DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (163 page)

“Another mark against you?” Francis asked, eyeing Braumin’s hand on his shoulder.

“What two masters?” Braumin demanded. He could guess easily enough that one of the departing masters would be Jojonah.

“Did not your mentor tell you?” Brother Francis replied. “I did see you speaking with him, did I not?”

“What two masters?” Braumin demanded more urgently, rugging hard on Francis’ robe as he spoke.

“Jojonah,” Francis answered, straightening and pulling away.

“How?”

“He is to depart on the morrow for St. Precious, to accompany Master De’Unnero, who will become the new abbot,” Francis was all too happy to explain, and he did indeed enjoy the crestfallen expression on Brother Braumin’s face.

“You lie!” Braumin yelled. He fought hard to hold control, reminding himself that he should not openly appear distressed by Jojonah’s departure. But this was more than he could bear. “You lie!” he said again, shoving Francis so hard that the man nearly fell to the floor.

“Ah, my temperamental Immaculate Brother Braumin,” Francis scolded. “Another mark against your possible promotion, I fear.”

Braumin wasn’t even listening. He shoved past Francis and started down the corridor, first in the direction Jojonah had gone, but then, too hurt and confused to even think of confronting the man at that time, he spun about and walked briskly, then broke into an open run, to his private room.

Brother Francis watched it all with great amusement.

Despite his protests, Brother Braumin knew that Francis was not lying. The Father Abbot had struck against Master Jojonah, it seemed, in a way that was at least as effective as Brother Dellman’s accident. With Master Jojonah far away in St. Precious, an abbey whose stature had been greatly diminished by the death of revered Abbot Dobrinion, and under the watchful eye of wicked De’Unnero, Father Abbot Markwart had all but neutralized the man.

Now Braumin better understood the treatment Master Jojonah had given him in the corridor, the abrupt dismissal and disclaimer of all they had hoped to achieve. Braumin realized that the man was defeated and despairing, and so he put aside his own hurt and anger and sought out Jojonah, going to the master’s private room.

“I find it difficult to believe that you would be stupid enough to come here,” Jojonah greeted him coldly.

“I should desert my friends when they need me most?” Brother Braumin asked skeptically.

“Need you?” echoed an incredulous Jojonah.

“Blackness has come to your heart and spirit,” Braumin pressed. “I see your pain clearly on your face, for I, above all others, know that face.”

“You know nothing, and babble like a fool,” Jojonah scolded, and truly it hurt him to speak so to Braumin. He reminded himself that it was in the young monk’s own interest, and so he pressed on. “Now be gone, back to your duties, before I report you to the Father Abbot and he pushes you even further down the list of promotions.”

Brother Braumin paused and considered the words carefully, and then he came to a new understanding. Jojonah talked of the list of promotions and his place on it, and relating that to their last discussion before they had met in the corridor, Brother Braumin could then see another course that the older man was following.

“I had thought that despair had defeated you,” he said quietly. “I came to you only because of that.”

His change in tone profoundly affected Jojonah. “Not despair, my friend,” he said comfortingly. “Only pragmatism. It would seem that my time here is ended, and that my road to Brother Avelyn has taken an unforeseen twist. That bend may make my journey longer, but I’ll not stop walking. However, it would seem that our time of walking together has reached its end.”

“Then what am I to do?” Braumin asked.

“Nothing,” Master Jojonah replied somberly, but without hesitation, for he had thought through this situation quite carefully.

Brother Braumin gave an incredulous, even derisive, snort.

“The situation has changed,” Master Jojonah explained. “Ah, Braumin, my friend, I blame myself. When I learned of the plight of the Father Abbot’s unfortunate prisoners, I could not keep away.”

“You went to them?”

“I tried to go to them, but was stopped, and roughly so,” Jojonah explained. “I underestimated the Father Abbot’s reaction. In my foolhardiness, I overstepped the bounds of good sense, and have pushed Markwart too, too far.”

“Never could compassion be called foolhardy,” Brother Braumin was quick to put in.

“But still, my actions have forced Markwart to act,” Jojonah replied. “The Father Abbot is too strong and too entrenched. I have not lost my heart or my way, I assure you, and I will go against Markwart openly when I deem the time is right, but you must promise me here and now that you will take no part in that battle.”

“How could I ever make such a promise?” Brother Braumin firmly replied.

“If you ever loved me, you will find the way,” Master Jojonah replied. “If you believe in what Avelyn says to us from his grave, you will find a way. Because if you cannot make that promise, then know that my road has reached its end, know that I will not follow the course of opposing Markwart. I must be alone in this; I must know that no one else will suffer for my actions.”

There came a long pause, and finally Brother Braumin nodded. “I will not interfere, though I feel that your request is ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous, my friend, but practical,” Master Jojonah replied. “I will go against Markwart, but I cannot win. I know that, and so do you, if you can put your bravado aside and be honest with yourself.”

“If you cannot win, then why raise the fight?”

Jojonah gave a chuckle. “Because it will weaken Markwart,” he explained, “and publicly raise issues which may find a root of truth in the hearts of many in the Order. Think of me as Brother Allabarnet, planting seeds in the hope that, in days when I am no more, they will live on and bear fruit for those who follow my footsteps. Think of me as one of the original craftsmen at St.-Mere-Abelle, who knew that they could not live long enough to see their vision of the abbey fulfilled, but who went to their dedicated labors anyway, some spending their entire lives working on the intricate carvings of a single door, or cutting the stone for the original foundation of this magnificent structure.”

The poetic words struck Braumin deeply but could not push him past his desire not only to wage battle, but to win. “If we truly believe in Brother Avelyn’s message, then we cannot stand alone,” he said. “We must take the fight—”

“We do believe and we will, in the end, win out,” Master Jojonah interrupted, seeing where this was going and knowing it to be a fool’s ending. “I must hold faith in that. But for both of us to go against Markwart now would set our cause far, far back, perhaps beyond retrieval. I am an old man, and feeling older by the day, I assure you. I will begin the war against Markwart, and against the current way of the Church itself, and that will perhaps entice some of the Order to begin looking at our routines, our supposed traditions, in a new light.”

“And what is my place in this hopeless war?” Brother Braumin asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.

“You are a young man, and will almost certainly outlive Dalebert Markwart,” Master Jojonah calmly explained. “That is, forgoing any unfortunate accidents!” He didn’t have to speak the name of Dellman to conjure the unpleasant images into Brother Braumin’s mind.

“And then?” Braumin asked, his tone growing more composed.

“You will quietly spread the word,” Master Jojonah replied. “To Viscenti Marlboro, to Brother Dellman, to all who will listen. Building on the little I will accomplish, you will find allies where you will, but take great care to make no enemies. And above all,” Jojonah said, moving to a corner of the rug beside his desk, then pulling it back to reveal a secret compartment in the floor, “you will protect this.” He took the ancient text out of the compartment and handed it to a wide-eyed Braumin.

“What is it?” the young monk asked breathlessly, understanding that he was holding something of great importance, that this old book was part of the reason for Master Jojonah’s surprising decisions.

“It is the answer,” Jojonah replied cryptically. “Read it quietly, secretly, and then hide it safely away and put it out of your thoughts. But not out of your heart,” he added, patting Braumin’s strong shoulder. “Play along with Father Abbot Markwart’s games if you must, even to the extent of ambitious Brother Francis.”

Braumin’s face screwed up with incredulity.

“I am counting on you to become a master of St.-Mere-Abelle,” Jojonah firmly answered that look. “And soon—perhaps even as my replacement. It is not out of the question, because Markwart wants to give open signs that he is waging no private battle against me, and our friendship is widely known. You must find your way to that spot and spend your years in ways that will place you in line for a position as abbot of one of the other abbeys, or perhaps even in line for the position of Father Abbot itself. Aim high, my young friend, because the stakes are so tragically high. Your reputation remains impeccable and impressive beyond Markwart’s inner circle. When you have attained the pinnacle of your power, however high that might be, then secure your friends and decide how to continue the holy war that Brother Avelyn began. That might mean passingthe book and the dreams along to a younger, trusted ally, and following a course similar to mine. Or the situation might call for you and your allies to openly wage the battle within the Church. Only you will know.”

“You ask much.”

“No more than I have asked of myself,” Jojonah said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “And I believe that you are a finer man than ever was Jojonah!”

Brother Braumin scoffed at that remark, but Jojonah shook his head and would not back down. “It took me six decades to learn what you already have placed firmly in your heart,” the old master explained.

“But I had a better teacher,” Brother Braumin replied with a grin.

That brought a smile to beleaguered Jojonah’s sagging face.

Braumin turned his attention to the book, holding it higher between himself and the master. “Tell me more,” he insisted. “What is in here?”

“Brother Avelyn’s heart,” Jojonah replied. “And the truth of what once was.”

Braumin eased the book back down in front of him and tucked it under his voluminous robes, close to his heart.

“Remember all that I told you of the fate of theWindrunner, and hold that in comparison to the former ways of our Order,” Jojonah explained.

Braumin hugged the book even tighter, giving a solemn nod. “Fare well, my friend, my teacher,” he said to Jojonah, fearing he would never see the man again.

“Fear not for me,” Master Jojonah replied. “For if I were to die today, I would die contented. I have found my heart and the truth, and have passed that truth on to able hands. We will win out, in the end.”

Brother Braumin came forward suddenly and wrapped the large man in a great hug, holding it for a long, long time. Then he turned abruptly, not wanting Master Jojonah to see the moisture that had gathered in his eyes, and rushed out of the room.

Jojonah wiped his own eyes and quietly closed the door behind the man. Later that day, he, De’Unnero, and a score and five young escorts set out from the great gate of St.-Mere-Abelle. It was a formidable force accompanying the would-be abbot, Jojonah noted, twenty-five monks—fourth-and fifth-year students, herecognized—wearing heavy leather protection and well-armed with sword and heavy crossbow. The old master sighed at the sight; he knew that this group was more to ensure De’Unnero’s immediate and absolute dominance at St. Precious than to protect the would-be abbot on the road.

But what did it matter? Jojonah did not feel as though he had much fight in him; the road to St. Precious seemed imposing enough.

He hesitated as the gates of the abbey swung closed behind him, wondering if he should go back in and confront Markwart openly, should make his last stand here and now and be done with it, because he felt very mortal this day, as though he was running out of time.

But he felt weak and sick, as well, and did not turn about to go and find Markwart.

He lowered his head, in shame and out of sheer weariness, and gradually tuned in to the speech that sharp-tongued De’Unnero was giving to all the group, himself included. The man barked commands about how they would proceed, a marching order, protocol for the road, and he insisted from one and all, particularly from Jojonah, for he moved right up to stand before the man, that from this moment forward he be addressed as Abbot De’Unnero.

The title assaulted Master Jojonah’s every sensibility. “You are not an abbot yet,” he reminded the man.

“But perhaps some of you need practice with assigning me the title,” De’Unnero retorted.

Jojonah held his ground as the man crowded forward.

“This comes from the Father Abbot himself,” De’Unnero stated, unrolling a parchment with a snap of his arm. On it was written Markwart’s latest edict, proclaiming that henceforth, Brother Marcalo De’Unnero would be known as Abbot De’Unnero. “Have you anything else to argue, Master Jojonah?” the man asked smugly.

“No.”

“Just no?”

Master Jojonah didn’t back down, and didn’t blink, his gaze boring holes into the accursed document.

“Master Jojonah?” De’Unnero prompted, and his tone explained what he was waiting for.

Jojonah looked up to see that wicked smile, to see that De’Unnero was, in fact, putting him on trial in front of the younger monks. “No, Abbot De’Unnero,” he said, hating every word, but realizing that this was not the fight he wanted.

With Jojonah put in his place, De’Unnero motioned for the procession to begin, and so they marched, in precise order, to the west.

It seemed to Master Jojonah that the road had just become much longer.