The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars

PART 2: THE COLLEGE OF ABBOTS

Master Arri couldn’t help but smile as he looked down on the young couple dancing in the evergreen grove. The sun was high above in the east, stretched shadows from the pines about them so that they twirled and spun in light and then shadow, repeatedly, the woman’s white robes flashing, the man’s light green robes somewhat muting the effect, serving almost as a transition from light to darkness. Their smiles shone even in the shadows, though.

She was such a pretty thing, her light hair dancing in the breeze, her bright eyes shining back at the sun, her slender frame carrying her gracefully through the twirling dance. Her partner was heavier set, stocky and strong, with long and curly black hair and a beard that could house a flock of birds! His robe was open at the chest, and there too he was a shaggy one. Unlike the fair-skinned woman, his skin was olive, speaking of ancestry in the south, likely.

Master Arri should not be smiling, he knew. Indeed, he should be horrified by the scene before him, for though it was it was obvious that they were in love, they could not be. The wider world would not have it.

For Arri knew this woman, Sister Mary Ann of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea, the same monastery where Arri had been ordained as a brother and as a master of the Abellican Church. And while he didn’t know the man, he knew the truth of this one, Elliot, and had been watching him from afar since he had returned to the region from his wandering, to learn of the disaster that had befallen his beloved abbey. According to the folk of the nearby towns, Elliot was a Samhaist, that most ancient religion of Honce, a practice deemed heretical and driven out by the Church in the earliest days. The Samhaists and the Abellicans had battled long and hard for the soul of the people of the lands, the former with warnings of brimstone and divine retribution, the latter with softer promises of peace after death and a loving God.

Few Samhaists could be found in Honce-the-Bear in God’s’Year 847, even counting the wild lands of Vanguard. Indeed, as far as Arri, who had recently come south across the gulf from Vanguard, knew, there were no Samhaists south of Alpinador.

Except now he knew better, for there was no doubt as to the religious leaning of this man, Elliot.

To see young and bright Sister Mary Ann dancing with him did pain Master Arri, but at the same time, his heart could not deny the joy on her face or the lightness of her step.

And in truth, Arri was glad to see one of his brethren from St. Gwendolyn alive! The heresy of De’Unnero had brutalized this abbey more than any of the others. De’Unnero had publicly executed the Abbot and had cleansed the place as a barn cat might seek the mice. The monastery up on the hill overlooking the dark Mirianic was, by all accounts, deserted.

And haunted.

Marcalo De’Unnero had left demons in his wake, so it was whispered.

But Sister Mary Ann had escaped (in no small part because of this Samhaist, so the whispers in the town had claimed), so perhaps there were others.

Master Arri moved down to a stretch of underbrush near the south road and waited. And not for long, as it turned out, for the sun had barely passed its zenith when Mary Ann came skipping down the road. Her face was all smiles, her young heart surely lifted.

Arri stepped out into the road before her.

She skidded to a stop and half-turned as if to flee, her expression one of surprise and fear — but that latter emotion fast faded when recognition came to her.

“Master Arri!” she cried, and she ran to him and wrapped him in a great hug.

Arri responded in kind, crushing her in his long and skinny arms. He had always liked this young woman, who had come into St. Gwendolyn only months before he had begun his wandering. He moved her back to arms’ length.

“You look well,” he said. “I feared that I would find…”

“They’re all dead,” she interrupted. “The Abbot, the Masters, the brothers, the sisters. All dead, I fear, or turned to…” She hesitated there and took a longer and suspicious look at Arri.

“I am no follower of Marcalo De’Unnero,” he assured her. “You have nothing to fear,” he paused and considered the Samhaist, and added, “in that regard.”

“There is word that he advances upon St.-Mere-Abelle with King Aydrian and…”

“Old news,” Arri assured her. “Word spreads across the lands that the battle was fought, and won by our Father Abbot and Bishop Braumin. Marcalo De’Unnero is dead, and King Aydrian removed.”

Sister Mary Ann wrapped him in another great hug, seeming genuinely elated.

Again, Arri pushed her back to arms’ length. “Perhaps not such good news for you, though,” he said.

A dark cloud passed over the young woman’s face.

“I saw you,” Arri explained. “In the grove. With him.”

She swallowed hard.

“Do you know who he is? Do you know what he is?”

“We are not so different,” she said quietly.

“You denounce the Abellican Church?”

“No…no, I mean,” she stammered and sighed as if she could not find the right words. “he is a good man. He saved me from De’Unnero’s followers. He fought for me…”

“You were lovers!”

“No!” she cried. “I did not even know him. I knew nothing of him. De’Unnero’s men were chasing me, and then they were not! The trees came alive and swatted them! The grass grabbed their boots and held them…”

“This is Earth magic!” Arri cried, and that was all he had to say, for all in the Church knew the official position on such enchantments, that they were of the demon dactyls!

“But he saved me! Did I not deserve to be away from the followers of the heretic?”

“The enemy of your enemy is not necessarily your friend, sister.”

“But Elliot is,” she said, and she seemed to grow stronger then, firming her jaw. “He rescued me from the heretic mob. They came for him later. I found him grievously wounded.” She reached into a pouch and brought forth a soul stone.

“You used godly Abellican magic on a Samhaist?”

She didn’t respond, but neither did she blink or back down.

“You would do it again,” Arri said, and his tone was that of a statement and not an accusation.

“Yes.”

“Have you given over any of the stones to this man, Elliot?”

“No, of course not. I have just a few,” she fumbled in her pouch again and produced a few minor gemstones. “He has no interest in them anyway.”

Arri put his hands on Mary Ann’s shoulders, squaring himself up to her and looking her right in the eye as he asked, “Are you a Samhaist, sister?”

She hesitated, tellingly, before quietly replying, “No.”

“But you are thinking it a possibility!” Now Arri was accusing her, clearly so.

“I am thinking that the world is a wider place than I knew, and that my Church, the brothers of my own faith, tried to do great harm to me and murdered my friends!” she replied. “And that a man stepped forth, despite the danger, and told them no, and fought them. You think him a demon for his beliefs, which you likely understand less than I, and yet who were the demons, Master, when Marcalo De’Unnero fell over St. Gwendolyn?”

“Are you a Samhaist?” he asked again.

“No,” she replied immediately, and more forcefully. “But I will learn of Elliot’s ways, if he will tell me. Perhaps they will ring of truth to me, perhaps not. That is for me to decide.”

“Do you think the Father Abbot will agree with that?”

She shrugged.

“I am going to St.-Mere-Abelle,” Arri explained. “I leave at week’s turn. The Order of St, Gwendolyn must be rebuilt. You will accompany me.”

Sister Mary Ann’s lip quivered, just a bit, but Arri caught it.

“I cannot guarantee your safety. I know not what judgment the Father Abbot will put upon you for…for, being with this man.”

Sister Mary Ann made no movement at all, just stared at him, and with an expression he could not decipher.

“I will speak for you,” he promised. “Surely these are extraordinary circumstances. I will beg for leniency.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Then have you the courage to come and tell that to the Father Abbot?”

The young woman nodded. “I am not ashamed,” she said. “I survived, and have done nothing wrong.”

Master Arri offered her a comforting return smile and nod, but in his thoughts he wasn’t so confident at that moment. Abellicans, in recent history, had been burned at the stake for less than the crime of loving a Samhaist.

“You are familiar with this game?” Bishop Braumin asked Pagonel. The two and Master Viscenti were in Braumin’s private chambers when Pagonel had wandered away from the hearth to a chessboard set up at the side of the room, the game half completed.

“Vaguely,” Pagonel replied.

The two monks joined Pagonel over by the board.

“You were playing against the Father Abbot,” Viscenti remarked and Braumin nodded.

“A fine opponent was Fio Bou-raiy,” said Braumin. “He had me beaten, I fear.”

“He was playing black, then,” said Pagonel, and Braumin at the board, then back at Pagonel curiously. A casual glance at the board revealed little advantage for either side — indeed, black had lost more pieces — and given the mystic’s response that he “vaguely” knew the game, how could he have known the truth of the situation on the board?

“This piece,” Pagonel asked, tapping one of the white bishops, “it runs along the white diagonal squares, yes?”

“Yes,” Braumin answered.

Pagonel nodded. “We have a similar game in Behren, at the Walk of Clouds. More pieces, but the concepts align, I believe. Sit.” He motioned to the chair behind the base for the black side, and he slipped into the chair behind the white king.

“Pray show me how each of these pieces move and attack,” the mystic bade.

Braumin and Viscenti exchanged a curious glance, and proceeded. When they were done, Pagonel wore a sly grin. “I will replace your opponent, if you allow,” he said. “And yes, if my objective is to defeat your king, then you are defeated.”

“Then why play?” Viscenti asked.

“We could play anew,” Pagonel started to offer, but Braumin waved that thought away.

“It is your move,” Braumin told the mystic.

A short while later, Bishop Braumin conceded, and accepted the mystic’s offer to begin anew.

“If he offers you a bet, do not take it,” Master Viscenti said with a laugh just a few moves into the new game. “I do believe that our friend here has been less than forthcoming regarding his experience with chess!”

“Not so,” said Pagonel.

“Then how do you play so well? This is no simple game!”

“Your monks fight well,” Pagonel answered. “The best of your fighters would match up favorable in single combat against a Jhesta Tu of equal experience.”

“We pride ourselves…” Braumin started to reply, but Pagonel kept going.

“But were a group of four brothers to line up in battle across from four Jhesta Tu, they would lose, and badly, and not a single of my acolytes would be badly harmed.”

“Quite a claim,” said Viscenti.

“You will see, my friend,” Pagonel said.

A few moves later, the game was clearly and decisively turning in Pagonel’s favor, so much so that Braumin, one of the best chess players remaining at St.-Mere-Abelle, suspected that he would soon resign.

“How?” Viscenti asked when Braumin soon groaned and moved his king away from Pagonel’s check, the outcome becoming clearer.

“This is not a battle of individual pieces,” Pagonel explained.

“It is a game of strategy,” Braumin remarked.

“It is a game of coordination, and within the boundaries of this board lie your answers, Bishop Braumin.”

The monks stared at him hard. “Answers?” Braumin asked.

“How will your Church survive, and thrive, after the punishment the heretic De’Unnero inflicted upon it? That is your fear, yes? How will you lead them out of the darkness and rebuild from the ashes of De’Unnero’s deadly wake?”

“It will take time,” Viscenti said.

“Given the way you select — or should I say, deselect? — your brethren and the way you train them, I would agree,” said Pagonel. “But it does not have to be like that.”

He turned to the board and lifted the castle-like piece, the rook. “This piece is straightforward in attack, and thus, easily detected as a threat,” he explained. “But that is not its purpose. This piece shortens the board, and creates a defensive wall that limits your opponent’s movements.”

Braumin nodded. He hadn’t thought of a rook in those terms before, but it made sense.

“This piece,” Pagonel said, lifting a bishop, “is more clever. The eye of your opponent will not see the angled attack lines so easily, and so the bishop strikes hard and fast and with devastating effects.”

“That is true of the knight,” Viscenti remarked.

“Ah, the knight, the battlefield dancer,” said Pagonel. “St. Gwendolyn.”

That last remark had the monks leaning forward with surprise and intrigue.

“It is true that the knight is deadly, but the piece better serves to turn your opponent’s eye. The knight is a feint and a fear. You cannot block her from moving…”

As he spoke, he lifted one of his knights over Braumin’s pawn and set it down in a position to threaten the king.

“And as you watch her,” Pagonel went on slowly as Braumin shifted his king aside, further from the threat.

Pagonel moved his bishop down the line across the board, taking Braumin’s rook, which was no longer protected by his king. “As you watch her,” he said again, “the bishop strikes.”

Viscenti blew a low whistle of admiration. Braumin Herde shook his head and knocked over his king, defeated.

“She is St. Gwendolyn, dancing about the battlefield with her violin,” Pagonel explained, lifting the knight. “Her job is not to defeat you, but to enable her allies to defeat you.”

“We are talking of how St.-Mere-Abelle trains her monks,” Braumin remarked.

“There is your answer, Bishop Braumin Herde,” said Pagonel.

“Arri?”

The name struck the monk profoundly, not just because it was uttered without “brother” or “master” before it, but because the speaker emphasized the second syllable and because the voice was known to Arri.

He stopped short and turned his head to the side, to the porch of the small tavern, to the man standing there, a man he had known as a companion before he had even been born.

“Mars?” he whispered, somewhat confused, for his brother was not wearing the brown robes of an Abellican monk. Arri and Sister Mary Ann had learned much in the days of their journey from the Mantis Arm. All the land buzzed with rumors of the great battle at St.-Mere-Abelle, of the dragon, of the death of Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy, of the defeat of King Aydrian and the death of Marcalo De’Unnero.

They had heard, too, that disciples of De’Unnero had fled the Order, including some who had been at St.-Mere-Abelle at the time of the battle.

That last rumor resonated in Master Arri’s ear now as he looked at his twin brother.

The man came forward from the shadows of the porch, rushing up to Arri and wrapping him in a great hug. “Oh, Arri,” he whispered. “I thought you dead. I have heard of the troubles of St. Gwendolyn…”

Arri pushed him back to arms’ length even as Sister Mary Ann spat, “Troubles? You mean murder by the heretic De’Unnero. Troubles?”

“No,” Mars said, shaking his head as he regarded the woman. “There is no simple…”

“It is that simple, brother,” Master Arri interrupted. He turned to his traveling companion. “Sister Mary Ann, this is Brother Mars — my twin brother.”

Mary Ann looked from Arri to Mars skeptically, for at first glance, they surely did not appear to be twins, each of very different body types, Arri tall and lean and Mars short and stocky. She noted the resemblance in their facial features, however, and surely could have guessed them as brothers, if not twins.

“Where are you robes, brother?” Arri asked.

Mars swallowed hard and stepped back. His mouth began to move as if he meant to say something, but he wound up offering only a slight shake of his head and a helpless shrug.

“De’Unnero is dead,” Arri said a few moments later.

“On the stairs of the great hall, beneath the shattered window of Brother Avelyn,” Mars explained. “Perhaps there is some significance there.”

Arri stiffened at that remark, for this was an old wound between himself and his brother. Arri favored the gemstones and was quite adept with them, and, not coincidentally, he also agreed with the premise of the promise of Brother Avelyn, that the stones could be used to benefit the world.

Quite the opposite, his brother had never shown much interest in, or ability with, the Ring Stones. Mars was a brawler, and often spoke of Marcalo De’Unnero as the epitome of dedication within the Abellican Order. Often had the brothers argued over the respective, and colliding, philosophies of Avelyn and De’Unnero. Those arguments had become so heated that Arri had supported his brother’s decision to leave St. Gwendolyn those five years before.

“The window of Brother Avelyn will be rebuilt,” Arri replied, and he saw that his remark had stung his brother. “Perhaps it will be dedicated to St. Avelyn when it is finished anew.”

He studied his brother hard as he made that statement, and he saw no resistance there, no surprise, even. Was it resignation, he wondered? Or an honest epiphany?

“Why have you left St.-Mere-Abelle?” Arri asked. “Did you fight beside Marcalo De’Unnero?”

Beside him, Sister Mary Ann sucked in her breath in shock, and more than a little budding anger.

“No, of course not!” Mars replied. “I served on a catapult crew, throwing stones and pitch at the approaching army of King Aydrian.”

“Then why are you here, without your robes?”

“They know,” Mars admitted, lowering his gaze. “Or think they know.”

“Know?” Sister Mary Ann asked.

“They believe me loyal to De’Unnero and I fear Bishop Braumin’s retribution,” Mars admitted. “He is an angry man. There has been much tragedy and will be more, I fear.”

“And are you?” Mary Ann pressed, her jaw tight as if she meant to lash out at the man at any moment. “Loyal?”

Mars shot her an equally hostile stare.

“Denounce De’Unnero,” Master Arri insisted, stepping between them. “Here and now, to me, your brother.”

Mars looked at him incredulously.

“Can you?” Arri asked.

“Of course.”

“Then do it,” said Mary Ann. “Renounce the man who led to the murder of many of my friends at St. Gwendolyn. Renounce the man who murdered many who had been friends to Brother Mars — or did you leave any friends behind, brother?”

“Enough, sister,” Master Arri demanded.

“I renounce Marcalo De’Unnero,” Brother Mars said simply, never blinking and never turning his gaze from Sister Mary Ann as he spoke. “I was not part of his heresy, nor is there any evidence contrary to that claim.”

“Yet you ran from St.-Mere-Abelle,” Sister Mary Ann pressed.

“Sister, you have your own…situation, to consider,” Arri reminded, silencing her. He stepped more fully between the two and turned to face his brother directly. “You accompany me to the mother abbey. I will speak for you.”

Mars stared him doubtfully.

“I intend to return to St. Gwendolyn. I will ask Bishop Braumin and the others to grant me the abbey as my own. I would like my brother by my side in that endeavor.”

Mars leaned to the side to stare at Sister Mary Ann one last time, then met his brother’s gaze and nodded.

“Dancing?” Master Viscenti said skeptically, shaking his head as he stared at the chessboard and Bishop Braumin’s toppled king. He looked up at Pagonel. “Our answer is dancing?”

“Your answer lies in harmony,” the Jhesta Tu explained. “I have studied your martial training techniques, and they are quite good, though quite limited.”

Viscenti stiffened uncomfortably at that slight, and Braumin Herde turned his gaze over the mystic.

“Your monks train to fight, and fight very well,” Pagonel went on. “Matched up singly, they would prove a formidable opponent to any of the other warriors I have known throughout the lands. I have no doubt that the best of your warrior monks could ably battle the average Jhesta Tu in single combat, even without the gemstones.”

The two monks glanced at each other then back at Pagonel, neither appearing certain if they were being insulted or not.

“But a group of Abellicans would fall quickly before a similar group of Jhesta Tu,” Pagonel explained. “We train in harmonious combat.” He pointed to the chess board. “We train to assume different roles in the battle, working in unison to uncover our opponents’ weaknesses. You do not, and that is a major flaw in your techniques.”

“There are examples of groups of brothers working in unison to bring forth great power from the Ring Stones,” Viscenti argued.

“Such would do little for a group of monks engaged in close combat against a band of powries,” Pagonel said. “A fine defense behind your high walls, I agree. Has your Church that luxury now?”

Viscenti started to counter, but Braumin Herde held him back. “What do you suggest?” he asked the southerner.

“Train teams of monks to work in unison, like a singular weapon possessed of deadly options.”

“Our methods date back centuries,” Viscenti argued.

“Have you the luxury to adhere to tradition in this time?” Pagonel asked. “Are there not, even now, disciples of Marcalo De’Unnero roaming the countryside or claiming chapels as their own? Do you doubt that they will come against you, and in short time? New King Midalis’s kingdom is no less in disarray than your church, good monks. Fix that which is near to home and the King will be forever grateful.”

“You speak of altering our training,” Braumin said, shaking his head doubtfully. “Yet, regarding your last statement — and I do not disagree — if you are correct, it would seem that we have weeks, not years!”

“The sooner you begin to change, the sooner you will arrive at your goal.”

“We haven’t the time!” said Viscenti. He held up his hands helplessly. “We do not even know how many brothers remain after the purge of De’Unnero. We haven’t the time and we haven’t the bodies!”

“Look to the future as you battle the present,” the Jhesta Tu advised. “You must bring many into the Church, and quickly.”

Bishop Braumin sighed profoundly. He looked to Viscenti, both reminded of their long years of preparation and testing before they were even allowed within St.-Mere-Abelle. “It takes years to determine which young hopefuls have affinity to the stones,” he explained to the foreigner. “Even with all that the land has endured in the last years, there are hundreds of young men, some barely more than boys, gathered in academies — convents — and being tested.”

“Convents? I do not know this word.”

“It is like a chapel, but for women who wish to serve the Church,” Viscenti explained.

“I thought the women of your Church served at St. Gwendolyn, mostly, as Sovereign Sisters.”

“Some,” Braumin replied. “But only a very few, and even that practice is not without strong opposition in the Church. Now that St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea is, by all reports, vacated, I doubt the practice will continue.”

Pagonel smiled and nodded as if he understood something here the others did not. “So these sisters…”

“They are not sisters,” Braumin interrupted, and adamantly. “They are missionaries. Their role is to serve the towns and to teach the young hopefuls who would be brothers in the Church.”

“And to judge this affinity you speak of?”

“Yes.”

“So these missionaries in the convents understand the Ring Stones?”

“Yes.”

“Possess some stones and can use them?”

“Soul stones, mostly,” Braumin confirmed. “It is not uncommon for the women of the convent to offer some minor healing to the community about them in times of illness.”

The Jhesta Tu flashed that grin again and nodded knowingly.

“And many cannot use the stones?” the mystic pressed. “Even many of those attempting to join the Church? And this is disqualifying?”

“The Ring Stones are the gifts of God, given to the Order of Abelle,” Viscenti said, his tone showing that he was growing somewhat annoyed with Pagonel’s prodding, and seemingly superior attitude. “A man who cannot use the Ring Stones…”

“Or a woman who can,” Pagonel added, and Viscenti narrowed his eyes.

“A man who cannot use the Ring Stones…” the monk began anew, and again was interrupted.

“Cannot properly serve your god?” the mystic remarked. “It would seem that you serve a narrow-minded god, my friend.”

Master Viscenti started to argue, but this time, Braumin Herde cut him short. “Tradition,” Braumin said with a derisive chortle. “Who can know the truth? We thought we followed tradition when we sent the Windrunner to the island Pimaninicuit.”

“Bishop Braumin!” Viscenti scolded, for such matters were not to be openly discussed to those who were not masters, let alone in front of non-Abellicans.

Braumin laughed at him. “Tradition,” he scoffed again. “So we were taught, and yet, through the actions of Master Jojonah, we found that so much we thought traditional was the furthest thing from it!”

Viscenti stammered and could not respond.

“It is all too confusing,” said Viscenti, and he threw up his hands in surrender.

“Then follow your heart,” Pagonel advised. “Always. Look to the spirit of morality to find those best traditions you should seek, but be not dogmatic. Seek the spirit that rings true in your heart, but fit that spirit to the needs of the time. And the time, Bishop Braumin, calls for…”

“Reformation,” Braumin Herde said, nodding.

“A bold move,” Viscenti remarked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Did Master Jojonah truly ask of us anything less?” Braumin asked. “In those days when we hid in the bowels of St.-Mere-Abelle, we five with Master Jojonah, hoping Father Abbot Markwart would not discover us, was he calling upon us to do anything less? Is the sacrifice of Brother Mullahy worth less?” he said, referring to one of their conspirators who had leaped from the high walls of the blasted Mount Aida, a public suicide rather than renouncing the teachings of Jojonah. “Or the murder of Brother Anders Castinagas by De’Unnero?”

“We do not even have a Father Abbot at present,” Viscenti reminded. “Yet you would seek a rewriting of Church Doctrine?”

He turned to Pagonel. “Reformation is a formal council of the leaders of the Church, to rethink practices and make great and enduring decisions,” he explained. “In the first Reformation, it was determined that gemstones could not be used to make magical items. In the third and last Reformation, it was decided that some few stones could be sold to lords of the land — a tradition that is formally denied to this day and known by only a few.”

“It was not a decision with which Marcalo De’Unnero agreed,” Viscenti said dryly, for indeed, as Bishop of Palmaris, De’Unnero had begun a purge of privately owned gemstones and magical items, usually accompanied by great punishment to the merchant or lord caught with them in his possession.

“That last Reformation was almost six hundred years ago,” Viscenti reminded.

“Then the answer is clear before you,” Pagonel insisted.

“To allow entry to all of the brothers currently in training,” Braumin said, “regardless of their affinity with the Ring Stones.”

“You are half correct,” the mystic replied with that grin. “As your Church is half of what it could be.”

The two monks looked to each other, then back at him curiously, and skeptically.

“When I return to the Walk of Clouds, I will train Brynn Dharielle further in the ways of the Jhesta Tu,” he explained. “Half of those at her rank will be women.”

“A monumental proposition,” Viscenti said. “We should begin training women in the ways…”

“You already have them, so you have just told me,” said Pagonel. “Need I remind you of your own St. Gwendolyn? If Jilseponie had agreed to remain at St.-Mere-Abelle, as you begged her, would you have not nominated her to serve as Mother Abbess of your Church?”

“Jilseponie is a remarkable exception,” Braumin replied.

“Perhaps only because you prevent any others from proving the same of themselves!” the mystic countered. “Bring them in, brothers and sisters equally. Indeed, empty your convents and fill your chapels and monasteries! These are proven Abellicans, are they not?

“And you take them in at too old an age!” he went on, passionately. “Twenty? Find your disciples among those just becoming adults. The clay is softer and easier to mold.”

“Men and women, cloistered together,” Viscenti said, shaking his head doubtfully. “The temptation.”

Pagonel, who had lived most of his life in the mountainous retreat of the Walk of Clouds, surrounded by the men and women of the Jhesta Tu, laughed aloud at that absurd notion.

“If we are cloistered, then perhaps we have already lost,” Braumin said to Viscenti. “Is not the word of Avelyn that we should go out and serve? Do we not consider Brother Francis redeemed because he went out among the sick and died administering to them?”

“Perhaps Brother Avelyn has shown us the way, then,” Viscenti agreed.

Braumin patted his friend on the shoulder and moved to stand directly before the mystic, looking him in the eye. “Stay and help us,” he begged.

Pagonel nodded. “Where is the nearest convent?”

“In the village of St.-Mere-Abelle, an hour’s walk.”

“Take me.”

“We cannot formalize the changes you desire until the College of Abbots is held, and that will not be for months, perhaps a year.”

“And on that occasion, we will show your brethren the error of their ways.”