The Demon Awakens (23 page)

Avelyn couldn’t bear to watch, nor could he bear to look away. Fiery rocks streaked down before the cave entrance, slicing holes in the wide leaves of trees and Bushes. The rocky hall was light for some time, gradually increasing to the point where it punished the very ground of Pimaninicuit.

And through the deluge, Avelyn heard his name. He peered out, stunned, as a torn and battered Thagraine came into view beyond the thinned foliage, the man bleeding in so many places that he seemed one great wound. He stumbled forward pitifully, holding out his arms toward the cave.

Avelyn set his feet under him. He knew that it was foolhardy for him to go out, but how could he not? He could make it, he told himself grimly. He could get to Thagraine and shelter the man back to the cave. He tried not to think of the choice that would then befall him, of tending to either Thagraine or to the sacred stones, for his period of opportunity for sealing the enchantment of the stones was narrow indeed.

But Avelyn would have to worry about that when the time came. Thagraine was barely twenty strides away, stumbling forward, when Avelyn started out.

He saw it at once, a dark blot high above, and he knew, somehow he knew, its deadly path.

Thagraine spotted him then, a hopeful, pitiful, smile widening on his bloody face.

The stone streaked down like an aimed arrow, smashing into the back of Thagraine’s head, laying him out flat on the ground.

Avelyn fell back into the cave, into his prayers.

The storm intensified over the next hour, wind and rocky rain pounding the island, battering the ground above Avelyn’s hole so forcefully that the monk feared it would collapse upon him.

But then, as abruptly as it began, it ended, and the skies cleared quickly to deep blue.

Avelyn came out, frightened but determined. He went right to Thagraine, a torn and bloody pulp. Avelyn meant to turn him over, but he could not find his breath when he looked at the fatal wound, a gaping hole smashed right through Thagraine’s skull, brain matter splattered all about.

The object of Thagraine’s death, a huge purple amethyst, held Avelyn’s attention. Gently, reverently, Avelyn reached into the back of his dead companion’s head and pulled forth the stone. He could feel the power thrumming within it, the likes of which he had never before imagined. Surely this was greater than any stone at St.-Mere-Abelle! And the size of it! Avelyn’s hands were large indeed, yet even with his fingers fully extended he could not touch all edges of the stone.

He went to work, put all thoughts of Thagraine and of the boy Thagraine had killed far out of his mind, and went with furor to the task he had trained to do for all these years. He prepared the amethyst first, coating it with special oils, giving it some of his own energy through intense prayer and handling.

Then he went on, letting his instincts guide him to which stones were the most full of heavenly energy. Many showed no magical power at all, and Avelyn soon realized that these were the remnants of previous showers, brought up to the surface by the battering of the storm. He selected an egg-sized hematite next, and then a ruby, small but flawless to his trained eye.

On and on he went. Only those stones he selected and treated would hold their power; the others would become the waste of Pimaninicuit, buried by the black sands and the resurgent foliage over the next seven generations.

Late that night, the monk fell, thoroughly exhausted, upon the beach bordering the lagoon. He did not wake up until long after the dawn, his precious cargo intact in his pack. Only then did Avelyn take the time to note that dramatic change that had come over Pimaninicuit. No longer did the island seem so plush and inviting. Where trees and thick brush had grown was now only battered pulp and blasted stone.

It took great effort for the monk to get the sunken boat raised and floating, but he somehow managed. He thought that he should fill it with fruits or some other delicacy, but in looking around at the near-total devastation, Avelyn realized that opportunity was lost. On another note, Avelyn could not help but laugh at the absurd, useless treasure that lay strewn all about him. In an hour’s time, he could collect enough precious—though non-magical—gemstones to finance the building of a palace finer than that in Ursal. In a day, he could have more wealth than any man in all Honce-the-Bear, in all the world, perhaps, including the fabulously rich tribal chieftains of Behren. But his orders concerning Pimaninicuit had been explicit and unyielding: only those stones treated to retain their magic could be brought from the island. Any other gems taken would be considered an insult to God himself. The gift of the showers was given to two monks only, and whatever they might prepare, they might take. Not a ruby, not a smoky quartz, more.

Thus, Avelyn simply sat staring outward, too overwhelmed even to eat, and waited for the
Windrunner.

The sails came into sight late the next day. Like a robot, beyond feeling, Brother Avelyn got into the boat and pushed away. Only then did he think that perhaps he should retrieve the body of Thagraine, but he decided against that course.

What better fate and final resting place for an Abellican monk?

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CHAPTER 19

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Truth Be Told

He hardly noted the passing of the days, the weeks, so enthralled was he with the horde of God-given treasures. While Adjonas tended to the crew and their course, the three remaining monks—even Pellimar, whose condition had steadily improved—worked with the stones. The powrie slash had not been without consequence to Pellimar, though, tearing the muscles about the monk’s left shoulder. His arm hung practically useless, with no sign that it would ever improve.

They encountered no powries on the voyage back from Pimaninicuit, and Avelyn wasn’t concerned in any case. He above all others sensed the throbbing powers of some of the gemstones. If a barrelboat showed itself, Avelyn was confident he could use any one of a dozen different stones to destroy it utterly.

Most intriguing of all was the giant purple amethyst, with so many different crystal shafts. Its bottom was nearly flat, and placed on the floor it resembled some strange purple bush, with stems of various heights rising at many angles. Avelyn could not discern the purpose of the magic, except to note that there was a tremendous amount of energy stored within those crystals.

Some of the stones, such as the hematite, were placed in a small tumbler and rolled for hours on end, smoothing them to a perfect finish. Others had to be treated with oils for many days, that their magic be locked permanently within them. All three monks knew the process, and knew each stone, except for that amethyst.

They couldn’t tumble it—it was too large for the container—and they hardly knew where to begin with their oils. Avelyn made it his personal work, and he treated the giant crystal with prayers, not physical salves. He felt as if he was giving a bit of himself to the stone each time, but that was acceptable, as if it were some communion with his God.

The talk among the monks did not turn often to poor Thagraine—they prayed for him and, in their minds and hearts, put him to rest—but among the grumbling crew, little was whispered that did not concern Taddy Sway, the youth who had tried for the island and who had not returned. Avelyn felt burning, accusing eyes on his back every time he walked the deck.

Whispers bred open talk in the heat and boredom of the passing days, and open talk bred accusing shouts. Avelyn, Pellimar, and most of all, Quintall, were not surprised then, one early morning, when Captain Adjonas came to them, warning of a mounting call for mutiny.

“They want the stones,” Adjonas explained. “Or at least, some of the stones, in exchange for the life of Taddy Sway.”

“They cannot even begin to understand the power of these gems,” Quintall protested.

“But they understand the value of a ruby or an emerald,” Adjonas pointed out, “even without the magic.”

Avelyn bit his lip, remembering the hours on the beach, surrounded by so vast a wealth of useless gems.

“Your crew is being well paid for the voyage,” Quintall reminded the captain.

“Extra compensation for the lost man,” Adjonas remarked.

“They knew the risks.”

“Did they?” the captain asked sincerely. “Did they suspect that the four men they carried might turn against them?”

Quintall stood up and walked to stand right before the captain, the monk seeming even more imposing because Adjonas had to stoop belowdecks, whereas Quintall could stand at his full height.

“I am only echoing their sentiments,” Adjonas explained, not backing off an inch. “Words that Quintall should hear. We are three months yet from St.-Mere-Abelle.”

Quintall glanced around the tiny cabin, eyes narrowed as he planned his next move. “We must end it this day,” he decided, and he moved to Avelyn’s cot and took one of the gemstones, an orange-brown stone marked by three black lines—a tiger’s paw, it was called—from the tumbling box.

The stocky monk led the way to the deck, the other three close behind. Quintall’s physical attitude as he came out alerted the crew that something important was about to happen, and they quickly gathered around the group, Bunkus Smealy at their lead.

“There will be no compensation for Taddy Sway,” Quintall said bluntly. “The foolish youth forfeited his life when he swam to the island.”

“Ye killed him!” one man cried.

“I was on the
Windrunner,”
Quintall reminded.

“Yer monks, I mean!” the man insisted.

Quintall neither denied nor confirmed the execution. “The island was for two men alone, and even one of them, trained for years to survive Pim—the island, did not return.”

Bunkus Smealy turned about and waved his hand forcefully, quieting the rising murmurs. “We’re thinking that ye owe us,” he said, turning back to Quintall. He tucked his hands into his rope belt, taking on an important attitude.

Quintall measured him carefully. He understood then that Smealy was the linchpin, the organizer, the would-be captain.

“Captain Adjonas does not agree,” Quintall said evenly, coaxing the mutiny to the surface.

Smealy turned a wicked grin on the captain. “Might not be Captain Adjonas’ decision,” he said.

“The penalties for mutiny—” Adjonas began, but Smealy stopped him short.

“We’re knowing the rules,” Smealy assured him loudly. “And we’re knowing, too, that a man has got to be caught to be hung. Behren’s closer than Honce-the-Bear, and they’re not for asking many questions in Behren.”

There—he had played his hand, and now it was time for Quintall to take that hand and crush it; Smealy’s eyes widened when he looked back at the stocky monk, when he heard the low growl coming from Quintall’s throat, when he looked at the man’s arm and saw not a human appendage but the paw and claws of a great tiger!

“What?” the old sea dog started to ask as Quintall, faster then Smealy could possibly react, raked the man chin to belly.

The horrified crew fell back.

“He killed me,” Smealy whispered, and then, true to his words, with three great lines of bright blood erupting across his neck and chest, he fell limp to the deck.

Quintall’s roar, truly the roar of a tiger, sent the crew scrambling. “Know this!” the transformed monk bellowed from a face that looked human but with a voice that sounded much greater. “Look upon dead Bunkus Smealy and see the fate of any other who speaks against Captain Adjonas or the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle!”

Given the expressions on the crewmen, Avelyn thought it unlikely that any of them would utter another mutinous whisper all the way back to the coast and to St.-Mere-Abelle.

The three monks exchanged not a word as they went back to their cabin, nor for the rest of that day. Avelyn took care to keep his accusing gaze away from Quintall. His mind swirled in a hundred different directions. He had come to know Bunkus Smealy well over the last few months and, though he was not overfond of the weasely man, he could not help but feel some sense of loss.

And agitation. The cool and callous way Quintall had dispatched the man, had murdered a human being, shook gentle Avelyn to his very bones. This was not the way of the Abellican Church, at least not in Avelyn’s mind, and yet the efficiency of the executions of Taddy Sway and now of Bunkus Smealy made Avelyn suspect that Quintall was acting as he had been instructed by the masters before they had left port. The mission was vital, true enough, the greatest moment in seven generations. Avelyn and the other monks would give their lives willingly to see the mission successful. But to kill without remorse?

He chanced a look at Quintall early the next day as the man went about his business. He remembered the emotional torture the execution had exacted on Thagraine, the restlessness. None of that was evident in the dark, stocky man. Quintall had killed Bunkus Smealy as he had drowned the powrie, without distinction of the fact that the victim this time was not an evil dwarf but a human being.

A shudder coursed down Avelyn’s spine. Without remorse. And Avelyn knew when they returned to the abbey, when their tale was told in full, the masters, even Father Abbot Markwart, would only nod their agreement with Quintall’s brutal actions.

Avelyn could appreciate their notion of the “greater good,” for that would surely be the excuse given, but somehow all of this was out of line with justice, and justice was supposedly among the major tenets of the Abellican Church.

For Brother Avelyn, who had just been through the most sacred event, who had just realized the most religious experience by far of all his young life, something here seemed terribly out of place.

The month had turned to Parvespers, the last month of the autumn, when the
Windrunner
swept around the northeastern reach of the Mantis Arm, past Pireth Tulme and into the Gulf of Corona. Cold winds and stinging spray buffeted the crew. At night, they huddled together around oil lamps and candles, trying to ward off the chill. But their spirits were high, every man. All thoughts of Taddy Sway and Bunkus Smealy were behind them now, for their destination and their reward were at hand.

“Will ye stay in the abbey, then?” Dansally asked Avelyn one crisp morning. Land was out of sight again as the
Windrunner
cut a direct course across the gulf to All Saints Bay.

Avelyn considered the question with a most curious expression. “Of course,” he finally answered.

Dansally’s shrug was telling to the perceptive monk. He realized suddenly that she was asking him for companionship! “Do you mean to leave the ship?” he asked.

“Might,” Dansally replied. “We’ll be puffin’ in three times between St.-Mere-Abelle and Palmaris, where Adjonas means to dock for winter.”

“I have to . . .” Avelyn began. “I mean, there is no choice before me. Father Abbot Markwart will need a full accounting, and I will be at work for months with the stones I collected—”

She silenced him by putting a finger gently across his lips, her eyes soft and moist.

“Would that I could come and visit ye then,” she said quietly. “Might that be allowed?”

Avelyn nodded, fairly stricken mute.

“Would ye be bothered?”

Avelyn shook his head rather vigorously. “Master Jojonah is a friend,” he explained. “Perhaps he could find you work.”

“On me back in an abbey?” the woman asked incredulously.

“Different work,” Avelyn answered with a chuckle, hiding his discomfort at the notion. Those wicked stories of Bien deLouisa flitted through his memory. “But would Captain Adjonas let you off the ship?” he asked, to change the uncomfortable course down which his mind was flying.

“Me contract was for the isle and back,” she replied. “We’ll soon be back. Adjonas got nothing on me after Palmaris. I’ll get me pay—and more for the favors I did for the rest of the crew—and be gone.”

“Then will you come to the abbey?” Avelyn asked, showing more emotion, more hopefulness, than he had intended.

Dansally’s smile was wide. “Might that I will,” she answered. “But first, ye got to do something for me.” As she finished talking, she leaned closer, putting her lips to his. Avelyn recoiled instinctively, out of shyness. When he thought about his hesitation, it only strengthened his resolve. His relationship with Dansally was special, was something different from the physical connection she had with other men. Surely his body wanted what she offered, but if he gave in now, then would he be lessening that special bond, reducing his relationship with Dansally to the level of all the others?

“Don’t ye pull away,” she pleaded, “not this time.”

“I could bring Quintall to you,” Avelyn said, a bitter edge to his voice.

Dansally fell back and slapped him across the face. He meant to respond with an insult, but by the time he recovered, he noted that she was kneeling on the bed, head down, shoulders moving with sobs.

“I—I did not mean . . .” Avelyn stuttered, feeling horrible about wounding his precious Dansally.

“So ye think I’m a whore,” she said. “And so I am.”

“No,” Avelyn replied, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“But I’m more a virgin than ye know!” the woman snapped, head coming up so that her gaze, her proud gaze, could lock with Avelyn’s. “Me body does its work, ‘tis true, but me heart’s never been there. Not once! Not even with me worthless husband—might that be why he threw me out!”

The thought that Dansally had never loved caught Avelyn off his guard and settled him back for a bit. Though he was completely inexperienced in physical lovemaking, he understood what she was saying.

And he believed her!

He didn’t answer, except to lean forward and offer a kiss.

Brother Avelyn learned much about love that day, learned the completeness of body and spirit in a way more profound than his morning exercise could ever approach.

So did Dansally.

The
Windrunner
was welcomed at St.-Mere-Abelle with understated efficiency, just a handful of monks, Masters Jojonah and Siherton among them, coming down to the docks to greet the returning brothers and their precious cargo, and to direct the lesser monks in carrying aboard ship a pair of heavy chests. A new wharf had been constructed, reaching far enough out into the bay so that the
Windrunner
could dock.

To mollify his crew, Adjonas had the chests opened as soon as they were brought on deck, and how the men gasped!

Avelyn did, too, noting the piles of coins and gems and jewelry, such a treasure as he had never before seen. Something beyond the rich materials caught his eyes, though, as the lids were being secured in place once more. He didn’t quite understand it, nor could he make out the aura of magic surrounding Master Siherton. The man had one of his hands behind his back, and Avelyn noted that he was fingering a pair of stones, a diamond and a smoky quartz.

Suspicious, but wise enough to keep his mouth shut, Avelyn bid farewell to Adjonas and the others—though not a man aboard the
Windrunner
regretted the departure of the three monks—and went ashore. His thoughts were on Dansally, hoping she would indeed leave the
Windrunner
at next port and make her way to St.-Mere-Abelle. Logically, Avelyn knew that she would indeed, knew that they had shared something precious. But still his doubts lingered. Had their encounter really been special to Dansally? How had he measured up against all the men she had known? Perhaps he hadn’t really done it right, or perhaps Adjonas had ordered her to bed Avelyn, or even had made a wager with her that she could not bed the man.