DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (152 page)

Markwart came out of his trance suddenly, realizing only then how tightly he was clutching the soul stone, his withered old knuckles gone white from the strain.

He smiled, thinking himself clever for attaining such a high level of concentration, then put the stone back in the secret drawer of his desk. He was feeling much better, caring not at all that the bothersome Connor had apparently gotten away—the man could do him no harm in any case. Dobrinion, the true threat in Palmaris, had been taken care of, and now Markwart understood the true nature of Jojonah and his cohorts. As soon as the Brothers Justice delivered the stones, his own position would be secured. And from such a position of strength, Markwart knew he could easily deal with any trouble Jojonah put his way. Yes, he decided, he would begin the preemptory strike against Jojonah soon, would speak with Je’howith, who was a longtime friend and a man as dedicated to the preservation of the Order as he was, and through the influence of the abbot of St. Honce, Markwart thought, he could enlist the aid of the King.

At the other end of the broken connection, the spirit of Bestesbulzibar, the demon dactyl, was satisfied. The supposed spiritual leader of the human race was in his palm now, was accepting the precepts that Bestesbulzibar fed to him as though they were his own thoughts and beliefs.

The demon remained bitter about the defeat at Aida, about the loss of its corporeal form—which it had not yet figured out how to replace or recover—but found this puppet game with the Father Abbot of the Abellican Church, the institution that had ever been the demon’s greatest foe, quite pleasant, a distraction that allowed Bestesbulzibar to forget the defeat.

Almost.

*

“Why are we down here?” Brother Braumin asked, glancing nervously at the flickering shadows cast by his torch. Rows of bookcases filled with dusty ancient texts were crowded all about the two men, and the ceiling, too, closed in on them, for it was low and thick.

“Because here is where I will find my answers,” Master Jojonah replied calmly, seeming oblivious to the tons and tons of rock hanging thick over his head. He and Brother Braumin were in the sublibrary of St.-Mere-Abelle, the oldest section of the abbey, buried deep beneath the newer levels, almost down at the level of the waters of All Saints Bay. In fact, in the abbey’s earliest days, there had been a direct exit from this section of rooms to the rocky beach, a tunnel connecting to the corridor and portcullis Master De’Unnero had defended against the powrie attack, but that ancient passageway had been closed off as the abbey moved upward on the mountainside.

“With Abbot Dobrinion dead and the canonization process at least delayed, the Father Abbot has no excuse to send me out of St.-Mere-Abelle,” Jojonah explained. “But he will keep me quite busy, if he has his way, and no doubt Brother Francis or some other will hover about my every move.”

“Brother Francis would not be quick to come down here,” Brother Braumin reasoned.

“Oh, but he will,” Master Jojonah replied. “In fact, he has, and recently. In these ancient rooms, Brother Francis found the maps and texts to guide our journey to Aida. Some of those maps, my friend, were drawn by Brother Allabarnet of St. Precious himself.”

Brother Braumin cocked his head, not quite catching on.

“I will assume the role as chief sponsor of Brother Allabarnet for sainthood,” Master Jojonah explained. “That will allow me room from the Father Abbot’s intrusions, for no doubt he intends to keep me so busy that I have little time for any mischief. When I announce publicly that I will sponsor Allabarnet, the Father Abbot must concede time to me or risk the enmity of St. Precious, thus freeing me even from my normal duties.”

“That you might spend your days down here?” Brother Braumin asked doubtfully, for he saw no gain in being in this place; indeed, he wanted to run out of there at once, back into the daylight, or at least into the lighter and more hospitable rooms of the upper abbey. This place was too much like a crypt for his liking—and in fact there was a crypt nearby, in several of the adjoining rooms!

Even worse, in the far corner of this very library stood a shelf of very old books, ancient tomes of sorcery and demon magic that the Church had banned. Every copy that had been discovered save these—preserved that the Church might better investigate the workings of its enemies—had been burned. Braumin wished that none had been spared, for the mere presence of these ancient tomes sent a shudder through him, a palpable aura of cold evil.

“This is where I must be,” Master Jojonah explained.

Brother Braumin held out his arms, his expression purely incredulous. “What will you find down here?” he asked, and subconsciously glanced at the shelf of horrible tomes.

“I do not honestly know,” Jojonah replied. He noted the direction of Braumin’s glance but thought little of it, for he had no intention of going anywhere near the demonic volumes. Drawing Braumin’s attention, he moved to the nearest shelf and reverently lifted one huge volume, its cover holding on by barely a strand. “But here, in the history of the Church, I will find my answers.”

“Answers?”

“I will see as Avelyn saw,” Jojonah tried to elaborate. “The attitudes I witness now among supposedly holy men cannot be the same as those who founded our order. Who would follow Markwart now, were it not for traditions that root back a millennium and more? Who would adhere to the doctrines of the leaders of the Abellican Church if they could see past their blindness and recognize the men as merely men, full of the failings adherence to the higher order of God is supposed to erase?”

“Strong words, Master,” Brother Braumin said quietly.

“Perhaps it is time that someone spoke those strong words,” Jojonah replied. “Words as strong as Avelyn’s deeds.”

“Brother Avelyn’s deeds have branded him as a thief and a murderer,” the young monk reminded.

“But we know better,” Jojonah was quick to reply. He looked back to the ancient tome again, brushing the dust from the battered cover. “And so would they, I believe. So would the founders of the Order, the men and women who first saw the light of God. They would know.”

Jojonah fell silent, and Brother Braumin spent a long time digesting the words. He knew his place here, though, that of portraying the worst-case scenario, and so he had to ask, “And if your studies show that they do not, that the Church is as it has always been?”

The words hit Master Jojonah hard, and Brother Braumin winced as the older man’s round shoulders visibly slumped.

“Then my life is a waste,” Jojonah admitted. “Then I have followed errantly that which is not holy, but humanly.”

“Heretics have spoken such words,” Brother Braumin warned.

Master Jojonah turned and eyed him directly, locked his gaze with the most intense stare the immaculate had ever seen from the normally jovial man. “Then let us hope the heretics are not correct,” Jojonah said gravely.

The master turned back to the texts, and Braumin again paused, letting the words sink in. He decided that to be enough of that line of questioning—Master Jojonah had embarked upon a course for which there could be no retreat, one of enlightenment that would lead to justification or to despair.

“Brother Dellman has been asking many questions since we departed St. Precious,” Brother Braumin said, trying to lighten the conversation.

That notion brought a welcome smile to Master Jojonah’s face.

“The Father Abbot’s actions concerning our prisoners seem out of place, of course,” Brother Braumin went on.

“Prisoners?” Jojonah interrupted. “He brought them?”

“The Chilichunks and the centaur,” Brother Braumin explained. “We know not where they are being held.”

Master Jojonah paused. He should have expected as much, he realized, but in the commotion over Abbot Dobrinion’s death, he had almost forgotten about the unfortunate prisoners. “St. Precious did not protest the taking of Palmaris citizens?” he asked.

“Rumors say that Abbot Dobrinion was not pleased at all,” Brother Braumin replied. “There was a confrontation with Baron Bildeborough’s men, over his nephew, who was reportedly once married to the woman who accompanied Brother Avelyn. And many say that Abbot Dobrinion was in league with the Baron against the Father Abbot.”

Jojonah chuckled helplessly. It all made sense, of course, and now he was even more certain that no powrie had murdered Abbot Dobrinion. He almost said as much to Brother Braumin, but wisely held his tongue, understanding that such terrible information might break the man, or launch him on a course so bold as to get him killed.

“Brother Dellman has paid attention to the events, then?” he asked. “He is not closing his eyes and ears to the truth about him?”

“He has asked many questions,” Brother Braumin reiterated.

“Some bordering on being openly critical of the Father Abbot. And of course, we are all concerned about the two brothers who did not make the return trip to St.-Mere-Abelle. It is no secret that they were in the Father Abbot’s highest favor, and their demeanor has ever been a conversation point among the younger brothers.”

“We would all do well to watch closely the hunting dogs of Father Abbot Markwart,” Master Jojonah said gravely. “Do not trust Brother Youseff or Brother Dandelion. Go now to your duties, and do not visit me unless your news is most urgent. I will contact you when I see the opportunity; I will wish to hear of Brother Dellman’s progress. Pray ask Brother Viscenti to befriend the man. Viscenti is enough removed from me that his conversations with Brother Dellman will not be noticed by the Father Abbot. And Brother Braumin, do find out about the prisoners, where they are and how they are being treated.”

Brother Braumin bowed and turned to go, but stopped as Master Jojonah called to him once more.

“And keep in mind, my friend,” Jojonah warned, “that Brother Francis and some of those other, less obvious hunting dogs of Father Abbot Markwart will never be far away.”

Then Master Jojonah was alone with the ancient texts of the Abellican Order, parchments and books, many of which had not been viewed in centuries. And Jojonah felt the ghosts of his Church in the adjoining crypts. He was alone with that history now, alone with what he had spent his life accepting as divine guidance.

He prayed he would not be disappointed.

“Jilly,” Connor repeated, as softly and gently as he could.

The look on the woman’s face was caught somewhere between sheer incredulity and horror, the expression of a child faced with impossible and terrible circumstances.

Elbryan, gazing up at his love, had seen that expression on her face only once before, up on the north slope overlooking Dundalis, when their first kiss had been interrupted by the sounds of their town dying. He put a hand firmly on Pony’s thigh, supporting her, holding her in place, for she was surely swaying unsteadily on Symphony’s broad back.

The moment passed; Pony pushed aside the troubling emotions and found the same inner resolve that had carried her through the trials of so many years. “Jilseponie,” she corrected. “My name is Jilseponie, Jilseponie Ault.” She glanced down at Elbryan, gathering strength from his unending love. “Jilseponie Wyndon, actually,” she corrected.

“And once, Jilly Bildeborough,” Connor said quietly.

“Never,” the woman spat, more sharply than she had intended. “You erased that title, proclaiming before the law and before God that it had never been. Is it now convenient for the noble Connor to reclaim that which he disposed of?”

Again the ranger patted her firmly, trying to calm her down.

Her words stung Connor profoundly, but he accepted them as earned. “I was young and foolish,” he replied. “Our wedding night… your actions hurt me, Jilly… Jilseponie,” he corrected quickly, seeing her grimace. “I—”

Pony held up her hand to stop him, then glanced down at Elbryan. How painful this must be to him, she realized. Certainly he did not need to suffer through a recounting of the night she was wed to another man!

But the ranger stood calm, his bright eyes showing nothing but sympathy for the woman he so loved. He didn’t even let those green orbs reflect his anger, jealous anger, toward Connor, for he knew that to do so would be unfair to Pony. “You two have much to discuss,” he said. “And I have a caravan to watch over.” He patted Pony’s thigh one more time, this time gently, almost playfully, showing her that he was secure in their love, and then, with a playful wink, the perfect gesture to lessen the tension, he walked away.

Pony watched him go, loving him all the more. Then she glanced about, and, seeing that others were too near and might overhear, she kicked Symphony into a walk. Connor and his mount followed closely.

“It was not meant against you,” Connor tried to explain when they were alone. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

“I refuse to discuss that night,” Pony said with finality. She knew better, knew that Connor had indeed tried to hurt her, but only because her refusal to make love with him had wounded his pride.