Braumin Herde moved quickly and purposefully, slipping from cham-ber to chamber along the top floor of the abbey's northern wing. He was collecting candlesticks, of which there were a multitude in the dark stone abbey, but specific ones, ones from a list that Master Jojonah had begun and that he had spent the weeks since Jojonah's death finishing. All the candlesticks in this wing had a single sunstone set in them, with one in thirty of the gems enchanted. This was the testing area for young stu-dents, and the masters had devised the sunstone system to prevent any cheating with clear quartz, the stone of distance sight, or even hematite.
Master Engress, a gentle and calm elderly man, had shown Brother Brau-min how to determine which candlesticks were enchanted - no easy task with sunstone! Brother Braumin had gone to Engress with a story about some students swapping candlesticks. The master had not questioned him and had gladly given Braumin the task of rearranging them each night after studies.
Master Engress had no idea of the extent of Brother Braumin's shuffling. With ten candlesticks in hand, the young monk descended to the area of the next meeting of the disciples of Avelyn, strategically placing the candlesticks in adjoining rooms to discourage any spiritually prying eyes. The only hope for his group was in secrecy, Braumin knew, for if the always-suspicious Markwart ever realized how subversive their rhetoric had become, they would likely share the fiery fate of Master Jojonah.
This night, Braumin collected the candlesticks in a hurry, rearranged the others to make it less obvious that some had been taken, then rushed away.
To Brother Francis, though, the altered count of candlesticks was obvi-ous. He crept through the study rooms even as Brother Braumin moved down the little-used back stairway and along the empty, dusty corridors four levels down.
Francis did not immediately follow but moved south along the top level to the private quarters of Father Abbot Markwart. He knocked softly, afraid to disturb the Father Abbot. Then, hearing Markwart's call, he entered to find him at his desk, a jumble of papers before him and the rem-nants of his dinner off to the side.
"You should take more leisure time with your evening meal, Father Abbot," Francis offered. "I worry that you - " The young monk stopped short as the old man glared up at him.
"This list is more extensive than I would have thought," Markwart replied, shoving the papers about.
"St.-Mere-Abelle requires a large staff," Francis replied. "And many of those hired are derelicts by nature, vagabonds who leave as soon as they have collected enough money to see them through a few meals."
"A few drinks, more likely," Markwart said sourly. "If that is the case, then why did you not separate the various groups represented in this list in a more orderly fashion? Those who left before the invasion and escape on one page, perhaps. Those who left soon after on another, and those who remain on the third."
"You insisted that I hurry, Father Abbot," Francis meekly protested. "And many of those who left before the intrusion, returned soon after it. I found it almost impossible to categorize the workers unless I used many categories."
"Work on it, then!" Markwart roared, shoving the papers forward; many of them slipped off the desk and glided to the floor. "We must ensure that Jojonah and those others who invaded the abbey did not leave a spy behind. Discern likely suspects and watch them closely. If you decide that one, anyone, is possibly a spy, then arrest him secretly and bring him to me."
That you might torture him as you did the Chilichunks, Francis thought, but he wisely kept silent. Still, he realized that his sour expression betrayed his feelings when Markwart's glare intensified.
"Have you been watching Brother Braumin closely?" the Father Abbot asked.
Francis nodded.
"I do not trust him," Markwart said, rising and pacing around the corner of his desk, "though neither do I fear him. His sympathies remain with Jojonah, but that will change with time, particularly when he goes through the intensive training needed for the rank of master."
"You will promote him?" Francis blurted, eyes wide with shock - and more than a little anger, for Francis believed that he would be promoted because of loyalty to the Father Abbot. By that same reasoning, it seemed impossible that Brother Braumin Herde, friend of the heretic Jojonah, would also rate a promotion!
"It is the best course," Markwart replied without hesitation. "In De'Un-nero and Je'howith I have strong allies, but many of the other abbots, and more than a few masters and immaculates, are watching closely to ensure that my actions against Jojonah were not personal."
"And were they?" Francis asked. He knew he had made a mistake as soon as the words came out of his mouth.
The Father Abbot stopped his pacing only a step from Francis, turning his wrinkled old head slowly, his eyes flaring with an intensity that fright-ened Francis and made him think that Markwart would strike him dead where he stood - and the old man's shaved head and pointed ears only accentuated that frightening visage. In that fleeting second while Markwart held his gaze, Francis believed that the man could do it, could simply strike him dead, and with hardly an effort!
"There are those who quietly question - quietlybecause they are cow-ards, you see," Markwart went on, going back to his pacing. "They wonder if the sudden turn against the heretic Jojonah was in the best interest of the Church, if the evidence of conspiracy was strong enough to so quickly con-vict and condemn. I have heard more than one who murmured that it would have been better if we had extracted a full confession from the man before we burned him."
Francis nodded, but he knew, as did Markwart, that Jojonah would never have confessed to anything evil. The brave man had admitted his complicity in freeing the prisoners, excusing his actions by trying to turn the accusation against Markwart. But the confession Markwart wanted - one in which Jojonah admitted that he had conspired with Brother Avelyn to steal the stones and murder Master Siherton those years ago - would never have happened. And they both knew that the conspiracy so envi-sioned had never actually happened.
"But enough of that," Markwart went on, waving his skinny arm briskly - and Francis understood then that something important was going on. "There has come a shift in the balance of power," Markwart explained.
"Among the Church leaders?"
"Between Church and state. King Danube needs help in restoring order to Palmaris. With the Baron and his sole heir dead, the city is in turmoil."
"And they are without their beloved Abbot Dobrinion," Francis added.
"You do test me this night, do you not?" Markwart hissed, again turning that awful glare on him. "The people of Palmaris have a stronger leader in Abbot De'Unnero than ever they realized in Dobrinion."
"They will come to love him," Francis remarked, trying hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
"They will come to respect him!" Markwart corrected. "To fear him. To understand that the Church, and not the King, is the true power in their lives, their hopes beyond this mortal coil, their only chance of redemption or true joy. Marcalo De'Unnero is the perfect man to teach them, or at least to cow them until they understand the truth."
"Abbot?"
"Bishop," Markwart corrected.
He could have knocked Brother Francis over with a feather. Francis was among the finest historians at St.-Mere-Abelle, a man whose studies had long centered on the geography and politics of the various regions of the known world. He knew what the title of bishop entailed, and knew, too, that such a title had not been bestowed in more than three hundred years.
"You seem surprised, Brother Francis," Markwart remarked. "You do not believe that Marcalo De'Unnero is fit for the task?"
"N-not that, Father Abbot," the monk stammered. "I am only surprised that the King would relinquish the second city of Honce-the-Bear to the Church."
Markwart's laughter mocked that notion. "Thus I need you to be my eyes and ears in St.-Mere-Abelle," the Father Abbot said.
"You will be leaving?"
"Not yet," Markwart replied, "but I will be looking elsewhere more often than not. So keep watch over troublesome Brother Braumin and search among these new additions and subtractions to the staff." He waved his skinny hand at Francis then, turning away to resume his pacing, and the younger monk bowed and quickly left.
The news had stunned Francis, and he tried hard to sort it out as he made his way back to the study rooms, taking the same route as Brother Braumin. Francis had never been a big supporter of Marcalo De'Unnero, mostly because he, like almost everyone else, was deathly afraid of the volatile and unpredictable man. A bishop would wield great power; might De'Unnero become too strong to be controlled by Father Abbot Mark-wart? Francis shook his head, trying to dismiss that disturbing notion. Markwart seemed pleased by the developments - indeed, the Father Abbot had no doubt played a huge role in facilitating them.
Still, Francis remembered the image of De'Unnero after the powrie attack against St.-Mere-Abelle, the man wild-eyed and covered in blood, most from his enemies, but more than a bit from a wound he had received in the fighting - in fighting that De'Unnero had invited, for no better reason than his desire to kill powries, by opening the lower wharf gates!
The monk shuddered. Had this new development put De'Unnero in line for the position of Father Abbot? And if it had, would Francis, or any of the others so loyal to Markwart, survive?
Those were questions for another time, Francis realized as he slipped among the shadows of the lower levels, and heard the whispered prayers.
It began, as always, with a prayer to Jojonah and one to Avelyn. The group went unusually quiet after that, four monks sitting nervously, atten-tively, waiting for Brother Braumin to begin again his detailing of the story ofWindrunner and the voyage to Pimaninicuit.
Braumin understood their excitement and their fear. To speak openly of Pimaninicuit, even in terms favorable to the presiding Father Abbot, was a serious crime, an often fatal error. After the voyage to the island to collect the stones, Pellimar, one of the remaining three brothers, had rambled on about his adventures.
He had not survived the winter.
And now Braumin was telling these four of the voyage - was, in effect, placing upon them a writ of execution.
Braumin thought of Jojonah, viewing his stand against Markwart in much the same light as Avelyn's stand against the demon dactyl. Braumin conjured that memory of Mount Aida, of Avelyn's arm reaching heaven-ward through the devastation as if in defiance of death itself.
Then he began his tale, recounting the story in vivid detail, as Jojonah had told it to him. He started at the beginning of the voyage, elaborating on the teasing story he had given them at their last meeting. Braumin had pre-pared himself well for this most important speech, and he spoke with pride of the battle the crew - particularly the four men of St.- Mere-Abelle - had waged against a powrie barrelboat, focusing on Avelyn's heroics in that fight.
"The man took a ruby in hand," Braumin said dramatically, holding forth his clenched fist, "empowered it and tossed it - tossed it, I say - into the open hatch of the powrie vessel, only releasing its energies within the bowels of the craft!"
A gasp came back at him. There were accounts of a stone user separating himself from the gem at the time of magical release, but it was considered an almost impossible feat, particularly with a stone as powerful and demanding as a ruby.
"It is true," Braumin insisted. "And Brother Avelyn did not even under-stand the significance of his action. When he recounted the tale to Master Jojonah upon his return to St.-Mere-Abelle, the master bade him keep it quiet; for Jojonah knew, as we do, that the usage clearly illustrates Avelyn Desbris' powers."
"And why would Master Jojonah want that to remain a secret?" Brother Dellman asked.
"Because such a variation of stone use might also be construed as heretical, a demon-inspired burst of power," Braumin replied. "Master Jojonah was wise enough to understand that inertia guides the Abellican Church, that anything beyond the ordinary might be construed as a threat to those insecure in their power." He let the words settle in their thoughts, then went on to the rest of the journey, his voice softer now, all pride gone from his almost melancholy tone. He told them of the murder of a young man - his name had been lost over the years - by Brother Thagraine, at the behest of Brother Quintal, because that young man, beyond all reason, leaped from theWindrunner and swam to the sacred island. He told again of Thagraine's falling from faith on the island, a disastrous lapse that lefthim out in the open when the stone showers commenced, to be battered, and finally killed by a blow to the head - hit by the same stone that would eventually destroy the demon dactyl.
And then, in even more somber tones, Brother Braumin recounted the journey home, the near mutiny that ended with Brother Quintal tearing apart the leader of the mutineers. Then, his voice rising in anger, he told of the phony payment to theWindrunner - an illusion of gold crafted through use of the sacred gemstones - and of the final insult to everything holy, detailing graphically the ultimate destruction of theWindrunner and her crew.
When it was over, the five men sat in stunned, exhausted silence for a long while.
In the hallway beyond the room's door, Brother Francis could hardly keep still. He wanted to kick in the door, run up to Braumin, and scream in the man's face! To shake the man and tell him that he would be tortured and executed for his foolish words, and that he would bring about the hor-rible deaths of the other four, as well.
And Francis wanted to argue the truth of the story, to reveal it as a com-plete distortion of the real events - events of which he admittedly had very little knowledge.
He did not go in, though, but stood at the door, his hands sweaty, fighting to keep his breath steady and quiet that he might hear the rest of the conversation, that he might bear witness for Father Abbot Markwart when these men were brought to trial.
"This book," Brother Braumin began again, pulling the ancient text out from a fold in his voluminous robes, "this book was found by Master Jojonah in the ancient library, not far from where we now gather. I believe that Master Jojonah knew that he had little time left in this world, and so he searched desperately among the recorded histories, seeking his answer.
"And he found it!" Braumin said dramatically. "For within this book, as detailed by Brother Francis - "
"Francis? " Brother Viscenti piped up, his voice nearly hysterical.
"A different Francis," Brother Braumin assured him, "a man who lived several centuries ago."
"I knew it could not be the same one," Brother Viscenti said with a chuckle.
"Doubtful that our dear brother Francis would write anything that Master Jojonah would find enlightening," Brother Anders Castinagis said with a laugh.
"Unless it was a suicide note," Brother Dellman added, and they all had a good laugh.
Brother Braumin calmed it quickly, though, getting back to the point and to the book, showing them that in ages past, the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle crewed their own ship to Pimaninicuit and spoke of the island openly, reverently. And there were no murders, no mutinies. The journey was an open celebration of the highest joy, not a covert mission of avarice and murder.
All four listening in the room sighed and smiled warmly, to know that the precepts on which the Abellican Church was founded were true and holy, if the modern practices were not.
Brother Francis didn't share that view or that warmth, and he could hold his peace no longer. He pushed open the door and strode into their midst. All four jumped up to surround the intruder as he stalked right up to con-front Brother Braumin, their faces barely an inch apart.
"Foul words," Francis growled. "You speak heresy with the accent of reverence."
"Heresy?" Braumin echoed, his fists clenched at his sides as if he meant to strike the man. He motioned to Brother Viscenti, and the nervous monk, after inspecting the corridor beyond, gently closed the door.
"Heresy," Francis said again determinedly. "Merely speaking such lies could get a man burned. Merely hearing such lies - "
"Lies? " Dellman cried, forcing his way between the principals. "Brother Braumin's tales ring of more truth than anything I have heard spoken by the Father Abbot or any of the masters!"
"Tainted words," Francis spat right back. "Half-truths, concealed in a cocoon of blessed events."
"Then you deny the truth of theWindrunner 's fate?" Brother Braumin asked.
"I deny everything you have said," Francis retorted. "You are a fool, Brother Braumin, as are your lackeys, and you play games more dangerous than anything you could ever imagine."
"It would surprise you to learn that which we, who witnessed the execu-tion of Master Jojonah, might imagine," said Brother Castinagis. That state-ment, loaded with the image of the murdered man, seemed to sting Francis profoundly.
"Why have you come here?" Brother Braumin demanded.
"To call a fool a fool," Francis replied, "and to warn the fool that his words are not as secret as he might have hoped. To warn you all," Francis said dramatically, stepping back from Braumin. "Your actions shout of heresy, and many ears are turning your way. Remember well that image of Mas - of Jojonah, Brother Anders Castinagis, and replace his defeated visage with your own." Francis turned back for the door, but he hesitated, the others freezing in place, wondering if Brother Braumin would let him leave the room.
On a nod from Braumin, the others parted, leaving the way open to the door, and Francis calmly departed.
"I would assume that our meeting is at its end," Brother Castinagis said dryly.
Brother Braumin looked at the man, then at all the others. He wanted to comfort them, to reassure them that their beliefs in him and in this cause that Master Jojonah had passed along to him were not misplaced.
He could not, though. He had nothing to tell them that would cleanse the image of Jojonah's last moments from their minds, nothing to assure them that they would not soon find a similar fate. Braumin honestly won-dered then, for a moment, if he should have allowed Brother Francis to walk away. But what might they have done? Killed the man? Or captured him, and held him prisoner in the lower levels of St.-Mere-Abelle?
Brother Braumin closed his eyes and shook his head. Their secret was discovered, and the only way they might have preserved it would have been to murder Brother Francis. And that, the gentle monk knew in his heart, they could not have done.
"Brother Braumin was not in his room after vespers last night," Father Abbot Markwart stated bluntly.
Brother Francis nodded, trying to appear surprised.
"You knew this?"
"You instructed me to watch him closely," Francis replied.
The Father Abbot waited a long moment for Francis to elaborate, then blew a long, frustrated sigh and prompted, "And where did he go?"
"To the lower levels," Francis explained, and he continued when he saw that the Father Abbot's face was turning sour again. "Brother Braumin has been going down there regularly, usually to the library wherein the heretic Jojonah did his last work."
"And so he, too, is on the path of damnation," Markwart remarked.
Brother Francis almost told Markwart everything he had discovered about Braumin's little group. Let their own words damn them! But Francis had to admit to himself that he wanted to confront Markwart openly about theWindrunner and be reassured of the truth.
Francis held his tongue. He considered all that had happened over the last few months - the taking of the Chilichunks, the cold manner in which Markwart had dismissed Francis' killing of Grady, the execution of Jojonah - and he knew that he was not ready to learn the true story of theWindrunner, or of anything else for that matter. And he realized, too, that he was not ready to deal with his own conscience if he revealed all he knew of Braumin and the others, if he had to stand in the square of the village of St.-Mere-Abelle and watch Braumin and his friends be put to the flames.
"Who was with Brother Braumin?" Markwart asked suddenly.
Francis started to say that the man was alone, but he was caught too much off his guard, was too afraid that Markwart already knew the truth. "Brother Viscenti," he blurted.
"Of course, that one," Markwart mused. "A nervous little wretch. I do not know how I ever let that one into St.-Mere-Abelle. And Brother Dell-man, of course. Ah, the pity there. I recognized great potential in Dellman - that is why I added his name to the list of monks who traveled to Aida."
"Perhaps that was our mistake," Francis dared to say. "Perhaps Jojonah corrupted Brother Dellman on the journey."
"Were you not along on that same journey? " Markwart asked sarcastically.
Francis held up his hands helplessly.
"And who else?" Markwart went on. "Castinagis?"
"Perhaps," Francis replied. "I could not get too close, for the lower cor-ridors echo with the slightest footsteps."
"Speaking heresy in the bowels of my abbey," Markwart remarked, moving back to sit behind his desk, shaking his head in disgust. "How deep are the roots of Jojonah's conspiracy? But no matter," he said, his tone changing from sadness to the easy voice of resolution. He pulled clean parchment from a drawer and reached for his quill. "Brother Braumin and his cohorts are a minor nuisance and nothing more. One that I might sweep away with a letter - "
"Your pardon, Father Abbot," Francis interrupted, putting a hand on the parchment.
The old monk looked up, his expression incredulous.
"I am not certain of their words or intent," Francis quickly explained.
"After all this, it is not obvious to you?" Markwart replied.
"I believe that they are simply trying to come to terms with the ..." Francis hesitated, trying to find just the right phrase. "With the death of Jojonah," he said. "Brother Braumin and the others only knew the good side of the man. He was their mentor."
"In many things, it would seem," came the dry reply.
"Perhaps," Francis agreed. "But more likely, they are merely trying to sort through the troubles of their souls."
Father Abbot Markwart slid his chair back from the desk and leaned back, staring hard at Francis. "I find your sympathy uncharacteristic," he warned, "and misplaced."
"Not sympathy," Francis replied, "but pragmatism. Brother Braumin is well known among the other abbots and immaculates, and well liked. Everyone knows that he was close to Jojonah. Did you not admit as much in our last discussion, when you mentioned that you meant to promote him to master? "
"I cannot promote a heretic, though I can surely send one to his demon god," said Markwart.
"But perhaps Brother Braumin only needs a bit of time to recognize the truth," Francis improvised, hardly believing his own words.
Markwart laughed. "Brother Braumin needs to recognize the truth soon," the Father Abbot said, his tone deathly cold. "Very soon."
Brother Francis straightened and took a step back from the desk. "Of course, Father Abbot. And I will continue to monitor his every movement."
"From a distance," Markwart instructed, "inconspicuously. Let the heretics bring more of their own into our web. I wish to sweep this stain from St.-Mere-Abelle in one action, one display of the true power of the true God."
Francis nodded, bowed, then turned and walked from the room, thor-oughly shaken. He had no idea why he had not betrayed Braumin and his conspirators. Certainly he hadn't believed a word they had said. They were on the path to heresy, as straight and damning a trail as had led Jojonah to his fiery death.
Francis held that thought solidly, repeating it over and over in his mind as a litany against one other pervasive memory.
Master Jojonah had forgiven him.
