DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (184 page)

"Do you understand why we have gathered here?" Braumin asked Mullahy.

"To pray," the man replied.

"We spend hours each day in prayer at our daily duties," Braumin argued.

"A man can never pray too often," Brother Castinagis, a very outspoken and forceful young monk, interjected.

"You refuse to admit the difference between our evening prayers and our daily prayers," Braumin remarked, drawing curious looks from all the others. Marlboro Viscenti, a skinny and nervous man with more than one tic, began shifting uncomfortably. "That admission of philosophical difference, the open recognition that only our prayers to Master Jojonah and Brother Avelyn are in the true spirit of the Abellican Order, is the whole point of our gathering," Braumin went on.

"Is not the mere act of joining your private group such an admission?" Castinagis asked.

"To the others of the group, perhaps," Braumin replied. "But such a show of loyalty does nothing to admit the truth within your own heart."

Again the two in question looked at Brother Braumin with puzzled expressions. Viscenti continued to twitch, but now Brother Dellman was wearing a warm smile of understanding.

"And all that truly matters is what is in your own heart," Braumin finished.

"If the tenets of these meetings were not in our hearts, then why would we attend?" Castinagis asked. "Do you think us spies for the Father Abbot? For if you mean to accuse —"

"No, Brother Castinagis," Braumin replied quietly. "And I know of your loyalty to Master Jojonah, may his soul forever rest."

"A finer man I've never known," Brother Mullahy declared. Mullahy and Castinagis had been quite close, even before they had taken their vows and entered St.-Mere-Abelle; but the two were very different, as illustrated by the sheepish manner in which Mullahy spoke, lowering his gaze to the floor and mumbling so softly that the others could hardly hear him.

"Because you never knew Brother Avelyn," Braumin said.

Now the curious looks took on an antagonistic edge, as if the two young brothers had considered Braumin's words as a gauntlet thrown down against the memory of their beloved Master Jojonah.

"But they did not see the grave site," Brother Dellman interjected, somewhat relieving the tension. "They were not beside us at Mount Aida when we viewed the extended, mummified arm of Brother Avelyn Desbris, when we felt that aura, so powerful and beautiful."

"Nor did either of them —of you—get the opportunity to speak with Master Jojonah about Brother Avelyn Desbris," Braumin added. "If you had, then you would know that my words are no assault against the memory of Jojonah, but rather an expression of the principles that must guide us in our struggles, the principles shown to Master Jojonah, to us all, by Avelyn Desbris."

The words diffused the anger, and Castinagis, too, bowed his head reverently.

Braumin Herde moved across the small room to a chest in the corner, the same one where the secretive brothers kept pillows and the candle, and produced an old and weathered book. "The crime that split Brother Avelyn from the Abellican Order was one condemned by our Church standards," he explained.

"The murder of Master Siherton?" Brother Castinagis asked incredulously, for in the very first meeting, Brother Braumin had taken great pains to exonerate Avelyn from that alleged offense.

"No," Braumin replied sharply. "There was no murder of Master Siherton; the man was killed while trying to prevent Brother Avelyn's lawful escape."

"Brother Avelyn acted only in defense of his own life," Brother Dellman put in.

"No, I speak of the Church's actions," Brother Braumin explained, "particularly those of Master Siherton against the
Windrunner,
the ship commissioned by Father Abbot Markwart to take the four chosen brothers to the isle of Pimaninicuit in God's Year 821."

Now all three of the youngest brothers were curious, for the story of the collection of the gemstones was not a public matter in St.-Mere-Abelle. Indeed, none below the level of immaculate was formally told anything of the equatorial island where the chosen Preparers would collect the sacred gemstones —and most of the immaculate brothers didn't even know much about the place. All the Abellican monks knew that the stones fell from heaven, a gift of God, but the particulars were not a matter of open discourse in the abbey. Master Jojonah had told Braumin Herde; and he, in turn, had relayed the story to Brother Viscenti. Now, he decided, it was time to tell the others, to trust them with what was, perhaps, the deepest secret of all.

"Pimaninicuit is the name given to the island far out in the great Mirianic, where the sacred gemstones are sent from heaven," Brother Braumin began somberly. "This most blessed event occurs only once every seven generations, one hundred and seventy-three years. We are blessed that this occurred during our lifetime, but more blessed was Brother Avelyn, for he was one of the four monks chosen to voyage to the island, one of the two Preparers allowed to go onto Pimaninicuit and witness the stone shower. His companion was Brother Thagraine, who faltered in his faith on the island and did not seek proper shelter from the glory of God. Thus, Thagraine was killed that day, by the same gemstone Brother Avelyn eventually used to destroy our greatest enemy, the demon dactyl."

Brother Braumin paused to study his companions. He was overwhelming them, he recognized. But they had to hear it, had to understand the significance and the danger. For a younger brother even to utter the name of Pimaninicuit violated Abellican rules and was cause for harsh punishment, possibly excommunication or even execution.

"What you need to understand about that mission is the truth of the voyage back to St.-Mere-Abelle," Braumin went on. "A glorious return it was, despite the death of Brother Thagraine; for Brother Avelyn, so close to God, delivered unto mankind the greatest harvest of gemstones ever taken from the island, the greatest gift of gemstones ever delivered by God.

"But then," he went on, lowering his voice ominously, "glory turned to horror, God's gift became demon sin. The
Windrunner's
crew sailed away from St.-Mere-Abelle into All Saints Bay, their job complete, thinking their reward in hand. But that reward was false, a trick, an illusion caused by the sacred stones."

"Thieves!" Brother Dellman cried. "Thieves in our midst!"

"Murderers," Brother Braumin corrected. "For the
Windrunner
never got out of All Saints Bay. The ship was assaulted by ballistae and catapult and by magic from the walls of this very abbey, was torn asunder by the wrath of St.-Mere-Abelle, and every man aboard murdered."

Three blood-drained and wide-eyed faces stared up helplessly at Brother Braumin, as Brother Viscenti, who had heard all this before, nodded enthusiastically. Brother Castinagis shook his head, though, as if he did not believe the story, and it seemed as if Brother Mullahy could not draw breath.

"It was not always like this," Brother Braumin insisted, holding up the ancient text. He looked at the candle, which was much shorter now than when they had begun. "But our time now has run out," he offered. "Let us end with a final prayer for the souls of those lost on the
Windrunner."

"But, Brother Braumin," Brother Castinagis protested.

"Enough," Braumin replied. "And know that if any of us is caught speaking of such things, he will surely be tortured and killed. For your proof, look only to the charred corpse of Master Jojonah, whose crimes in the eyes of Father Abbot Markwart were far less than these words." With that, Braumin knelt and began the prayer. That image of Jojonah, a sight that had burned in the hearts of all the brothers in this room, would hold them quiet, he knew; and he understood, too, that not one of them would be a moment late for their next gathering two nights hence.

A spiritual meeting of another sort was taking place that same night, at least partially at St.-Mere-Abelle.
Go to him and see what is in his mind and in his heart,
the ever-more-insistent voice inside Markwart's head had bade him.
I will show you the way.

The voice had spoken, and Markwart listened. In the most private room of his quarters, sitting in the middle of a pentagram he had inscribed on the floor, a burning candle set at each of its five points, Father Abbot Markwart clutched tightly to a hematite, a soul stone, marveling as his magical energy connected with that of the stone, achieving new and greater levels of power.

Soon Markwart's spirit walked free of his body and hovered about the room, considering the view. He had found the pentagram in an ancient text,
The Incantations Sorcerous.
The Church had banned the book, considered unholy for centuries, burning all copies save the one kept in the cellar library of the abbey. Markwart believed that he understood the Church's reasons: this book held the key to greater power, and that, rather than any connection with the demon dactyl, had inspired fear among the Church leaders. Using the pentagram and the words of a spell within the book, combined with a hematite, Markwart had even summoned a pair of minor demons to his bidding.

With this book, the evil creatures of the underworld will be slaves to the powers of good,
he thought now, his spirit looking down at his cross-legged form. He did a quick scan of his rooms and the empty hallway outside to make sure the area was secure, then set off, speeding out the main doors of the abbey and off west, flying across the miles. In mere minutes, his spirit hovered on the southern bank of the great Masur Delaval, some eighty miles from St.-Mere-Abelle.

He floated above the waters with equal ease and speed, and soon the dark structures of Palmaris came into view. Markwart's spirit rose above the city, looking down on the buildings, picking out the distinctive design of St. Precious. Down he swooped to the abbey, right through the thick stone wall. Markwart had been in St. Precious only the previous year, and he knew the layout of the place well enough to easily locate the private rooms of the new abbot.

He was not surprised to find De'Unnero pacing the floor, fists clenched with tension. The man was ready for bed, wearing only a nightshirt, but as always, he seemed too full of energy.

Get your soul stone,
Markwart's spirit telepathically instructed. Monks of the Abellican Order had used hematites for rudimentary communication for centuries. One monk might even use the body of another, far away, possessing the other to speak with those nearby, as Markwart had done through Brother Francis when Francis had gone to Mount Aida. Even without possession, which was indeed a brutal step, some communication might be achieved, though it was usually crude, an imparting of feelings, perhaps. If a disaster befell the abbess of St. Gwendolyn, for instance, she might take up a soul stone and contact St. Honce or St.-Mere-Abelle to beg for help. The monks of those abbeys might understand that something was amiss, even discern the source of the communication, might spiritually "hear" the words of the abbess. But Markwart, with his newfound insights and power, meant to take this practice to a higher level —and he knew he would succeed.

Get your soul stone,
he commanded De'Unnero.

The man stopped pacing and glanced around, confused. "Who is there? " he asked.

Markwart's spirit drifted to the man, and within —not too deeply, not to possess, but only to let De'Unnero feel his presence clearly.

The newly appointed abbot of St. Precious darted to his desk and, using a small key hung on a chain around his neck, opened a secret compartment within a drawer. He fumbled for a moment, before producing a hematite and clutching it closely. Soon he, too, was out of his body, and his spirit stood perplexed, staring at a very clear image of Markwart.

What manner of meeting is this?
The spirit of an obviously flustered De'Unnero —a rare sight indeed!—asked.

You took a great chance,
Markwart coolly replied.

Not in coming to meet me,
Markwart explained.
In going out to meet Baron Bildeborough's carriage.

Why do we speak of this now?
De'Unnero questioned.
The Baron has been dead for months, and you knew from the beginning
—
you had to know!
—
that I was involved! Yet you spoke no word of his demise to me at the College of Abbots.

Perhaps I had other, more pressing duties to attend,
Markwart replied.
And Rochefort Bildeborough's death has taken on a greater meaning now.

I have read between the plain words Marcalo De'Unnero offered,
Markwart corrected.
The Baron of Palmaris was killed on the road, heirless. What a fortunate turn for the new abbot of St. Precious.

And for the Father Abbot, who called Rochefort Bildeborough an enemy,
De'Unnero replied.

How did he die?
Markwart asked. He watched De'Unnero's spirit relax. Even body language was clearly visible, though neither party was in his body! A smile came over De'Unnero's spirit face, but he made no move to answer.
You did it with the tiger's paw,
Markwart reasoned.

Like the matter of Connor Bildeborough? Or Abbot Dobrinion?
De'Unnero retorted slyly.

That set Markwart back a bit, the Father Abbot surprised at De'Unnero's lack of respect. Markwart had set the young man up as abbot of St. Precious —no easy task—because he considered De'Unnero a powerful thorn to stick in Bildeborough's side and, more important, a loyal under ling. Now it seemed De'Unnero was taking his new position to mean that he was more Markwart's peer than his subject, an attitude Markwart liked not at all.

You killed them both,
De'Unnero charged.
Or had them killed, by the hands of the men I trained as brothers justice.