Brother Jojonah often wondered how Dandelion, or Youseff, for that matter, had even passed the grueling process of elimination to get into the monastery. Every class was whittled down from one or two thousand to twenty-five, and it seemed obvious to Jojonah that there had to be many among those other hundreds more fitting in temperament, intelligence, and piety.
But both these young monks had been sponsored by the Father Abbot himself. “The son of a dear friend,” Markwart had said of Dandelion. Master Jojonah knew better. Brother Dandelion had been brought in for his unparalleled physical prowess and for no other reason. He was Markwart’s replacement for Quintall, one of the personal bodyguards surrounding the Father Abbot.
As for Youseff, Markwart had explained that Youmaneff, with the loss of Avelyn, was not represented at all in St.-Mere-Abelle, an oversight that had to be corrected if the abbey meant to retain tight control over the small town.
Master Jojonah could only shake his head and sigh; it was all moving beyond his control.
The caravan was put up in the courtyard, with all the monks shown to their quarters, conveniently separated from the brothers of St. Precious. Master Jojonah found himself in a quiet room in a far corner of the great structure, removed from all the others of his troupe, particularly Brother Braumin, who was all the way to the other side of the abbey. The closest to Jojonah was Francisto keep an eye on him, the master knew.
Still, that very night, Jojonah managed to slip away, meeting quietly with Brother Braumin on the triforium, a decorated ledge twenty feet above the floor of the abbey’s great chapel.
“I suspect he is in the lower dungeons,” Master Jojonah explained, running his hands over the details of a statue of Brother Allabarnet, whom the monks here called Brother Appleseed. Jojonah could feel the love that had gone into this artwork, and that, he subconsciously understood, was the true work of God.
“In chains, no doubt,” agreed Brother Braumin. “A great sin rests on the shoulders of the Father Abbot if his treatment of the heroic centaur is ill.”
Master Jojonah quieted the man with a waving hand. They could not afford to be caught speaking against the Father Abbot, no matter how great their ire.
“Have you inquired?” Brother Braumin asked.
“The Father Abbot tells me little now,” Jojonah replied. “He knows where lies my heart, though my actions do not overtly oppose him. I am scheduled to meet with him in the morning, at first light.”
“To speak of Bradwarden?”
Jojonah shook his head. “I doubt that subject will be breached,” he explained. “We are to talk of my departure, I believe, for the Father Abbot has hinted that I will move on ahead of the caravan.”
Brother Braumin caught the note of dread in Master Jojonah’s voice, and his thoughts went immediately to Markwart’s dangerous lackeys. Might the Father Abbot have Jojonah killed on the road? The thought assaulted Braumin’s sensibilities, seeming so utterly ridiculous. But try as he might, he could not dismiss it. Nor did he speak it aloud, for it was obvious to him that Jojonah was aware of the situation.
“What do you wish of me?” asked Brother Braumin.
Master Jojonah chuckled and held up his hands in defeat. “Stay the course, my friend,” he replied. “Keep true in your heart. There seems little else before us. I do not agree with the direction of our Order, but the Father Abbot does not stand alone. Indeed, those who follow the present course far outnumber those of us who believe the Church has strayed.”
“Our numbers will grow,” Brother Braumin said determinedly, and in light of the vision he had found at the top of blasted Mount Aida, he truly believed the words. That sight, Avelyn’s arm and hand protruding from the blasted rock, had tied together all the words for Braumin, all the stories of Avelyn and the hints that the current Church was off course. In viewing Avelyn’s grave, he knew the direction of his life, and that direction would likely bring him into great conflict with the leaders of the Churcha fight Brother Braumin was ready to wage. He squared his shoulders determinedly as he finished with all confidence, “For our course is the most godly.”
Master Jojonah would not disagree with the simple logic of that statement. In the end, good and truth would prevailhe had to believe that, for it was the most basic tenet of his faith. How many centuries might it take to turn the Abellican Church back to its proper course, though, and how much suffering would the present course facilitate?
“Keep true in your heart,” he said again to Braumin. “Quietly spread the word, not against the Father Abbot or any others, but in favor of Avelyn and those of like heart and generous spirit.”
“With the centaur as prisoner, it may go beyond that,” Brother Braumin reasoned. “The Father Abbot might force our hand, to stand against him openly or to forever remain silent.”
“There are degrees of silence, brother,” Master Jojonah replied. “To your room now, and fear not for me. I am at peace.”
Brother Braumin spent a long while staring at this dear man, his mentor, then he bowed low, even moved to Jojonah’s hand and kissed it, then turned and left.
Master Jojonah spent another hour and more up on that quiet triforium, looking at the statues of saints past, and at the newest construction, the likeness of Brother Allabarnet of St. Precious, who more than a century before had walked the wide land planting apple trees, that settlers might find abundance. The canonization process for Allabarnet was sponsored by Abbot Dobrinion, who dearly wanted to see it through before he died.
Master Jojonah knew well the tales of kindly Allabarnet, and thought the man truly deserving. But given the current conditions of the Church, those stories of generosity and sacrifice would probably work against him.
Master Jojonah’s fears about Bradwarden’s condition were all too true, for the centaur had been brought to the lower catacombs of St. Precious, and there, in the dark and damp, was shackled to the wall. Still dazed from his brutal experiences in the collapsed mountain, and thoroughly exhausted from the run south, during which the monks had enacted magic spells upon him to make him run faster, Bradwarden was in little condition to resist physically.
And mentally; Bradwarden was caught exhausted and off his guard when Father Abbot Markwart, hematite in hand, came to him that very first night.
Without a word to Bradwarden, the Father Abbot fell into the power of the soul stone, released his mind from its physical bonds and invaded the thoughts of the centaur.
Bradwarden’s eyes went wide when he felt this most personal of intrusions. He struggled against the chains, but they would not yield. He fought back mentallyor at least he tried to, for he had no idea where to even begin.
Markwart, this wretched old human, was there in his mind, probing his memories.
“Tell me of Avelyn,” the Father Abbot prompted aloud, and though Bradwarden had no intention of offering any answers, the mere mention of Avelyn conjured images of the man, of the trip to Aida, of Pony and Elbryan, of Belli’mar Juraviel and Tuntun, of Symphony, and of all the others who had fought the monsters about Dundalis.
Only gradually did Bradwarden begin to temper and control his thoughts, and by that time the Father Abbot had learned so very much. Avelyn was dead and the stones gone, but these other two, this Elbryan and Pony, had left the devastation of Aida, or at least had left the tunnel wherein the centaur had been trapped, very much alive. Markwart focused on these two as the inquisition continued, and discovered that they were both from a small Timberland town called Dundalis, but had both lived the bulk of their years outside of Dundalis.
Pony, Jilseponie Ault, had lived in Palmaris.
“Ye’re a wretch!” Bradwarden fumed when at long last the mental connection was broken.
“You might have offered the information an easier way,” the Father Abbot replied.
“To yerself ?” the centaur balked. “Ah, but Avelyn was right about ye, about all o’ yer stinkin’ Church, now wasn’t he?”
“Where did this woman, Jilseponie, live when she was in Palmaris?”
“Ye’re calling yerselves men o’ God, but no good God’d approve of yer works,” Bradwarden went on. “Ye took from me, ye thievin’ wretch, and for that I’ll see that ye pay.”
“And what of these diminutive creatures?” Father Abbot Markwart calmly asked. “Touel’alfar?”
Bradwarden spat at him.
Markwart lifted another stone, a graphite, and slammed the bedraggled centaur against the stone wall with a burst of electricity. “There are easy ways, and there are difficult ways,” the Father Abbot said calmly. “I will take whatever path you open for me.”
He started for the low, open archway that led to the main area of the catacombs. “You will speak with me again,” he threatened. Both Markwart and Bradwarden understood the limitations of that threat. The centaur was strong of will and would not be caught by surprise again, and Markwart would find no easy task in getting into his mind.
But Bradwarden feared that he might have already surrendered too much information about his friends.
“You cannot begin to comprehend the importance of this!” the Father Abbot roared at Abbot Dobrinion the next morning, the two men alone in Dobrinion’s studythough it was the Father Abbot who was sitting at Dobrinion’s large oak desk.
“Palmaris is a large city,” Abbot Dobrinion said calmly, trying to appease the man. Markwart hadn’t told him much, just that he needed information on a young woman, perhaps twenty years of age, who went by the name of Pony, or Jilseponie. “I know of no one named Ponyexcept for one stableboy who earned that as a nickname.”
“Jilseponie, then?”
Abbot Dobrinion shrugged helplessly.
“She came from the north,” Father Abbot Markwart pressed, though he hadn’t wanted to reveal even this much to the potentially dangerous Dobrinion. “An orphan.”
That hit a chord with the Abbot. “And can you tell me what she looks like?” he asked, trying hard not to let on that he might know something.
Markwart described the woman, for Bradwarden had unintentionally offered him a very clear picture of her, the thick golden hair, the blue eyes, the thick lips.
“What is it?” Markwart demanded, seeing the recognition flash across Dobrinion’s chubby face.
“Nothing, perhaps,” the abbot admitted. “There was a girl Jill, she was calledwho came from the north, orphaned in a goblin raid. But that was perhaps a decade ago, perhaps more.”
“What happened to her?”
“I married her to Master Connor Bildeborough, nephew of the Baron of Palmaris,” Abbot Dobrinion explained. “But it did not consummate and the girl was declared an outlaw for her refusal. She was indentured to the Kingsmen,” Dobrinion declared, thinking that might be the end of it, and hoping it would be, for he was not pleased at all by the Father Abbot’s actions, nor by the man’s desperate and secretive attitude.
The Father Abbot turned away and rubbed a hand across his pointy chin, only then noticing that he had not shaved in many, many days. The woman had been in the armythat, too, fit with the centaur’s recollections.
The pieces were falling into place.
Markwart, and not Dobrinion, remained in the abbot’s study after their discussion had ended. The next in line to see him was Brother Francis, and the Father Abbot’s orders to the monk were simple and to the point: keep everyone, even Abbot Dobrinion, away from the centaur, and keep Bradwarden exhausted. They would meet later that day in the dungeon, to continue the interrogation.
When Francis left, Master Jojonah entered. “We must discuss your treatment of the centaur,” he said without even formally greeting his superior.
Father Abbot Markwart snorted. “The centaur is none of your concern,” he replied casually.
“It would seem that Bradwarden is a hero,” Master Jojonah dared to say. “He, along with Avelyn Desbris, saw to the destruction of the dactyl.”
“You have it wrong,” the Father Abbot retorted, working hard to keep the anger from his voice. “Avelyn went to the dactyl, that much is true, and Bradwarden and these other two, Elbryan and Pony, accompanied him. But they did not go there to do battle, but rather to form an alliance.”
“So the destroyed mountain would indicate,” Master Jojonah said sarcastically.
Again Markwart snorted. “They overstepped the bounds of magic and of reason,” he declared. “They reached into that crystal amethyst which Avelyn stole from St.-Mere-Abelle, and with it, combined with the hellish powers of the demon dactyl, they destroyed themselves.”
Master Jojonah saw the lie for what it was. He knew Avelyn, perhaps better than anyone else at St.-Mere-Abelle, and knew that Avelyn would never have gone over to the side of evil. How he might convey that message over the ranting of the Father Abbot, he did not know.
“I have a mission for you,” Markwart said.
“You hinted that I would return to St.-Mere-Abelle ahead of the rest,” Master Jojonah replied bluntly.
Markwart was shaking his head before the man finished. “You will leave ahead of us,” he explained. “But I doubt that you will see St.-Mere-Abelle before us. No, your course is south, to St. Honce in Ursal.”
Master Jojonah was too surprised to even respond.
“You are to meet with Abbot Je’howith to discuss the canonization of Allabarnet of St. Precious,” the Father Abbot explained.
Master Jojonah’s expression was purely incredulous. Father Abbot Markwart had been the primary opponent of the process; were it not for his protests, Allabarnet would already be named a saint! Why the reversal? the master pondered, and it seemed to him that Markwart was trying to strengthen his ties with Dobrinion, and also to conveniently get him out of the way.
“In these trying times, a new saint might be just what the Church needs to reinvigorate the masses,” the Father Abbot went on.
Master Jojonah wanted to ask how any such process could be nearly as important as the very real issues before them, including the continuing war. He wanted to ask why a lesser monk couldn’t carry this message to Ursal. He wanted to ask why Markwart was reversing himself on this issue.