The Demon Spirit (The DemonWars Saga #2) - Page 5

The mountainous ring surrounding the Barbacan was fully twelve hundred miles from the stone walls of St.-Mere-Abelle, and that as a bird might fly. By road, in those places where a traveler would be fortunate enough to even find a road, the distance was much closer to two thousand miles, a trek that would have taken a conventional caravan twelve weeks to traverse – and that, only if the caravan ran into no unforeseen problems and did not stop a single day for any respite. In truth, any merchant planning such a journey would allow for three months of travel, and would have carried enough gold to replace his horse team several times. And in truth, in these dangerous times, with goblin and powrie forces running wild even along the normally tame areas of Honce-the-Bear, no merchant, not even the soldiers of the famous elite Allheart Brigade, would have made the attempt.

But the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle were not merchants or sol-diers, and were possessed of magics that could cut tremendous amounts of time from their journey and keep them well-hidden from the eyes of potential enemies. And if it so happened they were discovered by goblins or other monsters, those magics would make them a formidable force indeed. The planning for such a journey from the abbey had already been done, centuries before. The monks of St.-Mere-Abelle were the original cartographers of Honce-the-Bear, and even of the Timberlands, northern Behren, southern Alpinador, and a good deal of the western reaches of the Wilderlands, as well. In those long past times, journey logs had been turned into travel guides, detailing supplies needed, magic stones recommended, and fastest routes. Those guides, in turn, were updated on a regular basis, and so Brother Francis' biggest task that day after the repulsion of the powrie attack was to find the proper guide tomes, and convert the recommended supply figures to accommodate a party of twenty- five, the number of brothers that Father Abbot Markwart had determined would make the journey.

After vespers on only the second day, Brother Francis reported to the Father Abbot and the masters that the lists were complete and the route confirmed. All that needed to be done was rounding up the supplies – a task that Francis assured the Father Abbot could be done in a matter of two hours – and the naming of the journeying monks.

"I will lead the team personally," the Father Abbot informed them, drawing gasps from Francis and all the masters, except for Master Jojonah, who had suspected that all along. Markwart was obsessed, Jojonah understood, and in such a state, his decision-making was greatly flawed.

"But Father Abbot," one of the other masters argued, "this is un-precedented. You are the leader of St.-Mere-Abelle and all of the Abellican Church. To risk your safety on such a perilous trek – "

"We would risk less by sending the King himself!" another master protested.

Father Abbot Markwart held up his hand, silencing the men. "I have thought this through," he replied. "It is fitting that I go – the greatest power of good sent to do battle with the greatest power of evil."

"But surely not in your own body," offered Master Jojonah, who had also done quite a bit of thinking on this very subject. "Might I suggest Brother Francis as a suitable vessel for your inquiries as to the progress of the troupe?"

Markwart looked long and hard at Jojonah, the Father Abbot obviously caught off his guard by the perfectly reasonable sugges-tion. With a telepathic connection between the two bodies, facili-tated by a soul stone, physical distance would mean little. Father Abbot Markwart could make the trip, or could check in on its progress personally – in spirit –  without ever leaving the comfort of the abbey.

"You would be honored at such a position, would you not, Brother Francis?" Master Jojonah went on.

Brother Francis' eyes shot daggers at the sly master. Of course he would not be "honored" by such a position, something that he, and Jojonah, understood well. Possession was a horrible thing in-deed, and nothing to ever be desired. Even worse, Francis knew that serving as a mere vessel for Markwart would reduce his role significantly, should he be chosen to go along on the journey. How could he be placed in any position of leadership, after all, if there was the possibility that he would not even be there, if his spirit and will were thrown out into empty limbo while Markwart used his body?

Brother Francis looked from Master Jojonah to the Father Abbot, to the other seven masters in attendance, all of them eyeing him expectantly. How could he refuse such a proposal? His angry gaze fell back over Jojonah, the younger monk staring unblink-ingly at the master even as he mouthed, through gritted teeth, "Of course it would be the highest honor that any brother could expect or desire."

"Well done, then," the victorious Jojonah said, clapping his hands. In one fell swoop he had prevented Markwart from leading the caravan and had put the too-ambitious Brother Francis in his place. It wasn't that Jojonah wanted to protect Markwart from any perils; far from that. It was simply that he feared the mischief Markwart might cause if the journey proved successful. More than a few speculations placed Avelyn Desbris at the scene of devasta-tion in the north, and Jojonah feared that Markwart might cover whatever truth was to be found there with calculated tales that fell more in line with his hatred of Avelyn. If Markwart was in control of the caravan that reached the Barbacan, then Markwart would determine what had happened there.

"I do fear, though, that my work will have then been wasted," Brother Francis added suddenly, even as Father Abbot Markwart started to speak.

All eyes turned to the young brother.

"I have planned the trip," Francis explained – improvising, Jo-jonah and several others realized. "I am familiar with the course we must take and the amounts of supplies that should be remaining at each stop. Also, I am well-versed and, by all accounts, proficient with the stones, a necessary ingredient if we are to meet the timetable of three weeks offered in the guide tomes."

"Twelve days," Father Abbot Markwart said, drawing looks from all, and a gasp of disbelief from Brother Francis. "Our timetable will be twelve days," the Father Abbot clarified.

"But…" Brother Francis started to respond, but if the old man's tone left little room for debate, his glare left none, and the young monk wisely fell silent.

"And Master Jojonah is correct, and his suggestion is accepted as the wiser course," Markwart went on. "Thus I will not go, but will look in on the expedition on a regular basis, through the willing eyes of Brother Francis."

Jojonah was pleased by that announcement; he had feared that stubborn Markwart would hold out longer. He wasn't surprised that his recommendation of Francis as the vessel had been ac-cepted, though. The ambitious brother was one of the few in St.-Mere-Abelle trusted by the old Father Abbot, who had grown increasingly paranoid ever since Avelyn Desbris absconded with the gemstones.

"Since I will not personally, or at least not physically, lead the quest," Markwart went on, "one of you masters must go." His gaze drifted about the room, settling for a moment on eager De'Unnero before falling fully over Jojonah.

The portly old master returned that look with an incredulous ex-pression. Surely Markwart would not choose him, he prayed. He was among the oldest of the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle, and was easily the least physically prepared for any long and hard road.

But Markwart did not back down from that gaze. "Master Jojonah, the senior master of St.-Mere-Abelle, is the logical choice," he said aloud. "With an immaculate to serve as his second, Brother Francis to serve as his third, and twenty-two others working the wagons and the horse teams."

Jojonah stared long and hard at the Father Abbot as Markwart and the other masters began discussing which of the younger and stronger brothers would be best suited for the road. Jojonah offered no input into the selection process, just sat staring and thinking, and hating the man. Markwart had chosen him for no practical reason, he knew. He was being punished by the old man for his friendship and mentoring of Avelyn and for his continued arguments against so many of Markwart's decisions on every issue, from the abbey's role in the larger community to philosophical discussions about the true value of the gemstones and the true meaning of their faith. Markwart had voiced his displeasure with Jojonah on more than one occasion, had even once threatened a College of Abbots gath-ering to discuss, as he had put it, "Jojonah's increasingly heretical way of thinking."

Jojonah had almost hoped for that meeting, for he was con-vinced that many of the other abbots of the Abellican Church would see things his way. He saw the bluff for what it was, for he knew that Markwart probably feared the same judgments. Over the last few years, Markwart had purposefully lessened St.-Mere-Abelle's contact with the other abbeys, and the last thing the old Father Abbot wanted was a showdown with the rest of the Church over philosophical matters.

Despite that, Master Jojonah had feared that Markwart would find a way to get back at him, and so, it seemed, it had come to pass. Twelve hundred miles in twelve days, with much of that time, no doubt, spent dodging disaster in the form of powries, goblins, and giants. And then the troupe would spend weeks, perhaps months, trying to decipher the riddles left behind in the inhospitable waste-land of the Barbacan, tormented by a climate, according to the tomes, where water might freeze even on a summer night, and sur-rounded by vast hosts of their enemies, perhaps even including the demon dactyl itself. They did not know, after all, whether the fiend had really been destroyed. It was all speculation.

Ambitious Brother Francis desperately wanted to make this journey – though with his own spirit inhabiting his own body – but for Master Jojonah, having passed the mark of his sixth decade and with no further aspirations for power or for glory, and certainly not for adventure, this was indeed a punishment, and quite possibly a death sentence.

There would be no debate, however. The twenty-two were se-lected quickly, based on their strengths both magical and physical. Most were fifth- or sixth-year students, men in the prime of their physical life, though a pair of immaculates, a tenth-year and a twelfth-year student, had been included.

"And your selection for your second?" the Father Abbot asked Jojonah.

The master took his time considering his options. The obvious choice, from a purely selfish point of view, would have been Brother Braumin Herde, a close friend and often a confidant. But Jojonah had to consider the wider picture. If this caravan met with disaster, a very real possibility, and both he and Braumin Herde were killed, that would leave Markwart virtually unopposed. The other masters, with the possible exception of Master Engress, were too entrenched in their trappings of power and wealth to even argue with the Father Abbot, and the other immaculates and even ninth-year students were too ambitious, too much like Brother Francis.

Except for one, Jojonah mused.

"Must it be an immaculate? " he asked.

"I'll not spare another master," Father Abbot Markwart was quick to reply. His tone, full of surprise and with an edge of anger, revealed to Jojonah that he had expected and hoped that Jojonah would select Braumin Herde.

"I was thinking of one of Brother Francis' peers," Master Jo-jonah explained.

"Another ninth-year student?" Markwart asked skeptically.

"But we have selected two immaculates among the twenty-two," Master Engress pointed out. "They may not take kindly to the fact that a ninth- year student has already been appointed as the third in rank."

"Though they will accept it, since said ninth-year student is serving as the vessel for the Father Abbot," another of the masters quickly and reverently put in, bowing his head in deference to Markwart.

Master Jojonah resisted the urge to run over and punch the man.

"But to give them a ninth-year student as a second, as well," Master Engress continued, not to be argumentative, for that was not his nature, but only to play a necessary dissenting voice here.

Markwart looked at the master, who had stood up for the deci-sion to name Francis as third, and gave a slight nod, one that Jo-jonah was sure the old man wasn't even aware of doing, which tipped Jojonah off to the coming decision.

"Who did you plan to name?" Father Abbot Markwart asked.

Master Jojonah shrugged noncommittally. It was a moot point, as far as his journey was concerned, he realized, for Markwart had already made up his mind that no ninth-year student would serve as second. The Father Abbot was merely fishing now, he realized, trying to find out if there were any other potential troublemakers among the underlings at St.-Mere- Abelle, any other conspirators in Master Jojonah's little gang.

"I only hoped that Brother Braumin Herde might accompany me," Jojonah remarked offhandedly. "He is a friend, and one I con-sider a bit of a protege."

The Father Abbot's face screwed up with confusion, his smug expression disappearing.

"Then what – " one of the masters started to ask.

"Brother Herde is no peer of mine," Brother Francis interrupted. "He is an immaculate."

Jojonah put on his best confused look. "Is he?"

Several masters began speaking all at once, most voicing their fears that their portly fellow might be going soft in more than the belly.

"You wanted Herde?" Father Abbot Markwart said loudly, calming the din.

Jojonah grinned and nodded sheepishly. "So he is a tenth-year student," the master answered, feigning embarrassment. "The years do pass so quickly, and they all seem to blend together."

The nods and chuckles about the table told Jojonah that he had managed to wriggle out of that tight spot. Still, he wasn't thrilled about the fact that both he and Braumin Herde were going off to-gether so far from St.-Mere-Abelle and so near to mortal danger.

Brother Braumin Herde was a handsome man with short black, curly hair and strong features, including dark, penetrating eyes and a face that was always shadowed by hair, no matter how often the man shaved it clean. He was not tall, but his shoulders were broad and his posture straight, giving him a solid appearance. He was into his early thirties, having spent more than a third of his life at St.-Mere-Abelle, and since his first love was for his God, many of the women in the area surely lamented that decision and devotion.

He glanced both ways along the corridor in the upper level of the abbey, then backed into the room, softly closing the door be-hind him. "I should be going on this journey," he said in his rich and resonating voice, turning to face Master Jojonah. "Through my years of work, I have earned a place on the caravan to the Barbacan."

"A place with me, or with Markwart?" Master Jojonah replied.

"You were given the pick of a second, and that after the others, not including me, had been selected," Braumin Herde was quick to reply. "And you chose me, though I know that you meant to choose otherwise."

Jojonah looked at him quizzically.

"I heard the story. You could not have forgotten that I was an im-maculate, since you yourself presented me the scroll of honor," Braumin reasoned. "You meant to choose Brother Viscenti."

Jojonah rocked back on his heels, surprised that such detailed in-formation concerning the meeting had already spread. He studied Brother Braumin carefully, and had never seen such pain and anger on the man's face. Braumin Herde was a forceful and physically imposing man, all hair and muscle, and with a huge square jaw. His broad chest angled down in a V to a narrow waist, for there was nothing soft about him; it seemed as if he had been cut from stone, and there were few in all of St.-Mere- Abelle who could match him in feats of sheer strength. Master Jojonah knew him well, though, his inner being, his compassionate heart, and understood that the man was not a fighter. For all his great strength, Brother Braumin had never been anything exceptional in the martial training, a fact that had so often frustrated Master De'Unnero, who saw such po-tential in the man. To De'Unnero's dismay, Brother Braumin was a gentle soul, and Jojonah was not worried that he might act out his anger now.

"You would have been my first choice," the master answered honestly. "But I had to consider the implications of naming you. The road to the Barbacan is fraught with peril, and we have no idea what we might find when – if – we do get there."

Braumin gave a deep sigh and his shoulders slumped a bit. "I am not afraid," he replied.

"But I am," said Jojonah. "What we two have come to believe must not die with us on a road to the Wilderlands."

Braumin Herde's disappointment could not hold against the logical reasoning and Jojonah's clear concern. "We have to make certain that Brother Viscenti and the others understand," he agreed.

Jojonah nodded, and the two stood silent for a long while, each considering the dangerous course they had taken. If Father Abbot Markwart came to know the level of what was in their hearts, if he came to realize that these two above all others in St.-Mere-Abelle saw his leadership as errant, and had even begun to question the en-tire direction of the Abellican Church, then he would likely, without hesitation, brand them as heretics and have them publicly tortured to death – an act not without precedent in the often brutal history of the Abellican Church.

"What if it is Brother Avelyn?" Braumin Herde asked at length. "What if we find him there alive?"

Master Jojonah gave a helpless chuckle. "No doubt, our orders will be to bring him back in chains," he replied. "The Father Abbot will not suffer Avelyn to live, I fear, and will not rest easy until the gemstones Avelyn took are returned to St.-Mere-Abelle."

"And will we bring him back?"

Again the helpless chuckle. "I do not know if we could restrain Brother Avelyn if we wanted to," Jojonah replied. "You never had the pleasure of seeing Brother Avelyn at work with the magic stones. If we find that it was indeed he who caused the explosion in the north, if Avelyn destroyed the dactyl and is still alive, then pity us if we try to wage battle against him."

"Twenty-five monks?" Braumin Herde asked skeptically.

"Never underestimate Brother Avelyn," came the curt reply. "But it would not come to that, in any case," Jojonah was quick to add. "I pray that we do find Brother Avelyn; oh, how I would love to see him again!"

"It would force conflict," Braumin Herde reasoned. "If Brother Avelyn is alive, then we must take a side, either with him or with the Father Abbot."

Master Jojonah closed his eyes, recognizing the truth of his young friend's words. Jojonah and Herde, and, to a lesser extent, several others at St.-Mere-Abelle, were not pleased by Markwart's leadership, but if they were to side with Avelyn, who had been called a heretic openly by the Father Abbot, and who would likely be formally branded as one in the College of Abbots that was to convene later that year, they would find themselves against the whole of the Church. Jojonah, believing in the righteousness of his position, didn't doubt that many other monks – in St.- Mere-Abelle, in St. Precious of Palmaris, and in all the other abbeys –  might join in his cause, but did he really want to split the Church? Did he want to begin a war?

And yet, if they did indeed find Brother Avelyn alive, how could Jojonah in good conscience go against him, or even turn away from any others' actions against him? Brother Avelyn was no heretic, Jojonah knew – in fact, was quite the opposite. Avelyn's crime against the Father Abbot and against all the Church was that he had held a mirror up to them, showing them the truth of their actions when measured against the honest precepts of their faith. And the brothers, Markwart most of all, had not liked the image in that mirror. Not at all.

"I believe that it was Brother Avelyn in the Barbacan," Jojonah said with confidence. "Only he could have gone against the demon dactyl. But which survived, if either, remains to be determined."

"We have evidence that the dactyl is no more," Braumin Herde replied. "The monster army has lost its direction and its cohesiveness. Powries and goblins no longer closely ally, by all reports, and we have personally seen their disarray in their attack on our walls."

"Then perhaps the dactyl has been badly wounded, and we will go and finish the task," Jojonah said.

"Or perhaps the demon is destroyed, and we will find Brother Avelyn," Braumin Herde said grimly.

"If the dactyl is dead, and thus the business at the Barbacan fin-ished, it is likely that Brother Avelyn will be far gone from that cursed place."

"Let us hope," said Braumin Herde. "We are not ready to go against the Father Abbot yet."

That last statement caught Jojonah off guard and gave him pause. He and Herde had never discussed going against the Father Abbot at all. By the implications of all their conversations, they would hold fast to their beliefs about the way the Church should behave, and would funnel those beliefs to others through ex-ample and voice in council. But never once had they discussed, or even intimated, any formal plans to "go against" Markwart or the Church.

Braumin Herde caught the nonverbal cues and sank back a bit, embarrassed by his forward stance.

Jojonah let the slip pass with yet another chuckle. He remem-bered when he was younger, much younger, a firebrand like Herde, who thought he could change the world. The wisdom, or perhaps just the weariness, of age had taught him better, though. It was not the world Master Jojonah meant to change, not even the Church, but only his own little corner of both places. He would let Markwart have his direction, would let the Church follow the course that others decided. But he would remain true to his own heart, and would follow a course of piety, dignity, and poverty, as he pledged those decades ago when he had taken his vows at St.-Mere- Abelle. He would spread the word of truth to those younger monks, like Braumin Herde and Viscenti Marlboro, who wished to listen, but it was neither his intent nor his desire to see the Abellican Church split apart.

That was his fear.

And so Master Jojonah, the gentle man, the true friend of Avelyn Desbris, hoped that Avelyn was dead.

"We will be leaving in the morning," Jojonah said. "Go to Brother Viscenti and reinforce all that we three have discussed. Bid him to study well and hard and hold fast to the truth. Bid him to al-ways offer charity, to believers and unbelievers alike, to tend the wounds of the body and the soul for friend and for enemy. Bid him to speak out against injustice and excess, but to temper his voice with compassion. The good will win out in the end, by the truth of their words and not the swing of their sword, though that victory may be centuries in the making."

Braumin Herde considered the wisdom of those words for a time, then gave a respectful bow and turned for the corridor.

"And prepare yourself well for the road," Master Jojonah added before he opened the door. "Brother Francis speaks for the Father Abbot, and do not doubt the loyalty of the other twenty-two in our party. Rein in your temper, brother, or we will find trouble before we ever leave the civilized lands."

Again Braumin Herde bowed respectfully, and he nodded as he came up straight, assuring his mentor that he would indeed heed the words.

Master Jojonah didn't doubt that for a moment, for Herde, both firebrand and gentle soul, was a disciplined man. He knew Brother Braumin would do the right thing, and so would he, though Jo-jonah feared what the right thing might become should they find Brother Avelyn Desbris alive and well on the road.

"You know what I suspect, and what I expect," Father Abbot Markwart said sharply.

"I am a willing vessel, Father Abbot," Brother Francis said, low-ering his eyes. "You will find entrance to my body whenever you so desire."

"As if you could stop me," the old abbot boasted. The words were hollow, Markwart knew, for possession, even with his new understanding of the stones, was a difficult thing, and even more so when the vessel was a man trained in the magics. "But this is about more than that," he continued. "Do you understand the true pur-pose of this journey?"

"To discover if the dactyl was destroyed," the younger monk replied without hesitation. "Or to see if ever there was a demon dactyl."

"Of course there was," snapped an impatient Markwart. "But that is not the issue. You are going to the Barbacan to determine the fate of the demon, that is true, but you are going, more importantly, to determine the whereabouts of Avelyn Desbris."

Brother Francis' face screwed up with confusion. He knew the Church sought Avelyn, knew it was suspected that Avelyn had been involved in the reputed explosion far to the north, but he never imagined that the Father Abbot would place Avelyn's where-abouts as more important than the fate of the demon dactyl.

"The demon dactyl threatens the lives of thousands," the Father Abbot conceded. "The suffering caused by the emergence of the beast is truly horrifying and regrettable. But the demon dactyl has appeared before and will appear again; the cycle of suffering is the fate of Man. Brother Avelyn's threat, however, is more insidious, and potentially more long- lasting and more devastating. His ac-tions and his tempting heretical viewpoints threaten the very foun-dations of our beloved Abellican Order."

Still Francis appeared doubtful.

"From those few reports of his actions on the run, it seems that Avelyn masks his heresy with pretty words and seemingly chari-table actions," Markwart went on, raising his voice in frustration. "He disavows the importance of ancient traditions without under-standing the value of such traditions and, indeed, the utter necessity of them if the Church is to survive."

"My pardon, Father Abbot," Brother Francis said quietly, "but I had thought that Avelyn was long on tradition – too long, some would say. I had thought that his errors went the other way, that he was so devoted to outdated rituals, he could not see the truth and the realities of the modern-day Church."

Markwart waved his bony hand and turned away, chewing his lip, trying to find some way out of the logic trap. "True enough," he agreed, then turned back fiercely, forcing Francis to back away a step. "In some matters, Avelyn was so seemingly devoted as to ap-pear inhuman. Do you know that he did not even care, did not shed a single tear, when his own mother died?"

Francis' eyes went wide.

"It is true," Markwart went on. "He was so obsessed with his vows that the passing of his own mother was to him an unimportant matter. But do not be fooled into thinking that his actions were wrought of true spirituality. No, no, they were the product of ambi-tion, as he proved when he murdered Master Siherton and ab-sconded with the gemstones. Avelyn is dangerous to all the Order, and he, not the dactyl, remains the first order of business."

Brother Francis thought it over for a few moments, then nodded. "I understand, Father Abbot."

"Do you?" Markwart replied, in such a tone that Francis doubted himself. "Do you understand what you are to do if you en-counter Avelyn Desbris?"

"We are twenty-five strong – " Francis began.

"Do not count on the support of twenty-five," Markwart warned.

That, too, gave Brother Francis pause. "Still," he said hesitantly and at length, "there are enough of us to take Avelyn and return him and the gemstones to St.-Mere-Abelle."

"No." The simple manner in which Markwart replied put Francis on his heels yet again.

"But – "

"If you encounter Avelyn Desbris," Markwart explained grimly, "if you even catch the slightest hint of his scent, you will return to me that which was stolen, along with the news of wandering Avelyn's demise. You may bring me back his head, if possible."

Brother Francis squared his shoulders. He was not a gentle man, and probably would have been ranked higher in his class except for several brawls he had been all too willingly involved in. Still, he never expected such a command from the Father Abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle. Francis was an ambitious and blindly loyal monk, though, and never one to let conscience get in the way of following orders. "I will not fail in this," he said. "Master Jojonah and I – "

"Beware Jojonah," Markwart interrupted. "And Brother Brau-min Herde, as well. They serve as first and second for the journey to the Barbacan and in any matter concerning the disposition of the demon dactyl. Where Avelyn Desbris is concerned, if Avelyn Des-bris is concerned, Brother Francis speaks for Father Abbot, and the Father Abbot's word is unquestionable law."

Brother Francis bowed deeply, and seeing the dismissive wave of Father Abbot's hand, turned about and left the room, full of an-ticipation, full of possibilities.

The night was deep about St.-Mere-Abelle as Brother Braumin made his way across the upper levels of the ancient structure. Though his mission was vital – he had already passed word to Brother Viscenti to await his arrival in his private chambers – he took a circuitous route, moving through the long, long corridor that ran along the abbey's seawall, overlooking All Saints Bay. With no torches burning along the structure's outer walls, and none on the few docks far below, Braumin was afforded the most spectacular view of the evening canopy, a million million stars twinkling above the dark waters of the great Mirianic. He had been born too late, he mused as he stared out one of the tall and narrow windows, for he had missed the journey to Pimaninicuit, the equatorial islandupon whose shores the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle collected the sa-cred stones. Such journeys only occurred every six generations, every 173 years.

Braumin Herde wasn't even supposed to know the details of such things, for he was not yet a master, but Jojonah had told him the story of the most recent journey, of how Brothe