DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (148 page)

The monk spent the bulk of the day in his cabin, sleeping, gathering the strength he knew he would need. He did get up for a short while, and with a friendly nod convinced Matthew to play dice with him, assuring him the captain wouldn’t mind if he took a short break from his chores.

Jojonah wished that the boy could talk, or even laugh, in the hour they spent throwing dice. He wanted to know where the lad had come from and how he had wound up on a ship at so tender an age.

Likely his parents, poverty-stricken, had sold him, the monk knew, and he winced at the thought. That was how most ships acquired cabin boys, though Jojonah hoped that Al’u’met had not been the one to purchase him. The captain claimed to be a religious man, and men of God did not do such things.

A light rain came up that night, but nothing that impededSaudi Jacintha ‘sprogress. This crew was well-trained and knew every turn in the great river, and on the ship plowed, her prow spray foaming white in the moonlight. It was at that forward rail, in that same night after the rain had stopped, that Master Jojonah fully accepted the truths that were forming in his heart. Alone in the darkness with the splash of the prow, the croaking of the animals on the bank, the flutter of the wind in the sails, Master Jojonah found his course come clearer.

He felt as if Avelyn were with him, hovering about him, reminding him of the three vows—not just the empty spoken words, but the meaning behind them—that supposedly guided the Abellican Order.

He stayed up all through the night and went to bed again right before the dawn, after coaxing a sleepy-eyed Matthew to go and fetch him a good meal.

He was up again at dinnertime, dining beside Captain Al’u’met, who informed him they would reach their goal early the next morning.

“You might not wish to stay up all the night again,” the captain said with a smile. “You will be back to land in the morning, and will not travel far, I will guess, if you are asleep.”

Still, later on that evening, Captain Al’u’met found Jojonah again at the forward rail, staring into the darkness, looking into his own heart.

“You are a thinking man,” the captain said, approaching the monk. “I like that.”

“You can tell such things simply because I am standing out here alone?” Jojonah replied. “I might be thinking of nothing at all.”

“Not at the forward rail,” Captain Al’u’met said, taking a spot right beside the leaning monk. “I, too, know the inspiration of this place.”

“Where did you get Matthew?” Jojonah asked abruptly, blurting out the words before he could even consider them.

Al’u’met gave him a sidelong glance, surprised by the question. He looked back to the prow spray and smiled. “You do not wish to think that I, a man of your Church, purchased him from his parents,” the perceptive man reasoned. “But I did,” Al’u’met added, standing straighter and looking directly at the monk.

Master Jojonah did not return the stare.

“They were paupers, living near St. Gwendolyn, surviving on the scraps your Abellican brothers bothered to toss out for them,” the captain went on, his tone deepening, growing somber.

Now Jojonah did turn, eyeing the man severely. “Yet this is the Church you chose to join,” he stated.

“That does not mean that I agree with all of those who now administer the doctrine of the Church,” Al’u’met calmly replied. “As to Matthew, I purchased him, and at a handsome price, because I came to think of him as my own son. He was always at the docks, you see—or at least, he was there at those times when he could escape his wrathful father. The man beat him for no reason, though little Matthew had not seen his seventh birthday at the time. So I purchased him, took him aboard to teach him an honest trade.”

“A difficult life,” Jojonah remarked, but all animosity and hints of accusation were gone from his voice.

“Indeed,” the large Behrenese agreed. “A life some love and others loathe. Matthew will make up his own mind when he is old enough to better understand. If he comes to love the sea, as I do, then he will have no choice but to stay aboard ship—and hopefully he will choose to stay with me.Saudi Jacintha will outlive me, I fear, and it would be good to have Matthew to carry on my work.”

Al’u’met turned to face the monk and went quiet, waiting until Jojonah looked at him directly. “And if he does not love the smell and the roll of the waves, he will be free to go,” the man said sincerely. “And I will make sure that he has a good start wherever he chooses to live. I give you my word on this, Master Jojonah of St.-Mere-Abelle.”

Jojonah believed him, and his return smile was genuine. Among the tough sailors of the day, Captain Al’u’met surely stood tall.

They both looked back to the water and stood in silence for some time, save for the splashing prow and the wind.

“I knew Abbot Dobrinion,” Captain Al’u’met said at length. “A good man.”

Jojonah looked at him curiously.

“Your companion, the wagon driver, spread word of the tragedy in Bristole while you were seeking passage,” the captain explained.

“Dobrinion was indeed a good man,” Jojonah replied. “And a great loss it is for my Church that he was killed.”

“A great loss for all the world,” Al’u’met agreed.

“How did you know him?”

“I know many of the Church leaders, for, given my mobile profession, I spend many hours in many different chapels, St. Precious among them.”

“Have you ever been to St.-Mere-Abelle?” Jojonah asked, though he didn’t think Al’u’met had, for he believed that he would remember this man.

“We put in once,” the Captain replied. “But the weather was turning, and we had far to go, so I did not get off the docks. St. Gwendolyn was not so far away, after all.”

Jojonah smiled.

“I have met your Father Abbot, though,” the Captain went on. “Only once. It was 819, or perhaps 820; the years do seem to blend as they pass. Father Abbot Markwart had put out a call for open-seas sailing ships. I am not really a river-runner, you see, but we took some damage last year—powrie barrelboat, for the wretched dwarves seemed to be everywhere!—and were late getting out of port this spring.”

“You answered the Father Abbot’s call,” Jojonah prompted.

“Yes, but my ship was not chosen,” Al’u’met replied casually. “Truthfully, I think it had something to do with the color of my skin. I do not believe that your Father Abbot trusted a Behrenese sailor, especially one who was not, at that time, an anointed member of your Church.”

Jojonah nodded his agreement; there was no way that Markwart would have accepted a man of the southern religion for the journey to Pimaninicuit. The monk found that notion ironic, laughable even, given the carefully planned murderous end of the voyage.

“Captain Adjonas and hisWindrunner were the better choice,” Al’u’met admitted. “He was riding the open Mirianic before I ever learned to work an oar.”

“You know of Adjonas, then?” Jojonah asked. “And of the end of theWindrunner?”

“Every seaman on the Broken Coast knows of the loss,” Captain Al’u’met replied. “Happened just outside of All Saints Bay, so they say. A rough bit of water, to be sure, though I am amazed that a man as sea-seasoned as Adjonas got caught too near the shoal.”

Jojonah only nodded; he could not bring himself to reveal the awful truth, to tell this man that Adjonas and his crew had been slaughtered in the sheltered waters of All Saints Bay by the holy men of the religion Al’u’met had freely joined. Looking back at that now, Master Jojonah could hardly believe that he had gone along with the plan, the terrible tradition. Had it always been that way, as the Church insisted?

“A fine ship and crew,” Al’u’met finished reverently.

Jojonah nodded his agreement, though in truth, he hardly knew any of the sailors, had met only Captain Adjonas and the first hand, Bunkus Smealy, a man he did not like at all.

“Go and get your sleep, Father,” Captain Al’u’met said. “You’ve a hard day of walking ahead of you.”

Jojonah, too, thought that to be a good time to break the conversation. Al’u’met had inadvertently given him much to think about, had rekindled memories and put them in a new light.That does not mean that I agree with all of those who now administer the doctrine of the Church, Al’u’met had said, words that rang as truly prophetic to the disillusioned master.

Jojonah slept well that night, better than he had since he had first arrived in Palmaris, since all the world had spun completely over. A cry concerning dock lights woke him with the sun and he gathered his few possessions and raced onto the deck, thinking to see the long wharves of Palmaris.

All that he saw was fog, a heavy gray blanket. All the crew was abovedecks, most at the rail, holding lanterns and peering intently into the gloom. Looking for rocks, or even other ships, Jojonah realized, and a shudder coursed his spine. The sight of Captain Al’u’met calmed him, though, the tall man standing serenely, as though this situation was nothing out of the ordinary. Jojonah made his way to join him.

“I heard a cry for dock lights,” the monk explained, “though I doubt that any might have been spotted in this fog.”

“We saw,” Al’u’met assured him, smiling. “We are close, and getting closer by the second.”

Jojonah followed the captain’s gaze out over the forward rail, to the gloom. Something—he couldn’t quite identify it—seemed out of place to him, as though his internal direction sense was askew. He stood quiet for a long while, trying to sort it out, noting the position of the sun, a lighter splotch of grayness ahead of the ship.

“We are traveling east,” he said suddenly, turning to Al’u’met. “But Palmaris is on the western bank.”

“I thought that I would save you the hours on the crowded ferry,” Al’u’met explained. “Though they might not even run the ferry in this gloom.”

“Captain, you did not have to—”

“No trouble, my friend,” Al’u’met replied. “We would not be allowed into Palmaris port until the fog rolled back anyway, so rather than set anchor, we turned to Amvoy, a smaller port and one with less rules.”

“Land to forward!” came a call from above.

“Amvoy’s long dock!” another sailor agreed.

Jojonah looked to Al’u’met, who only winked and smiled.

Soon after,Saudi Jacintha glided easily into position beside the one long dock at Amvoy, the skilled sailors expertly tying her in place.

“I wish you well, Master Jojonah of St.-Mere-Abelle,” Al’u’met said sincerely as he led the monk to the gangplank. “May the loss of good Abbot Dobrinion strengthen us all.” He shook Jojonah’s hand firmly, and the monk turned to go.

At the edge of the plank he stopped, torn, prudence battling conscience.

“Captain Al’u’met,” he said suddenly, turning about. He noted several other sailors in the vicinity, all listening to his every word, but didn’t let that deter him. “In the coming months you will hear stories of a man named Avelyn Desbris. Brother Avelyn, formerly at St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“The name is not known to me,” Captain Al’u’met replied.

“But it will be,” Master Jojonah assured him. “You will hear terrible stories of the man, naming him as a thief, a murderer, a heretic. You will hear his name dragged through the very fires of hell.”

Captain Al’u’met made no reply at all as Jojonah paused and swallowed hard on his words.

“I tell you this in all sincerity,” the monk went on, realizing that he was crossing a very delicate line here. Again he paused, swallowing hard. “The stories are not true, or at least, the manner in which they will be told will be slanted against the actions of Brother Avelyn, who was, I assure you, a man following his God-inspired conscience at all times.”

Several of the crewmen merely shrugged, thinking that the words meant little for them, but Captain Al’u’met recognized the gravity in the monk’s voice and understood that this was a pivotal moment for the man. From Jojonah’s tone, Al’u’met was wise enough to understand that these tales of this monk he did not know might indeed affect him, and everyone else associated with the Abellican Church. He nodded, not smiling.

“Never has the Abellican Church fostered a better man than Avelyn Desbris,” Jojonah said firmly, and he turned and left theSaudi Jacintha. He understood the chance he had just taken, realizing that theSaudi Jacintha would likely find its way to St.-Mere-Abelle again one day, and that Captain Al’u’met, or more likely, one of the eavesdropping crewmen would speak with men at the abbey, would perhaps speak with Father Abbot Markwart himself. But for some reason, Jojonah didn’t try to qualify the story, or retract it. There, he had said it, openly. As it should be.

Still, the monk’s words followed him as he entered Amvoy, filling him with doubts. He secured a ride to the east on a wagon, and though the driver was a member of the Church, and a man as friendly and generous as Captain Al’u’met, at their parting three days later, only a few miles from the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, Master Jojonah did not recount his tale of Avelyn.

It wasn’t until he came in sight of the abbey that the master’s doubts vanished. From any perspective, St.-Mere-Abelle was an impressive place, its walls ancient and strong, a lasting part of the mountainous coastline. Whenever he looked upon the abbey from out here, Jojonah was reminded of the long, long history of the Church, of traditions that preceded Markwart, and even the last dozen Father Abbots before him. Again Jojonah felt as if Avelyn’s tangible spirit was about him and in him, and he was overcome with a desire to dig deeper into the Order’s past, to look for the way things had once been so many centuries before. For Master Jojonah could hardly believe that the Church as it now existed could have become such a dominant religion. These days, people were drawn to the Church out of heritage; they were “believers” because their parents had been, their grandparents had been, their grandparents’ parents had been. Few were like Al’u’met, he understood, recent converts, members out of their heart and not their heritage.