, brothers and Sister Mary Ann. Before we feast, let us go and witness the work of our guest, who has offered me this path back to the security of the Church we all cherish.”
He waved his arm to the side, where a pair of his monk attendants threw wide double doors, leading to a long and wide corridor and a flight of stairs that would take them down to where the exhibition waited, where three strong brothers, among the finest fighters of their class, waited to engage the trio of young new sisters tutored by Pagonel.
The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga) Page 9
