The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars

PART 3: THE BATTLEFIELD PHILOSOPHER

Pagonel returns,” Master Viscenti announced one dreary Decambria morning in God’s Year 847, nearly four months after the Jhesta Tu mystic had left the monastery for the town of the same name some three miles away.

Bishop Braumin had expected the news; the winter weather had broken for a bit in that last month of the year, and for the previous week, young brothers and sisters from the convent of St.-Mere-Abelle, and even from some other convents of nearby towns, had begun pouring into the monastery, bearing word from Pagonel that they should be considered for immediate ordainment into the Order.

“We are well ahead of the College of Abbots,” Viscenti ominously warned, for the formal meeting of the remaining Masters and Abbots of the Abellican Order wasn’t set until the fourth month of 848, or perhaps even longer if the Gulf of Corona was still impassable and the brothers from Vanguard could not safely make the trip south. “These dramatic changes you are instituting are hardly approved.”

“Necessity drives our decisions,” Braumin replied.

“You rely wholly on the counsel of one who is not of the Church.”

“Brother, who is left among the Church to counsel us?” Braumin countered. “Brother Dellman and Abbot Haney? Dellman is with us — we know that much. He has been an ally since the days of Jojonah and our quiet revolt against the edicts of Dalebert Markwart. And he has been young Abbot Haney’s invaluable advisor and confidant these last years up in Vanguard at St. Belfour. King Midalis will support us, as well. There are leaders of the other abbeys, and indeed other brothers, who will no doubt bristle at these changes, and some perhaps who will openly argue. But I will be elected as the next Father Abbot, and with you, and Dellman, and Abbot Haney by my side, and following the guidance of Pagonel, we will rebuild the Abellican Order.”

“With women, open to ascend to any rank? And with these dramatic changes in a training regimen that has stood for centuries?”

“Do you see another choice?”

“No,” Viscenti admitted, and he gave a self-deprecating chuckle. Ever was Viscenti the worrywart, they both knew all too well.

“Dangerous times,” Braumin admitted, and he patted his friend on the shoulder. “But not as terrifying as that which we faced last midsummer, yes?”

Viscenti could only laugh at that, for it seemed a trivial matter when measured against the recent events at St.-Mere-Abelle, when De’Unnero and Aydrian had come to kill them all — and with an army behind them that made De’Unnero’s victory seem almost a foregone conclusion!

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the Jhestu Tu, and Braumin greeted Pagonel with a warm hug. “So many have come in,” the Bishop said. “You think them all worthy?”

“I think you need many dedicated disciples to fill your church and to undo the damage of the last years,” Pagonel replied. “Fortunately, I found many willing and able to serve in such a role. Eager, indeed. Your Order excluded half of your possibilities, my friend, and now they are ready to take their rightful place.”

“The women, you mean,” said Viscenti.

“Of course, and many, I found, were quiet adept with the Ring Stones, though their practice and variation with the gems is limited,” the mystic replied. “But they will learn, and are eager for this opportunity, and more eager to help the church they love. You are very fortunate, Bishop Braumin, in that you have a congregation at your call to replace the many your church has lost.”

“So all that you have sent to our gates have affinity with the sacred Ring Stones?” Braumin asked hopefully.

“No,” Pagonel replied. “Not half. Affinity with the stones is a rarer thing than you believe.”

Crestfallen, Braumin looked to Viscenti. He had hoped for an opening here, where only one great alteration of tradition would be needed, that of allowing women in large numbers to join the Order.

“All the women, at least?” Viscenti asked.

“Not half, I believe,” said the mystic. “Affinity is no more common in women than in men, it seems. But those who have come to your gates are able, all of them, and they will serve you well.”

“How do we proceed from here?” asked Braumin.

“I will train your brothers to train the newcomers, and themselves as they go forward. The martial techniques will be precise and broken into three distinct disciplines of fighting. And I will select from among your ranks a team of four to train privately by my tutelage.”

“The College of Abbots is in just a few months,” Viscenti remarked. “It would be good if we had something worthwhile to show them.”

“You will,” Pagonel promised, and with a bow, he left the room.

The very next day, the newcomers, nearly a hundred women and half that number of men younger than would normally enter St.-Mere-Abelle, were gathered in a large room to begin their journey under the watchful eyes of Pagonel and a score of older brothers.

So it went as the year turned to 848, and through the first month of the year. By the second week of the second month, Pagonel had made his choices.

“Three women,” Viscenti lamented to Braumin, who sat with Master Arri of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.

“Who is the fourth?” asked Arri, but Viscenti could only shrug.

Arri turned to Braumin. “This is the band you will send to reclaim St. Gwendolyn?”

Viscenti’s eyes widened when Braumin nodded, for he had heard nothing of any such journey.

“I should accompany them,” Arri remarked.

“You must stand for your brother at the College of Abbots, as we agreed,” Braumin reminded. “I will do all that I can for Brother Mars, but the accusations against him are strong.”

“And I will speak for your ascension to the role of Father Abbot,” a resigned Arri replied with a nod.

“And hopefully, when the college is adjourned, Abbot Arri, Brother Mars and Sister Mary Ann can return to a reclaimed St. Gwendolyn.”

“It would seem as if I have missed much of your plotting,” Viscenti remarked, and he didn’t sound happy about it.

“Everything is moving quickly,” Braumin replied with a grin.

No sooner had he spoken, when a courier rushed to the still-opened door with news that the mystic would see them in the private training area he had been given for his personal recruits. The three hustled down to the secluded chamber and found Pagonel alone in the place, seeming quite at ease. He motioned to some chairs he had set out, inviting them to sit and be at ease.

“One of your younger brothers has taught me of your saints,” the mystic explained. “As with those heralded in my own order, many came to their place of historical importance through their actions in desperate battle, and so, with your permission good Bishop, I have modeled the roles of your newest students after the legends of your church.”

Viscenti’s eyes widened with surprise, but Braumin seemed unfazed, and motioned for Pagonel to continue.

“Sister Elysant,” Pagonel called, holding his arm out toward an open door at the side of the room. A small woman, barely five feet tall and barely more than a girl, with long light brown hair entered the room. Her frame was slender but solid. She was quite pretty, the brothers noted, with eyes that seemed to smile, even though her face was set determinedly. She strode solidly to the mystic, carrying a quarterstaff that seemed far too large for her. She moved up to Pagonel and dipped a low bow, then turned to the three monks and bowed once again.

Pagonel barked out a sharp command, and Elysant leaped into a fighting stance, legs wide and strongly planted, staff slowly turning like a windmill before her.

“Elysant fights in the tradition of St. Belfour, the Rock of Vanguard,” Pagonel explained. “She will invite the enemy to attack her in close combat, but they will not easily dispatch her, or move her. Sister Elysant is the tower, turning the blows.”

“Saint Belfour was a bear of a man,” Braumin said with skepticism. “Elysant is a wisp of a creature.”

“Her center is low, her balance perfect,” Pagonel replied. “You could not move her, Bishop Braumin, though you are twice her weight.”

“Quite a claim,” Braumin replied. “Do you agree, sister?”

Elysant smiled confidently and twirled her quarterstaff.

“Sister Diamanda,” Parongel called and a second woman came rushing through the door. Her hair was short and flaxen, her jaw a bit square, and her face somewhat flat, showing her to have northern heritage — Vanguard, likely, or perhaps even a bit of Alpinadoran blood. She was much taller than Elysant, and broad-shouldered. Every movement she made spoke of strength. Like her predecessor, she bowed to Pagonel and to the monks, then added a third, matched, to Elysant. Unlike Elysant, however, Diamanda carried no weapon.

Pagonel barked out his command again, and Diamanda leaped to Elysant’s side, her hands coming up like viper heads before her, while the smaller woman altered her stance and sent her staff into position to protect Diamanda.

“St. Bruce the Striker,” Pagonel explained, referring to an Abellican warrior of the 5th Century, from the region of Entel, deadly with his hands and credited with turning back a boat of Jacintha warriors single-handedly.

“And Sister Victoria!” the mystic called, and in came the third, as tall as Diamanda but much thinner. Her hair was red, long and loose, her eyes shining green, and her movements graceful, making her approach seem as much a dance as a walk. She carried a long and slender sword tucked into the rope belt of her robe. She offered her respectful bows to Pagonel, the monks and her sisters, then drew her sword on Pagonel’s command.

“St. Gwendolyn,” Master Arri remarked, his smile shining brightly.

“Indeed,” Pagonel confirmed. “The Battlefield Dancer.”

“The rook, the bishop and the knight,” Bishop Braumin added, remembering the chess matches and Pagonel’s description of the knight.

“Three women,” Viscenti said, and he didn’t sound impressed or confident.

“Is there to be a fourth?” Braumin asked. “You indicated four. The queen, perhaps?”

“Not from among the newcomers, for none of them have enough proficiency with the Ring Stones to properly compliment the martial training I will provide. But yes, with your permission. I would like the young brother who taught me of your saints, Thaddius by name.”

“So your queen is to be the only man among the four,” Braumin said with a snort.

“In the tradition of St. Avelyn,” Pagonel replied.

“Brother Thaddius is strong in the Ring Stones,” Viscenti remarked.

Braumin nodded, and kept staring at Pagonel. Thaddius was strong in the Ring Stones, and from what Braumin knew of him, he was strong on tradition, as well. Braumin had been watching the promising young brother closely, for he had heard rumors that Brother Thaddius had spoken with admiring tones for Marcalo De’Unnero and the man’s distorted vision of godliness. Surely one such as young Brother Thaddius would not be pleased with these dramatic changes, or with having so many women brought into the Church!

And perhaps that was part of Pagonel’s ploy, Braumin realized, for he had learned not to underestimate this wise and exotic man, who always seemed to be thinking two layers beneath the surface.

“There may be a problem with Brother Thaddius,” Viscenti whispered into Braumin’s ear, apparently considering the same rumors.

But Braumin waved Viscenti back, and said to Pagonel, “Granted.”

“I will have them every day, all the day,” Pagonel insisted.

“They are yours to teach.”

The mystic bowed, and motioned to his team to begin their work. As the three women launched into all manner of stretching and focused breathing, Pagonel accompanied the others out of the room.

“The College of Abbots convenes in the fourth month,” Braumin reminded him as they parted at the doorway. “Will they be ready?”

“I have much work to do, but much substance with which to work,” Pagonel assured the man. “Pray tell Brother Thaddius of his new lot in life. I am sure he will be overjoyed.”

Braumin smiled at the sarcastic tone, which he took as confirmation of his silent guess regarding the mystic’s choice. “I will send him to your side immediately.”

“Grant him a soul stone,” Pagonel said, and he glanced back into the room at the three women. “There will be many wounds and much blood spilled.”

The smile left Braumin’s face and he looked past Pagonel to the young sisters, second-guessing his decisions.

And not for the first time.

And surely not for the last time.

“Are they ready?” Braumin asked Pagonel as the season began to turn. The third month of Bafway was in full swing and winter was letting go of the land. There was still some snow, but the roads were open, though muddy. Still, a band traveling light could cross the tamed lands of Honce-the-Bear. Word had come from other abbeys that many brothers were on their way.

“I would like years more with them, particularly with Elysant,” Pagonel admitted. “Her movements are solid, her work with the staff commendable, but her skin is not yet properly toughened. There is no way to accelerate that.”

“Dolomite,” Braumin said immediately.

Pagonel looked at him curiously. “One of your gemstones?”

“A mineral, a rock — dolostone, actually, but yes. It can be used to cast an enchantment to toughen the skin and strengthen the constitution.”

“Elysant has little affinity with the Ring Stones,” Pagonel said. “If any.”

“But Brother Thaddius does, and used in conjunction with a soul stone, he could impart the enchantment…”

“Brother Thaddius has enough to do already, should trouble arise,” Pagonel interrupted. “The other sisters can use the stones, though they are not nearly as proficient or powerful as Thaddius.”

“The other sisters? Victoria? She is not old enough. My friend, we do not even allow brothers of less than four years in St.-Mere-Abelle to handle the stones. Brother Thaddius is one of very few exceptions!”

“My band is exceptional. By design.”

Braumin started to reply, but paused and grinned. “Dolomite. There is a way,” he said, and then grew somber. “But are they ready?”

“As I said, I would prefer more time. But yes, they move in wonderful coordination and have learned enough of the basics of their disciplines to complete our task. None of them were novices to fighting when I discovered them, and they have been willing students to alter their techniques. They will make the journey to St. Gwendolyn and scout the road and the monastery. If they are challenged, they will acquit themselves well.”

“You have watched the training of the others from afar. Are there any brothers you would wish to see in the challenge?”

“Do you ask me to seek unfair advantage before the exhibition?”

“It has to work,” Braumin said bluntly.

“It will. A band of third year brothers, if you would, Bishop Braumin.”

“Third year? Not those of the new class? And all men? That hardly seems fair.”

“There is nothing fair about it,” Pagonel assured him with a sly look. “I have trained my beautiful sisters in the harmony of the Jhesta Tu. Pray have many soul stones about to heal the bruises of your brothers, and if you have a stone to mend their feelings…”

The mystic turned and walked away.

“This is highly unusual, Bishop,” Abbot Haney said to Braumin when he met up with the man in St.-Mere-Abelle near the end of the fourth month of 848, the last of the invitees to arrive for the College of Abbots. “A serious breach of protocol.”

Beside Haney, Master Dellman shuffled nervously from foot to foot.

Braumin looked around the wide room, to see many accusing stares coming back at him. They had all been thrown off balance by what they had found at the mother abbey. So many youngsters — too young, by Church edict! And so many women! It was not without precedent that women could be brought into the Order, but not here in St.-Mere-Abelle, and surely not in such numbers! The Sovereign Sisters of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea were not subject to the training of the brothers who entered the Church, and were not expected to assume the tasks and roles of the young brothers.

Until now.

Braumin matched stares with Viscenti, and could see the man squirming where he stood. Their unannounced changes had left the visiting brothers mystified and uneasy, and for many, unhappy.

Braumin continued his scan of the room. It struck him how young this gathering was! Indeed, the Church had been decapitated, with most of the older masters and abbots killed in the Heresy. How many of these men standing about him were abbots, he wondered? How many of the Abellican abbeys were without abbots? And how few masters remained? Most of the brothers here did not look old enough to have formally attained that rank. Normally, the College of Abbots was reserved for abbots and their highest ranking masters alone, but Braumin had specifically tailored the invitation to all and any who would come. And many had, and perhaps this was the largest gathering the Abellican Church had ever known.

But they were so young!

Braumin’s scan finally brought him back to his dear friend Dellman and Abbot Haney. Dellman offered him a nod of encouragement, though he could see the fear in the man’s eyes.

He focused on Haney, the young Vanguardsman who was perhaps his greatest rival for the ascent to the rank of Father Abbot. They were not enemies, though, and Braumin thought highly of the man, and he saw in Haney’s eyes more sympathy than anger; the man was clearly uncomfortable by the grim tone of the gathering.

“Welcome, brothers!” Bishop Braumin suddenly shouted, formally opening the College of Abbots. He looked across the room to the contingent representing St. Gwendolyn, and pointedly added, “And sister!”

All eyes turned to Sister Mary Ann, who stood resolute and unbending.

As she had since Master Arri had brought her in to St.-Mere-Abelle months before. The accusations against her were tremendous, and she would not deny them! In her heart, she had done nothing wrong, and Braumin found it very hard to find fault with such an attitude. She would have fit right in with his band of conspirators in the bowels of St.-Mere-Abelle in the days of Markwart, he believed.

He doubted if that would save her, though, given the frightened mood of the gathering.

They were in no humor to hear of any Samhaist.

“Tonight we feast, tomorrow we argue,” Bishop Braumin announced. He paused though, and put on a sly smile. “Though perhaps we will argue tonight, as well, yes? The age of the new brothers! And sisters, so many sisters! Too many sisters! And yes, my brothers, the whispers you have heard are true. There are many within this abbey, in the robes of an Abellican, who have no affinity with the stones.”

Many calls came back at him, none supportive, and more than a few gasps could be heard among the brothers. Braumin had expected as much, and certainly understood. Every brother in here, and Sister Mary Ann, too, had spent years proving an affinity with the sacred Ring Stones as part of the selection process for ordainment. Many had known friends through their years of training who had been denied entry into the Order because they could not feel the power of the gemstones.

And now, without consultation, Bishop Braumin had thrown that rule aside.

Braumin let the commotion die down, and tossed a wink at the nervous Viscenti.

“It is, or will be, all up to debate and argument, of course, brethren,” he said.

“But you have already brought them in,” one brother of about Braumin’s age remarked loudly.

“Temporarily, perhaps, though I hope that is not the case,” Braumin replied. “You have seen the scars of the battle that was waged here at St.-Mere-Abelle — on your way into our repaired gates, you passed a grave holding scores of bodies. In this very hall, there is wood holding back the wind where once there was a grand window of colored glass. The window of the Covenant of Avelyn, shattered by the entrance of a true dragon! I say none of this to diminish the losses that many of you have suffered at your own abbeys and chapels. Witness Master Arri here, and Sister Mary Ann, perhaps all that remain of the brothers and sisters of St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.

“But know that new King Midalis required of St.-Mere-Abelle a measure of strength that we simply no longer possessed,” Braumin went on. “I could have recalled many of you to my side — such an edict would have been well within my power as the steward of the position with the death of Father Abbot Bou-raiy! I could have emptied many of your chapels, abbeys even, to solidify this, the Mother Church of Saint Abelle.”

He paused and let that sink in, and was glad to see the nods of agreement from many of the monks, even some he recognized as masters, and one or two he assumed were now serving as abbots.

“But a man from Behren, a hero of the battle, has shown me a different way,” Braumin explained. “If you have heard the tales of the battle of St.-Mere-Abelle, then you have heard the name of Pagonel, a mystic of the Jhesta Tu. A hero of the day, I say! There are hundreds now alive who would have perished had not Pagonel flown about them on the dragon Agradeleous, calling for them to stand down as the fate of the lands, state and church, were determined in this very hall.

“This very hall where Marcalo De’Unnero was defeated. This very hall where the shadow of the demon dactyl was cleansed from the soul of Aydrian Wyndon! At my bidding, Pagonel of the Jhesta Tu remains at St.-Mere-Abelle to this day, and his generosity cannot be overstated. He has revealed to us secrets of his Order.”

Unsure of how much he should tell rather than show, Braumin paused there and measured the gathering. Every eye was intently upon him, many doubting, some horrified, others intrigued.

“Come, brothers and Sister Mary Ann. Before we feast, let us go and witness the work of our guest, who has offered me this path back to the security of the Church we all cherish.”

He waved his arm to the side, where a pair of his monk attendants threw wide double doors, leading to a long and wide corridor and a flight of stairs that would take them down to where the exhibition waited, where three strong brothers, among the finest fighters of their class, waited to engage the trio of young new sisters tutored by Pagonel.

Braumin tried to show confidence as he was swept in by others on their way to the viewing, but in truth, his guts churned and twisted. Pagonel had assured him that the trio of Diamanda, Elysant and Victoria would acquit themselves wonderfully, but everything the Bishop knew about fighting, about strength, about size, and about the simple advantage a man might hold over a woman in combat told him that the mystic’s optimism might well be sadly misplaced.

Failure here would hold great consequence in the discourse of the next day, and likely in the election of the next Father Abbot.

Because of the dearth of masters and abbots, even tenth-year immaculate brothers were allowed a vote the next day when the Father Abbot was to be chosen.

The process moved along smoothly, but Braumin Herde watched it with a strangely detached feeling, his thoughts continually returning to the events of the previous night. He could see again the doubts, even the mocking expressions, on the faces of the gathered when Pagonel’s team of three young sisters stepped into the arena. Most pointedly, many chuckled at the sight of small Elysant, carrying a quarterstaff taller than she.

And when the brothers opposing the trio had come out, those expressions had grown more sour, and more than one, Haney and Dellman included, had spoken to Braumin in whispers of great concern that the women would be injured, and badly so!

The voting went on around him, but Bishop Braumin wasn’t watching. In his mind’s eye, he was viewing again the beauty of the battle, the movements of graceful Victoria weaving about the opposing lines, the agility and balance of Elysant as she used her staff left and right to block nearly as many attacks aimed at her sisters-in-arms as they themselves blocked, at the sheer speed and power of Diamanda’s strikes.

He closed his eyes and winced, recalling the first opponent felled, a large young man who had to weigh near to three hundred pounds. Elysant had deftly turned his bull rush, and Victoria swept past him, turning him, bending him into her wake in inevitable pursuit.

And leaning right into the driving fist of Diamanda.

The man had fallen like a cut tree, just straight down, face down, to the hard floor. He was awake this morning, at least.

After that, Pagonel’s three tigresses had cleverly and neatly caged, worn down, and clobbered the remaining two brothers.

Had any of the sisters even been hit?

The one sour note of the evening, though, had come when Braumin had torn his gaze from the spectacle in the arena to note the expression of Brother Thaddius. The man’s sour look spoke volumes, and again Braumin had to wonder if the mystic hadn’t erred in choosing this man as the fourth in his legionem in primo.

Master Viscenti’s call brought him from his private thoughts and concerns. As the highest ranking member of St.-Mere-Abelle whose name was not on the ballot, it was Viscenti’s place to count the votes.

He called in the stragglers now, offering any a count of ten to come forward and place their colored chip into the box.

None did. The ballots were all in.

Viscenti produced a key and unlocked the metal box, carefully lifting back its hood. The thin man licked his lips and glanced over at Braumin, offering a slight nod.

So began the count.

Abbot Haney received a few votes, but the yellow chips assigned to his cause were dwarf by the two piles beside them, one for Master Dusibol of St. Bondabruce of Entel, who had spoken passionately against the changes Braumin had made in St.-Mere-Abelle even after the display of Pagonel’s team. Dusibol was a traditionalist, and judging from the pile of red chips on the table, he was far from alone in his ways!

But the largest pile was blue, blue for Bishop Braumin, and by enough of a margin, with his pile larger than those of Dusibol and Haney, the only other to receive any votes, combined. There would be no second ballot. The victory was Braumin’s, and on the first ballot.

The cheers came forth, some excited, some polite, when Master Viscenti counted it out and declared Braumin Herde as Father Abbot, and spoke, too, of the rarity that their leader would be chosen in a single ballot!

Yes, it was quite an accomplishment, so Braumin heard from his friend and the supporters in the crowd, but he could not really believe it.

Dusibol was not even an abbot, and still had challenged him reputably. In normal times, Master Dusibol would not even have been on the ballot!

Braumin Herde had been an Abbot, and was a Bishop even, and had led to the great victory that had saved the Church at St.-Mere-Abelle.

And yet, his victory was not overwhelming.

He looked around at the gathering as he moved to stand beside Viscenti. He understood their hesitance, their fear. Perhaps it would have been better if they had gone through several ballots, with speeches and debates between each!

“I move that Master Dusibol be elevated to the rank of Abbot of St. Bondabruce immediately,” Braumin opened, and now the cheers grew louder. The new Father Abbot looked over at the contingent from St. Honce in Ursal as he spoke, and noted some disconcerting expressions coming back his way. They had wanted Master Ohwan on the ballot, but Dusibol had beaten him out for the third spot, in no small part because of the whispers of Viscenti and Dellman, both noted followers of Braumin Herde.

St. Honce was being punished, they believed, and not without reason. For that abbey had supported King Aydrian and Marcalo De’Unnero — it was rumored that Aydrian had meant to elevate Ohwan to the rank of Abbot of St. Honce, some whispered that the King had actually done so.

Dusibol was a traditionalist, and clearly not enamored of Braumin’s changes, clearly, but Ohwan…

Ohwan could be real trouble, Braumin Herde feared. Particularly now, where Master Dusibol had garnered far more votes than Abbot Haney, who supported Braumin (and probably voted for Braumin, the new Father Abbot understood) and the emergency measures he had taken to secure St.-Mere-Abelle.

Braumin looked at the pile of red chips again, and understood that the early years of his reign would not be without great challenges.

And honest ones, he had to admit.

He was asking a lot of an Order that prided itself on rituals and ways nearly a millennium old.

“So be it,” he thought, and he said, loudly, and he slammed his fist down on the table.

“I am a devout follower of Avelyn,” he decreed. “I make no secret of that. Do not believe that his canonization will be slowed by the tragic events of the last year. The Chapel of Avelyn will be rebuilt in Caer Tinella in short order, and fully staffed, and I will see Avelyn Desbris declared as a Saint of our Order.”

He saw a lot of nods. He noted no overt looks of discontent.

“You have seen the changes I have made in bringing in new brothers — and sisters.”

He paused there and let the murmurs roll through the hall, and surely they were lessened because of the amazing exhibition the brothers had witnessed in the arena. Still, though, they remained, a buzz of anger just below the surface in many of the gathered brothers.

“My first act as Father Abbot, though, will be to declare a full inventory of the Ring Stones. We have thousands in our possession — Avelyn, who will be sainted, brought back nearly two thousand alone!”

A few scattered claps echoed about the hall.

“It was said to be the greatest haul of sacred stones ever returned,” Braumin went on, careful not to overstep too greatly by naming the process. “And indeed, for one man, the feat was beyond impressive — yet more proof that Avelyn walked with God. But there was a time, brothers…”

He paused and shook his head and sighed for effect, then said cryptically, “We will discuss this at length in the coming days. You will come to see, as I have learned, that much of what we have been taught is not the full, not the only, truth, of our sacred heritage.”

He had to pause again and hold up his hands to quiet the uneasy rumblings that began to echo, more loudly now.

“You will see,” he promised. “And this, too, we shall debate long into the nights, I promise. And in those nights, I will show to you why another will ascend behind Avelyn, why Master Jojonah will find his sainthood in the flames foul Markwart set beneath him!”

Even Viscenti looked at him in shocked, stunned, horrified even, that Braumin had moved so boldly, so quickly! He hadn’t even put on the robes of the Father Abbot yet!

“What admission of failure and complicity is this?” demanded one of the Masters of St. Honce — speaking for Ohwan, of course.

“Our failures are already known, and now better admitted,” the Father Abbot insisted.

“He was your friend, but that is not an impetus for canonization!” the man shouted back.

Braumin smiled as warmly as he could manage. “He was my teacher. He was the guidepost for all of us who defied the demon Markwart, and Marcalo De’Unnero after him. I nominate him — indeed, I do so right now! And I will champion him, as I champion Avelyn, these two men who, by God’s wisdom and grace, guided us through our darkest hours. It was the spirit of Jojonah, I say, that led Brother Francis out onto the fields to minister to those afflicted with the Rosy Plague, an action that cost him his life, as he expected and as he accepted! It was the spirit of Jojonah surging within the body of Brother Romeo Mullahy, who threw himself from the Barbacan Shrine of Avelyn to let his persecutors see the foul truth of their journey!”

He paused again, expected a retort, but none came forth. Bolstered, and really with nothing to lose, Father Abbot Braumin pressed on.

“The gemstones will be used to alleviate the suffering of the people, brethren or not — indeed, Abellican or not! A brother possessing a soul stone who ignores the pain of a man of Behren or Alpinador, does so by turning his back on God.

“And yes, there are now many sisters among us, most young, some who have served in convents for decades. They will train, we will train, and we will go forth and reclaim every abbey, every chapel, and every heart for St. Abelle!”

He slammed his fist on the table once more, indicating that his speech, and this gathering, was at its end, and he turned and left through the back door of the room, the one leading to the private quarters of the Father Abbot, Masters Viscenti, Dellman and Abbot Haney at his side.

They left to rousing cheers.

“A fine beginning, Father Abbot,” Haney congratulated.

“But a long way to go,” Braumin replied, and he was glad when Haney put a hand on his shoulder, in full support.

And bringing with him, Braumin believed and prayed, the full support of new King Midalis.

“The community is greater than the individual,” Father Abbot Braumin said to an agitated Brother Thaddius. “Is that not what Pagonel preaches? And is it not true?”

“This is not the Order I joined, Father Abbot,” Thaddius insisted.

“But it is indeed.”

Thaddius stared at him incredulously. “For years, I studied the ways of St.-Mere-Abelle. None were more prepared than I when first I entered these gates!”

“Beware your pride, young brother. Perhaps I will tell you the tale of Avelyn Desbris, that you might find humility. Perhaps I will tell you of Avelyn’s first great demonstration of Ring Stone power, one that shocked the Masters and Father Abbot. He was no older than you are now, and yet none in the Church, not even Marcalo De’Unnero, could have matched the fireball he created over the bay, and that after leaping from the roof and walking across the water!”

Brother Thaddius seemed to labor for his breath. The inclusion of De’Unnero in the lesson (particularly since De’Unnero did not stand as the pinnacle of Ring Stone affinity in the days of Avelyn) had stolen the young man’s bluster, as it had surely been added as a subtle warning from the Father Abbot.

“I knew the ways of the Abellican Order. I cherished the ritual, the solemnity, the…”

“A dragon flew through our great window,” Father Abbot Braumin reminded. “A great battle was fought about our gates and within the monastery. You witnessed the carnage and destruction. We cannot go back. Not now.”

“I know,” Brother Thaddius said quietly, “but…” He ended with a profound sigh.

“You do not value your training with the Jhesta Tu? My understanding is that his techniques have strengthened you in your use of the sacred Ring Stones.”

“Women,” Thaddius spat. “St.-Mere-Abelle is thick with them!”

“I would expect that a young man would not object so strenuously.”

“Father Abbot!”

“Forgive me, young brother,” Braumin said, and he tried not to laugh.

“Tradition,” Thaddius said, shaking his head. “The continuity of ritual and rite through the passing centuries…without it, I am ungrounded. I am lost and floating free of that which brought to me spiritual joy and eternal hope. We have brothers, and sisters, among us who cannot coax a flicker of light from a diamond. And never will they, yet we name them as Abellican monks!”

“I do not disagree,” Braumin replied in all seriousness. “My crude attempt at humor notwithstanding. Brother Thaddius, do you understand how profoundly the De’Unneran Heresy wounded our Order, and the kingdom? There is a void of power in both, with King Midalis trying to tame the local lords to fealty, and with half of our chapels and abbeys empty! We are without many options. The Samhaists have been seen about Vanguard, and indeed even within Honce-the-Bear. You have heard the tale of Sister Mary Ann, no doubt.

“And the misery of the common folk cannot be overstated. They need us. They need us to keep clear the way to the Barbacan and the Covenant of Avelyn. They need us to heal their wounds and cure their sicknesses. They need us, and King Midalis, to keep Entel and the Mantis Arm secure from Behrenese pirates and powrie raiders.

“And we are not secure enough in our own institutions to offer that aid. Goblins still roam the land. Powries roam the land. De’Unnerans roam the land! There is fear of the Rosy Plague! Without those basic securities, our words to the common folk ring hollow. They need us, young brother, to coax their spirits to a place of blessed divinity, and they will not hear our sermons when all we can offer to them are words.”

“Pagonel is not of our Order, yet he dictates…”

“He offers advice, at my bidding,” Braumin said, more forcefully, demanding Thaddius’s full attention. “And I am Father Abbot. Do you dispute that?”

“No, Father Abbot, of course not,” the young man said and lowered his eyes.

“The community is greater than the individual, and you are called upon to be an important member of our community, Brother Thaddius. I know not why Pagonel selected you as the Disciple of Avelyn for his adventuring legionem in primo. But it is a great honor.”

“One I share with three women,” Thaddius replied rather sharply. “With one who cannot use the Ring Stones at all, and another too young to even enter the Order, even if she were a man!”

“You are among the most important Brothers of Blessed Abelle,” Braumin insisted. “More than most of the remaining Masters, yet you are only a few years into your training. If you are successful, if your mission is successful, it will help me to chart a strong course…”

“One apart from tradition!” the distressed young man dared to interrupt.

“No!” Father Abbot Braumin yelled in his face. He grabbed Thaddius by his skinny shoulders and forced him to square up and look him in the eye. “No,” he repeated, more softly. “Much of what we have come to believe as tradition does not date to the earliest days of the Church. I do not blaspheme the message of St. Abelle. Never that! You must trust me, young brother. Everything I do, I do with purpose to save the Church from what it had become under the perversion of Dalebert Markwart and the Heresy of Marcalo De’Unnero.”

That elicited a wince.

“He killed people,” Father Abbot Braumin said quietly. “He murdered innocent people, thinking it for the greater good. You said you were prepared to enter our Order, but have you not studied the last two decades of our history? Do you not know the story of Brother Francis, who gave his life administering to the sick? Or of Brother Mullahy, who killed himself rather than renounce his faith? Or of Master Jojonah!”

Brother Thaddius wore a curious expression as tears began to flow down the Father Abbot’s face. “Oh, Jojonah, my teacher,” the Father Abbot went on. “He showed me the truth of our traditions, and that many of our practices were not traditions at all!”

“I do not know of any time when women were allowed into the Order in great numbers,” Thaddius dared to say.

“True,” the Father Abbot admitted. “But have you ever known of any person more deserving than Jilseponie Wyndon? She would be your Mother Abbess now if she had accepted our offer. Not a brother in the Church would have questioned it, and none, not one, would have voted for anyone other than Jilseponie if her name had been on the ballot.”

Thaddius wore a horrified look.

“Do you doubt me? Do you doubt that Jilseponie brought down Marcalo De’Unnero and Father Abbot Markwart? Do you doubt that Jilseponie served as the shining light to our Order in the time of the plague?”

Thaddius shrugged, but seemed as if he had no more arguments to offer.

“And so we honor her by allowing women into the Order. Perhaps it will work out for the betterment of us all. Perhaps not — in that case, it will be a temporary thing, out of necessity. Pagonel’s order is not unlike our own, and he insists that half of it is comprised of women, equally so, and at all ranks of achievement and honor.

“I need you, young brother,” Father Abbot Braumin said earnestly, and he gave the thin man a slight shake. “And I trust in you.”

He turned about and went to his desk, and returned a moment later bearing a small pouch. He moved to a table off to the side and carefully upended the contents.

The sparkling gems took Brother Thaddius’s breath away. They were all there, it seemed, garnet and malachite, bloodstone, moonstone, serpentine, and a large ruby, and larger soul stone!

“These I entrust to you, young brother,” Father Abbot Braumin explained. “You will take them to St. Gwendolyn by the Sea, and use them at your discretion. You, young brother, are the leader of this legionem in primo, and this band, your band, is critical to the rebuilding of the Abellican Order.”

He wasn’t sure if Thaddius was even listening, for the man’s eyes were surely glowing as he looked upon the precious cache.

“Go ahead,” Braumin bade him, and he slid the ruby Thaddius’s way. The young man lifted the gemstone in trembling fingers and clutched it tight to his chest, closing his eyes.

Sometime later, Thaddius looked at the Father Abbot, and now he was crying, overwhelmed.

“Never have I felt such…purity,” he admitted. “The depths of this ruby…”

“Be sure that your serpentine shield is full and strong, and encompassing your allies, if ever you choose to use it,” Braumin warned. “Your power is considerable, and that stone will hold all that you can impart to it. Take care or you will curl the skin from your own bones!”

“Yes, Father Abbot,” Thaddius said, though it seemed as if he could hardly speak.

“Have you anything more to say to me, young brother?”

“The community is greater than the individual,” Thaddius replied, and the Father Abbot nodded, contented.

Braumin nodded, and looked up as the door opened and Viscenti entered. “To the roof with Master Viscenti,” the Father Abbot explained to Brother Thaddius. “There you may properly measure these sacred stones and your own power.”

The Father Abbot nodded when the pair were gone, then went to his desk, collected a large backpack, and set off for Pagonel’s training room. He found the mystic with the three young sisters, preparing packs for the road. They stood as one when he entered, dipping a bow of respect.

“Are they Abellican sisters or Jhesta Tu?” Father Abbot Braumin said with a lighthearted laugh.

“The bow is a sign of respect,” said Pagonel.

“Then I should return it,” Braumin said, and he did, to Pagonel and then to each of the startled young women in turn.

“Your exhibition has bought me time and great political capital,” he explained to them. “Had you failed in your fight, then all of this, your admission into the Order, the acceptance of those who show no affinity to the stones, the alteration of training traditions — all of it — would have been erased. We would limp along, vulnerable for decades, as those who would weaken the Order of Abelle eagerly watched.

“I believe in these changes,” Braumin went on. “I believe in you, and your worthiness as sisters of my Order. If I did not, I would never allow this journey to St. Genwdolyn to commence.”

He looked to the tall Diamanda, the Disciple of St. Bruce. “Why did you join in the convent of St.-Mere-Abelle?”

“I was an orphan, Father Abbot. The nuns took me in and raised me as if I had been born to them.”

“Is it habit, then, or belief?”

“It is both,” Diamanda admitted. “I was raised an Abellican, and have come to see the truth of the word. I am no child — nearer to thirty than twenty — and even had I not been raised in the convent of St.-Mere-Abelle, I would have sought entry.”

“As a nun?”

“I always wished for more. To serve at St. Gwendolyn as a full sister. Pagonel’s offer rang as sweet music to me.”

“And you have danced well in that song,” Braumin replied. He held forth a small pouch for Diamanda, then emptied it into her hand, revealing a small cat’s eye set in a circlet, a soul stone, and a tiger’s paw. “I expect you will find good use for the first, I hope you will not need the second, and I trust that you will use the third only when necessary,” he said with a warm smile. He glanced around at the others in reflection, then turned back and offered a fourth stone, a malachite. “Dance to make St. Gwendolyn smile,” he whispered.

The woman seemed as if she could hardly draw breath as she stood staring at the stones.

Braumin stepped up to her and hugged her tightly. “Be well,” he whispered, and he moved along to the next in line.

“Your grace in that exhibition brought hushed whispers to every Abbot and Master watching,” he said to Victoria, the Disciple of St. Gwendolyn, the battlefield dancer. “St. Gwendolyn reborn,” Master Arri said to me.

“Too kind, Father Abbot,” Victoria replied, lowering her eyes respectfully and humbly, though humility surely did not come easily to this one.

And why should it, Braumin thought? She was powerful and full of grace, and strikingly beautiful with her fiery hair and shining eyes. Her every movement spoke of confidence. By Braumin’s estimation, Victoria could dominate the Court of King Midalis — every eye would be upon her, the ladies with contempt, no doubt, and the men with lust.

“How does one such as Victoria come into a convent?” he asked her.

“Is there a better place to be, other than an abbey?” she replied. “And now I am here.”

“A nobleman’s court?”

Victoria snorted as if the thought was absurd.

“Her beauty distracts you, my friend,” Pagonel said to Braumin, and the Father Abbot turned on him in surprise. “And indeed, it will serve her well in her role in battle. You will find few among your Church more dedicated than Sister Victoria Dellacourt.”

Braumin conceded the point with an apologetic nod, but halfway through it, his eyes widened with recognition. “Dellacourt?” he asked.

“Master Francis was my uncle, though I never knew him,” Victoria answered. “Through his actions in the end, he became the pride of my family. His name is spoken of reverently.”

The Father Abbot smiled warmly. “We will speak at length of him when you return,” he promised. “I knew him well.”

“And hated him profoundly,” Victoria said, and Braumin stepped back as if slapped. “I know the story, Father Abbot.”

Braumin nodded, for he could not deny the truth of her words. Certainly Brother Francis Dellacourt was no friend to Braumin Herde in their days together at St.-Mere-Abelle. Francis served Markwart, dutifully, and was allied with Marcalo De’Unnero. Francis had played no small role in damning Master Jojonah to the flames.

“Do you believe in redemption?” the Father Abbot asked Sister Victoria.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “If I did not, I would not wear my surname openly.”

“So do I,” Braumin agreed. “When you return, we will speak at length. I will tell you some things about your uncle you do not know, I am sure. He was led astray by Markwart, but he was not an evil man, and I can prove it.”

Braumin smiled again as he remembered one particular encounter with Francis, when the meddlesome young monk had barged in on one of the secret sessions Master Jojonah held for Braumin and the others. Francis had not turned them in to the hateful Markwart!

Braumin brought forth another small pouch from his pack, and from it pulled a small lodestone and another cat’s eye circlet. “Brother Thaddius will instruct you in the use of the lodestone,” he explained. “It is more than a bullet, and will aid you in bringing your sword to bear, and in turning aside the sword of your enemy.”

“Thank you, Father Abbot,” she said reverently, taking the stones and setting the circlet about her head.

“And this,” Braumin added. He drew a slender sword from his sack and pulled it free of its sheepskin sheath. It was not a broad sword, surely, but long and thin, with an open groove running half its length up the center of the blade. The pommel and crosspiece were thin and graceful, dull steel used sparingly, and the hilt wrapped in blue leather, and seemingly nothing remarkable. But how the blade gleamed, even in the meager candlelight of the room!

Victoria’s eyes lit up when she took the weapon, no doubt in surprise of the lightness of the blade. Even with the open blood channel, it weighed no more than a long dagger.

“Silverel,” the Father Abbot explained. “A gift from the Touel’alfar many centuries past, so say our records, and after meeting Belli’mar Juraviel, I know those old records to be true.”

“It seems so…light,” Victoria remarked.

“It is stronger than our finest steel,” Braumin assured her. “You’ll not break that blade.”

Victoria looked to Pagonel, who seemed as surprised as she.

Braumin gave her a great hug, one she returned tenfold, and then moved to stand before the last of the sisters.

“Saint Belfour laughed from the grave to see the look on Brother Markus’s face when he slammed into you and was repelled as surely as if he had run into a stone wall,” he said with a grin. “I know that I laughed, and with delight. It defies logic and reason!”

“She is connected to her her line of life energy,” Pagonel interjected. “Greatly so. And she has trained hard and well.”

“Indeed,” Braumin agreed. “And so for you…”

“I am not skilled with the stones, Father Abbot,” she said. “Less so than Sister Victoria, even!”

“So Brother Thaddius has complained to me,” the Father Abbot admitted.

Victoria and Elysant rolled their eyes and looked at each other, and Braumin could only imagine the grief Thaddius had given to these two!

Braumin pulled a cloak from his sack, which then seemed empty as he set it down on the floor at his feet. He shook the cloak out and turned it to show Elysant a pair of small diamonds set about the collar.

“Put it on,” he instructed.

She swung it about her shoulders.

“This was fashioned for the bodyguard of a long dead King of Honce-the-Bear,” he explained, “and only returned to the Church when Marcalo De’Unnero, then Bishop of Palmaris, began confiscating those magical items circulating among the nobles and merchants. Feel its power, young sister, and bring it forth.”

Elysant closed her eyes and concentrated, and a moment later, her image seemed to blur a bit, as if shadows had gathered about her.

Braumin looked to Pagonel. “A more difficult target,” he explained, and the mystic nodded.

“But I cannot call forth the power of the sacred stones,” a confused Elysant remarked.

“You need not with such an item,” the Father Abbot explained. “Which is why the Church frowned upon creating them for those not of the Order. And this,” he said, bending low and retrieving one last item from the sack, which was not empty after all, “is among the most precious ever made in this abbey.”

He brought forth a small coffer, and opened it reverently before the woman, who gasped, as did the others. For within the coffer on black silk sat a leather bracer, set with a large and beautiful dolomite, and surrounded by five others.

“It was made for a queen in the fifth century, because she was beloved and ever sickly. But alas, she died before it was finished, and so it has remained, locked away, in the lower chambers of St.-Mere-Abelle these four hundred years.”

He glanced again at the mystic. “Pagonel feared that for all of your hard work, he simply did not have enough time to properly toughen you against the blows you will surely face.”

He picked up the bracer and dropped the coffer, then took Elysant’s right arm and tied the item about her wrist.

The small woman’s jaw dropped open. She felt the magic, apparently, and to the others, she seemed sturdier somehow.

“Saint Belfour had such sacred dolomite sewn into his robes,” he explained.

“It is a precious gift,” Sister Elysant said, her voice barely a whisper, so overwhelmed was she. “I cannot…”

“Keep it well,” said Braumin. He hugged her tightly, then stepped back. “All of you,” he said. “These gifts I entrust to you. Let them remind you of the importance of this journey you are soon to take. I do not give them lightly!”

The three women nodded solemnly, and Braumin knew that they understood the weight of the responsibility he had put upon tem, and the trust he had shown in them.

He was taking a great chance here, he knew. If this group, this legionem in primo, was waylaid and defeated on the road, then his doubters and enemies in the Church would be bolstered greatly, and so his hopes for Reformation could fast dissipate.

But he believed in Pagonel.

And, he knew in looking at these disciples of the saints, he believed in these extraordinary young sisters.

The meetings the next day between the members of the Church leadership had begun quietly, but as those who opposed Father Abbot Braumin came to believe that they were under no threat of retribution, the discussions became more and more contentious.

Braumin listened more than he spoke, and realized as the arguments raged that his proposed changes would only hold if they brought very positive results in short order.

He nodded through every point raised by those supporting him, and opposing him. He was no dictator here, and given the disruption to every abbey and chapel, now was the time for the brothers to air their every concern and let their opinions be known.

In the back of his mind, through every shout and growling response, Father Abbot Braumin reminded himself that the pile of red chips, for a man who had not even attained the rank of Abbot, was substantial, and that he was the Father Abbot of all the Abellican Church, not just those who had supported his ascension.

He grew concerned, however, when he looked over at Master Arri and Sister Mary Ann. He had thought to take care of that messy business initially, before the two sides had dug in their respective heels, but then had reconsidered. He glanced over at Arri then, and offered a reassuring nod, for he understood that now the animosity was palpable, and that many of his allies would support him regarding the two monks from St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea even if they disagreed.

“My brethren,” Braumin called, and he banged the heavy gavel down upon the wood, demanding the attention of all. When the room quieted, he continued, “Particularly since we are considering the matter of so many sisters entering the Order, perhaps we should now discuss the disposition of the one abbey where such was not uncommon. To begin the matter, and since St. Gwendolyn is emptied of her brothers and sisters, I nominate Master Arri to the rank of Abbot.”

“Perhaps we should adjudicate the matter of Sister Mary Ann first,” Dusibol remarked — Abbot Dusibol, who had been promoted that very morning.

“Arri is the obvious choice,” Braumin countered. “He has never held any mark against him, is well known among the supporters of Avelyn, and would seem to be the only remaining Master, if not the only remaining monk, other than Sister Mary Ann, of the abbey! Do you intend to oppose the nomination, Abbot?”

Abbot Dusibol held up his hands in surrender and gave a slight shake of his head. He would not oppose the nomination, were it now or the next day, Braumin knew. None would. But to promote Arri before the decisions were brought upon the wayward sister would afford the man tremendous influence in that trial.

And so a fourth Abbot joined the ranks of Braumin Herde, Haney, and Dusibol soon after, and a fifth followed closely, when, to Braumin’s dismay, the contingent from St. Honce selected Ohwan, a man who had been the choice of Marcalo De’Unnero! Father Abbot Braumin would have fought that choice, except that the large contingent from St. Honce had been united on the choice, and were not without allies from the other abbeys and chapels, particularly the myriad chapels from southern Honce-the-Bear, all closely connected to the great city of Ursal.

Braumin Herde wasn’t surprised, but the easy ascent of Ohwan served as a poignant reminder to the Father Abbot that those who believed in the vision of De’Unnero had not all died that fateful day in the fight at St.-Mere-Abelle. Now the Father Abbot would have a man who had been loyal to De’Unnero serving as Abbot of the second most important abbey of the Church, just down the lane from the palace of King Midalis in the largest and most important city, Ursal.

“So what of my abbey, Father Abbot?” Abbot Arri asked a short while later. “Will you grant me a force to go and reclaim it?”

“The group is on the way,” Braumin replied. “The three sisters you witnessed in battle last night, along with one of our most promising brothers. They will return to us the information we need to properly reclaim St. Gwendolyn.”

“I would begin rebuilding my abbey now, from this place, if I may,” said Arri, and Braumin nodded.

He looked to Mars, who held his breath. He had renounced De’Unnero to the Father Abbot, though Braumin wasn’t convinced. Still, considering what had just happened regarding St. Honce…

“I would bring my brother back to St. Gwendolyn,” Arri suggested. “Master Mars.”

Father Abbot Braumin looked around, and the most disconcerted look he saw coming back at him was from his dear friend Viscenti (who, like Braumin, was far from convinced of Mars’s loyalty to this current incarnation of the Church).

“I ask, too, that we four Abbots retire to private quarters to determine the disposition of Sister Mary Ann,” said Arri.

“No!” someone called from the back. “It is a matter for all of us!”

Many arguments erupted immediately at that, but above them came the demand of Abbot Arri, “This would be a matter for my abbey alone, were it properly staffed. As it is not, I would ask for a quiet place of reason and justice, among the Abbots alone. It is my right.”

More shouts came back, but Father Abbot Braumin slammed his gavel to silence them. “It is Abbot Arri’s right.”

He adjourned the meeting immediately and the five retired to a smaller room, where Braumin bade Sister Mary Ann to speak on her own behalf.

He loved the fire the woman showed! She would not back down and would not deny the truth: that she was in love with a Samhaist priest.

“And where does this love place your loyalties with regard to our Church?” asked Abbot Dusibol pointedly. “Surely you are demanding excommunication!”

“Or perhaps she is choosing the man, and not his ways,” Abbot Arri offered to soften that blow.

“Are they not one and the same?” Dusibol pressed.

“Sister?” Father Abbot Braumin prompted.

“It is hard to know what I believe,” Mary Ann admitted. “I believed in my Church and my brethren, and yet they came against me, to kill me. This man, who I am told I must despise, saved my life, and almost at the price of his own.” She reached into her belt pouch and produced a soul stone. “I called upon God, my God, our God, and he granted me the powers of the Ring Stone, and through it, I returned the act and saved Elliot’s life. Does that matter not at all?”

“He is a Samhaist,” Ohwan said with open disgust. “Need I list to you the atrocities of that foul religion?”

“Need I recount for you the image of the skin curling from the bones of goodly and godly Master Jojonah?” Father Abbot Braumin countered.

The hateful look Abbot Ohwan flashed him at that served as a warning of things to come, Braumin knew.

“What would you have, Abbot Arri?” Braumin asked.

“I would take Sister Mary Ann back to St. Gwendolyn with me, if she will,” he answered. “Her reputation is without blemish.”

“Until this,” Abbot Ohwan said with a sneer.

“I will not denounce Elliot,” Mary Ann insisted. “Nor will I pretend that my love for him is no more.”

“But you wish to remain an Abellican?” Braumin asked.

Mary Ann hesitated and looked to Arri. “Yes,” she then answered.

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure of nothing anymore, Father Abbot,” she answered honestly. “I thought my life settled and complete, but Marcalo De’Unnero and his followers showed me differently.”

Braumin nodded, and bade her to go into the anteroom that they might discuss their decision, and when it came to that moment of truth, Father Abbot Braumin was greatly surprised and greatly relieved to discover that he would not have to exercise his greater rank to break the tie, for Abbot Dusibol voted Sister Mary Ann innocent along with Arri and Braumin, and Abbot Ohwan, frustrated as he was, had no recourse and so agreed to accept the decision.

“All that we ask of you,” Braumin explained to Mary Ann later on, “is that if ever you learn something of the Samhaists that is important to our Church, to your Church, that you not be silent.”

“You would have me be your spy?”

“I would have you be honest,” Braumin replied immediately. “To us and to your love. Should you come to see the Samhaist way as suited to your heart, then you must renounce your position in the Abellican Church. Until you have done so, you must never forget your responsibilities to St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea and to the other abbeys and chapels. If the Samhaists plan to return in large numbers and vie with us for the hearts of Honce, then we will know of it, Sister Mary Ann.”

She started to argue, but Braumin cut her short in no uncertain terms.

“When we go back out among the others, there will be calls for you to be executed, sister,” he said harshly, and Mary Ann stiffened her jaw and did not blink. “Do you understand what Abbot Arri and I, and even Abbot Dusibol, have offered to you? In any normal time, you would be found guilty of heresy and burned alive. Or even if mercy were to be shown, you would have you head shaven and would be stripped of your robes, outcast from the Order of St. Abelle forever. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Father Abbot,” she said quietly, and humbly.

“But these are not normal times,” Braumin went on. “Abbot Arri trusts you, and needs you, as do I. You accept our offer to remain in the Church, so you cannot dismiss the responsibilities that comes with the white robe you wear.”

“Yes Father Abbot,” she said.

“Good then, it is settled. Be true to your heart, sister, in all matters.”

When they went back out among the others, and Sister Mary Ann took her place beside Arri and Mars, Braumin’s prediction came true, and indeed calls of “Burn her!” erupted in the hall, and so began another great argument, like all the others before it.

Except this time, Father Abbot Braumin would not hear it. He slammed down the gavel repeatedly, demanding quiet, and when finally it came, he spoke with the voice of Avelyn, and Jojonah, and Jilseponie, and Mullahy, and Francis even, he spoke with the voice of all who had stood up against the abomination that had festered in his beloved Abellican Church.

“We are Avelyn!” he shouted. “We are not Markwart! We are Jojonah — Saint Jojonah, I say, and so I will I prove! We are Jilseponie, who battle the demon dactyl beside Avelyn, and who should now be sitting as Mother Abbess of our Order — would any have dared vote against her?”

The Father Abbot paused there again, but not a sound was to be heard in the hall.

Pointedly, staring at the contingent from St. Honce, he finished, “We are not Marcalo De’Unnero.”

And so the debate of Sister Mary Ann ended, but had Father Abbot Braumin glanced her way with his final proclamation, he might have noticed the scowl that crossed the face of Master Mars, standing right beside her.

“I’ve rarely seen a man pout for so long without reprieve,” Diamanda teased Thaddius as they gathered about the fire on their third night out of St.-Mere-Abelle. The weather was cold and miserable, with cold rain, sleet, and even snow taking turns falling on the adventuring foursome.

Still, the other three knew well that Diamanda wasn’t talking about the dreary weather. The three sisters, so thrilled at being able to fully realize their dreams in joining the Abellican Church, so excited about the possibilities Pagonel had shown to them and their remarkable progress in just a few weeks of intense training, could not be muted by clouds and cold rain. Their steps could not be slowed by the mud.

And they had embraced Brother Thaddius fully, their every discussion in the days before their departure pertaining to how they could properly incorporate him into their defensive formation for maximum effect, or of how they had to protect him, so proficient with the Ring Stones, at all costs. When they had left St.-Mere-Abelle, Father Abbot Braumin had told them all that Thaddius was considered the leader of the band, and not one of the sisters had protested publicly or privately.

But Thaddius wouldn’t engage them, wouldn’t answer their talk with anything more than a noncommittal grunt, and wouldn’t even look any of them in the eye. His every expression exuded disgust.

And he was disgusted, and thoroughly, and not only by the inclusion of so many sisters, which before had been a matter of tokenism and nothing substantial, but by the inclusion of unworthy individuals, like Elysant, who could not use the Ring Stones, or even Diamanda, who could barely bring forth their powers. Thaddius had left friends who could not enter the Church with him those few years ago, and most of them, in his mind, were far more worthy than these three.

He had complained about that very thing to Father Abbot Braumin on the day of their departure, and Braumin had promised that he would go back and call upon many of the brothers who had not come to St.-Mere-Abelle beside Thaddius.

Thaddius didn’t believe him, but even if he had, those friends he had left behind did not deserve this honor of ordainment in any case!

But this, these three and the others Braumin had pushed into St.-Mere-Abelle…this was an abomination!

And Mars, Master Mars! Thaddius had gone to great lengths to chase the man out of the Church, and now he was back and as a Master? The man couldn’t light an oil-soaked rag with a ruby on a sunny day!

“Have you ever before seen a man whose entire life had been proven a lie?” Thaddius shot back at the tall and powerful Disciple of St. Bruce.

“Are you a follower of De’Unnero, then?” a smiling Elysant teased, and it was just a lighthearted remark, they all knew, for smiling Elysant seemed incapable of harboring a malicious thought.

The look Brother Thaddius threw back at her, however, was full of just such a sentiment.

“Your home was attacked by De’Unnero!” Diamanda exclaimed.

“He did not say that he followed the man,” Elysant cut in.

“Need it be one or the other?” Thaddius said. “Perhaps there is good in what Father Abbot Braumin is trying to do…”

“But perhaps there was truth in De’Unnero, too, yes? And in Markwart before him?”

Thaddius stared at her but didn’t respond.

“It galls you that we are in the Church now,” Diamanda asserted.

Brother Thaddius didn’t reply, but did glare at her.

Elysant hopped over to sit on the fallen log beside the man, and put her arm about him. He looked at her with a shocked expression, and she kissed him on the cheek. “You will come to love us, brother,” she said with a grin.

Thaddius didn’t reply, but this time because anything he tried to say would have been stammered gibberish. He was quite relieved when Elysant moved away again, to the laughter of the other two.

“We will prove ourselves,” Victoria said then, and in all seriousness. “That is all we ever asked for, brother, a chance to prove worthy of the Church we all love.”

“And does loving the Church count for nothing with you?” Diamanda added.

Thaddius looked down into the bowl of stew, and lifted another steaming bite to his lips.

Diamanda started to speak again, but she was overruled then by a gruff, unexpected voice.

“Yach, but there ye are, ye blasted monks,” came a call from side, through the trees, and the four looked over to see a group of squat and square figures coming their way.

Short and powerful warriors wearing distinctive red berets.

“Powries,” Diamanda whispered.

Elysant moved as if to reply, but she really couldn’t get any words past the lump in her throat. She looked to Thaddius, as if expecting, hoping, praying that he would launch some lightning of fire, or some other enchantment to blow these monsters away! But he sat as wide-eyed and dumbstruck as she.

“Be ready,” Victoria whispered harshly from the side. “We have prepared for this!”

“Ye said ye’d be meeting us in the morn, and so ye was nowheres to be found!” the powrie grumbled.”

“Yach, but never could depend on weakling humans,” said another, and he spat upon the ground.

There were five of the dwarves at least, moving in a tight but disorganized bunch straight through the trees toward the camp. They all carried weapons, an axe, a spiked club, a couple of long and serrated knives, and the one in the middle, the primary speaker, held something that looked like the bastard offspring of a double-bladed axe and a handful of throwing daggers, all wrapped together into a long-handled weapon that seemed like it could do damage from about ten different angles all at once!

To the side, Victoria slowly picked up her short bow.

“They think us allies,” Thaddius whispered.

“Well, see, then, what your words might do,” said Victoria, who appeared very calm through it all, more than ready to fight. He hand held steady the bow, her other eased an arrow from the quiver she had set upon the ground against the log she used for her seat. When she got that one out, she stuck it in the ground beside her foot, in easy grasp and began subtly reaching for the next one.

That movement, so calm, so practiced, so mindful of the lessons of Pagonel, proved infectious for the other two sisters. Elysant moved off the log, but stayed in a crouch, quietly bringing her quarterstaff up before her, while Diamanda slowly shifted around the back of Elysant, putting the defensive Disciple of St. Belfour in the middle, between herself and Victoria.

“Quite far enough,” Thaddius said, standing up. “What do you want?”

“Eh?” the powrie asked, and he stopped as did the four flanking him.

“We said we would meet you in the morning, at the appointed spot,” Thaddius bluffed. “Tomorrow morning!”

“Not what was said,” the dwarf replied. “And not said be yerself, either.”

“Yach, who’s this one, then?” asked another of the powries.

“Ain’t seen him before,” said yet another.

The one in the middle, clearly the leader, patted his thick hands in the air to quiet them. “In the morning, meaning tomorrow morning, eh?” he asked, his voice conciliatory and reasonable.

“Yes, when we join with the others,” Thaddius replied.

“Where might they be?” asked the dwarf. “Over in the farmhouses, then?”

Thaddius looked around at his allies, searching for some answer. “Aye,” he blurted. “That’s where we were to meet them, and with important news from the west. And in the morning, tomorrow morning, we’ll all gather and talk.”

The dwarves looked around at each other, a couple mumbled under their breath, too low for the monks to hear.

“Ah, but I’m losing me patience,” said the leader. “Right at dawn then, and don’t ye be late!” he spun about and slapped the dwarf near him on the shoulder, and the group started away.

“By God,” Elysant breathed a moment later. “Bloody cap dwarves!”

“We should move, and quickly,” Thaddius advised, and the two women nearest him nodded.

“No,” said Victoria, surprisingly, and when the three looked at her, they noted that she had set an arrow to her bowstring, two others stuck into the ground in easy reach. “They will be back,” she quietly and calmly whispered. “Ready your gemstones, Brother Thaddius. Diamanda, slip off to the side and put that cat’s eye circlet to use.”

“How can you know?” Elysant asked, but Victoria held up her hand to silence the woman.

On Victoria’s lead, the three slipped back a bit, to the edge of the low glow of the campfire.

And waited. Their hearts thrummed, but every passing moment seemed an eternity.

“You will stay close, but behind Elysant, Brother Thaddius,” Victoria reminded.

“I am the leader,” Thaddius replied.

“Elysant, dear sister, fall back on your training,” Victoria quietly encouraged, ignoring Thaddius. “Remember the arena. Those brothers were formidable, yet not one got a strike past the swift movements of your quarterstaff. We are ready, sister.”

“We are ready, sister,” Elysant echoed.

“Right, southeast!’ came Diamanda’s call from the side, just as the dwarves appeared again before them, four this time, weapons high and charging through the trees.

Victoria stepped forward, right before Elysant and leveled her bow, pointing out in the general direction Diamanda had indicated.

“Two fingers left,” Diamanda corrected, and Victoria shifted and let fly.

“They come!” Thaddius warned, but Diamanda noted movement in the woods and knew that her arrow had not missed the mark by much. She reached back and grabbed a second, and that, too, flew off, and this time, they heard a grunt as it struck home!

“They are here!” Thaddius cried. “Swords! Swords!”

Victoria ignored him altogether, reaching for the third arrow, trusting in her sisters.

Elysant leaped past her, back by the fire, and smashed her quarterstaff across it, launching a spray of embers into the faces of the charging dwarves. The two to the left fell back in surprise, the next in line to the right stumbled and grabbed at his stung eyes, and the one furthest right lifted an ugly knife and leaped in at the woman.

But coming behind it, beside it, and past it, with a great malachite-aided leap, came Diamanda, and she swept her hand across the side of the powrie’s face as she went, only her hand wasn’t a hand, but a great tiger’s paw. The dwarf howled, grabbed at its torn face and stumbled right into its nearest companion, who was also off-balance.

Diamanda landed and side-stepped fast as Elysant cut before her, sliding down to her knees and thrusting her staff into the midst of the tangled legs of the two dwarfs. Up she came immediately, the tip of her quarterstaff planted, and she used the leverage to pitch both the dwarves to the side.

Into the fire.

At the same time, Victoria saw her target clearly, the powrie racing in at them, an arrow sticking from one shoulder, its axe up high over its head. She shot it in the face and it fell away.

And away went the bow, too, the Disciple of St. Gwendolyn drawing the fine sword Braumin had given her, and rushing around Diamanda and Elysant to anchor the far right of the line. She warned Thaddius to keep up as she went.

“Behind Elysant!” she clarified as the brother hustled in her wake.

In mere moments, the three sisters had flanked the confused powries, shifting their entire defensive posture to the right side of the dwarf foursome.

The two in the embers scrambled up, but one took a wicked crack in the face from Elysant’s staff, the other got his arm ripped by Victoria’s sword.

The other two, though, recovered and swept around their fellows, rushing in at Diamanda, who met them with a scream and quick rush, only to feint and roll away, turning a complete circuit as Elysant swept before her, the quarterstaff banging against that strange multi-headed weapon and driving it to the side enough so that the further dwarf couldn’t get in close enough to score a hit on the retreating Diamanda.

Elysant seemed a blur of motion, then, and indeed a blur, as she called upon the shadows offered by the diamonds in her cloak.

Victoria quickly followed her, cutting in front of the second powrie on that end and stabbing at its face, but not to score a hit, for she could not. No, she simply drove it back a step, so that she could skid to a stop, reverse her footing and throw a backhand with her sword at the furthest to the right, batting down its dagger arm.

Just as Diamanda came around, her tiger’s paw raking at the dwarf’s face, then the stiffened fingers of her other hand shooting forward to jab the dwarf hard in the throat.

The dwarf staggered back, and then fell back more as starbursts erupted in its face, a series of tiny explosions from the hurled celestite crystals of Brother Thaddius. They burned and stung, smoked the dwarf’s dung-dipped beard, and poked little holes in his face.

Diamanda glanced back as she moved to keep up with Victoria, to see Thaddius fumbling with several stones, seemingly at a loss. One hand went back to his pouch where he kept the little firebombs of celestite, while in the other, he rolled several stones, in no apparent coordination.

“Brother!” she said sharply to shock him into the moment.

But she couldn’t say more than that or do more than that. Victoria roll behind Elysant, flanking her to the left and Diamanda had to move in tight to the right of the centering defensive warrior. She hoped Thaddius would have the good sense to get behind Elysant, but if not, there was nothing she could do for him.

The three dwarves came on, more angry than hurt. The fourth moved to join them, but got hit by another celestite barrage and fell back once more.

Victoria flipped her sword to her left hand and sent it out across in front of Elysant, inviting the dwarf before her to bear in, which it, predictably, did. The agile woman rolled backward, bending her knees to keep just ahead of the dagger, and as the dwarf bore in, Elysant’s staff stabbed across before him, right under the thrusting arm, and drove upward, lifting the blow harmlessly.

And under the upraised staff, to the left, went Victoria, between Elysant and the dwarf she had driven back with her sword thrust, moving into the dwarf battling Diamanda, commanding its attention with a sudden flurry and rush.

She stopped again, retreating quickly between her sisters, but the distraction was all that Diamanda needed, and out lashed the tiger’s paw, tearing skin from the dwarf’s face and shoulder.

“Ah, ye ugly runts!” the dwarf gasped, falling back.

Diamanda pursued, thinking she had a kill, but Elysant’s cry stopped her, and turned them all, to see another dwarf, an arrow in its shoulder, another in its face, rushing in at Thaddius. Elsyant dove back to intercept, but the dwarf she had blocked recognized the movement and its knife chased her and caught her, sliding into her lower back.

Still, the small woman did not turn, but continued forward and drove the newcomer aside before it could get to Thaddius.

Victoria intercepted the knife-wielder so he couldn’t do more harm. Diamanda closed tight to her, both moving with Victoria to reform the defensive line.

By all rights, they were winning the fight. They had hit their enemies many times harder than they had been hit.

And yet, they were losing. They all knew it. The powries, stuck with arrows, faces clawed, throats jabbed, hair burned, seemed hardly hurt!

“Victoria, flee and tell St.-Mere-Abelle of our fate,” Diamanda said, and she slugged a dwarf hard across the face.

But it laughed and swatted at her with its spiked club — which Elysant blocked with her staff.

The cunning bloody cap rolled the club over that block, though, and clipped Elysant across the arm, tearing the sleeve from her white robe and gashing her, shoulder-to-elbow.

The tough Disciple of St. Belfour just growled through it, though, and spun her club like a spear and jabbed out, once, twice, thrice, into the dwarf’s face and throat.

Pain burned in Elysant. Blood ran down the back of her leg and from her arm liberally, but she growled through it and worked furiously to keep the ferocious dwarfs from her beloved sisters.

But they were overmatched and outnumbered, and for all of the beauty in movement and precise strikes, the dwarves would not fall down.

“Go, Victoria, the Church must know,” Diamanda cried, and the end was garbled as she took a glancing, but painful, blow from that many-headed weapon. She barely managed to straighten and fallback as the axe of another swept in at her, and still would have been hit had not Elysant’s quarterstaff flashed across yet again.

“No,” Victoria cried.

“The Church is greater than any of us! Go!” Elysant yelled at her.

A dwarf leaped up high, descending upon Elysant, but Victoria sprang between them, her sword longer than the dwarf’s knife, the blade catching the descending powrie just under the ribs, and driving up as its weight carried it down, down.

Blood erupted from the wound and the dwarf tried to scream, but all that came form was a showed of red mist and spurting liquid.

Victoria couldn’t possibly disengage in time to bring her sword into a defensive posture, so she simply let the blade fall with the powrie — their first kill, and one, at least, would not be dipping its beret in the spilled blood of the sisters!

Up and around came Victoria, seemingly unarmed, and that prove an advantage, as the powrie she had been facing thought her an easy kill and came in with abandon.

She slugged it square in the face, sending it staggering backwards, and how she wanted to leap upon it and choke the life from it!

But she could not, and she followed her training and fell back in line beside Elysant.

“Go,” Elysant pleaded with her et again, and she meant it, for while one dwarf was down, the others pressed them hard from every angle. They couldn’t hold on against the fierce bloody caps — Elysant’s left leg was going numb and the fingers on her left hand tingled so that she could hardly hold her quarterstaff.

A powrie blade flashed out at Diamanda to Elysant’s right. She sent the staff out to block.

But too late, and Diamanda staggered, her belly stabbed.

“Tell them sister,” Elysant pleaded with Victoria. “Tell them we fought well.”

And Victoria almost fled, and intended to, but a hand fell upon her shoulder, and before she could react, a blue-white glow encompassed her.

“Sister!” she cried to Elysant, and she moved a step closer and grabbed Elysant’s wounded upper arm.

How Elysant howled, and started to pull away.

But she too saw the blue-white ghostly glow flowing over her form, and instead she reached her staff out toward Diamanda, calling to her to grab it.

And as the woman did, inviting the glow to encapsulate her as well, Elysant managed to glance back at Brother Thddius.

He too was glowing, for he had initiated the enchantment, after all, from the serpentine he held in his upraised palm, its texture blurred by the blue-white shield.

The other gem he held, though, the mighty ruby, was not so dulled, for it was outside the shield.

It glowed fiercely — Father Abbot Braumin had promised Thaddius that this stone would hold all that he could put into it and more.

And so it had.

And so Brother Thaddius lived up to his reputation with the Ring Stones, for from that ruby came a tremendous burst of fire, a blast that roll about the four monks and the five powries, that rushed out to the trees and into the boughs, and despite the dreary rain and sleet, set them ablaze.

And set the powries ablaze!

But not the sisters and Thaddius, no, for the serpentine shield held strong.

Elysant felt the warmth in her face, but the biting fires could not get through the shield and could not curl her skin.

The fireball lasted only an instant, and when the immediate flames rolled to nothingness, the three sisters went at the dwarves with fury, for the stubborn beasts had not fallen.

But the fight had turned, and the dwarves, wounded, horribly burned and dazed, could not get their bearings, could not mount any defense against the staff of Elysant, the pounding fists of Victoria, and the deadly tiger’s paw of Diamanda.

One of the dwarves did get out of the immediate area, fleeing through the trees.

“Sister, your bow!” Elysant cried to Victoria.

They both realized that wouldn’t work when they glanced at the bow on the ground behind them, its string melted by the fireball, its wood smoking.

“Catch him!” Diamanda cried.

“Hold!” said Thaddius, stepping toward Victoria with an outstretched hand.

All three women looked at him curiously for a moment, but then Victoria grinned and brought forth a gemstone, pressing it in Thaddius’s palm. He took it and clenched his fist up before his eyes, sending his power into the gem.

Clever Diamanda removed her cat’s eye circlet and placed it over Thaddius’s head, and his vision shifted with the magic, turning night into day, showing him the fleeing powrie clearly.

He didn’t even need to see the dwarf, though, for he could feel it. He could feel the metal rivets in its leather armor, and could feel keenly the long metal knife it held tight against its chest.

Ah, that knife!

Brother Thaddius thrust his hand forward and opened his fingers and the lodestone shot forth, speeding until it clanged against that blade.

Of course, to reach the blade, it had to first drive right through the dwarf.

The powrie fell to its knees, then toppled to its face.

The arguments raged day and night, one issue after another.

“The Church has been through terrible times, Father Abbot,” Haney kept reminding Braumin Herde.

Braumin nodded each time, and tried to offer a smile, truly appreciating Abbot Haney’s attempts to keep perspective on this trying College of Abbots.

This late afternoon, the argument centered on the southern city of Entel, the only city in Honce-the-Bear serving as home to two separate abbeys. With Dusibol ascending to the rank of Abbot of St. Bondabruce and St. Rontlemore in chaos, the idea had been floated to give the man the lead of both abbeys until the situation could be better sorted.

Of the seven major abbeys of Honce-the-Bear, St.-Mere-Abelle, St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea, St. Honce, St. Belfour, St. Precious, and the pair in Entel, no two were more ferocious rivals than Bondabruce and Rontlemore! St. Bondabruce was the larger, and had prospered greatly because of the Duke of Entel’s affinity toward the southern Kingdom of Behren. Many of Bondabruce’s monks claimed Behrenese heritage — Blessed St. Bruce himself was dark skinned, and claimed ancestry in the fierce Chezhou-Lei warrior class of the Behrenese city of Jacintha.

St. Rontlemore, on the other hand, had ever stayed faithful to the line of Ursal, and indeed had been built by one of the former kings who was angered by the Abbot of St. Bondabruce and the man’s overt love and loyalty to Jacintha. In the De’Unneran Heresy, Bondabruce had sided with the powers of Ursal, with De’Unnero and King Aydrian.

St. Rontlemore had been routed.

And now, with the smell of blood still lingering in the heavy air about the mother abbey, the upstart new Abbot of St. Bondabruce was trying to spread his covetous wing over St. Rontlemore!

The volume in the great hall reached new heights that day, a volume not seen since the battle in that very room. A weary Father Abbot Bruamin hadn’t even lifted the gavel, and could only shake his head, knowing that this had to play out, however it might.

“Dusibol will challenge you if all of Entel falls under his domain,” Viscenti warned Braumin and Haney at one point. “Entel is strong, very strong.”

Braumin Herde merely nodded and rubbed his weary face, with so many trials hovering about him. Given his bold moves, all controversial even among his supporters, he knew that he was not strong here, certainly not strong enough to determine the situation in Entel, which, with its proximity and strong ties to Jacintha, had always been a trouble spot for the Abellican Church.

And so the arguing continued.

“Vespers cannot be called soon enough,” Braumin lamented to Haney and Viscenti. He perked up even as he spoke, seeing the room’s outer door swinging open and a young brother rushing in, perhaps to call that very hour.

Braumin’s excitement turned to curiosity when he noted that the clearly agitated young monk was rushing his way and holding a very wet sack.

The man dared approach the Father Abbot directly, ignoring the stares of many in the room who were beginning to catch on that something must be amiss.

“From legionem in primo, Father Abbot,” the young brother explained, handing him the sack, along with a rolled parchment. “It was brought in by a peasant rider. The man was nearly dead from starvation, as was his horse, for he had not stopped for many hours.”

Braumin stared at him, unsure of what to make of the curious turn of the phrase describing the band sent to St. Gwendolyn, a playful name that had been no more than a private joke among Braumin’s inner circle, Brother Thaddius, and the three sisters who had gone off to St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.

Braumin unrolled the parchment, his eyes widening with every word.

“Brothers,” he cried, rising from his seat. “Brothers! Sisters!”

Now he did reach for the gavel, but he didn’t need it, for his tone had demanded and received the attention of all.

“What news, Father Abbot?” Abbot Dusibol called — for no better reason than to inject himself into what seemed an important moment, Braumin recognized.

Braumin could hardly read, for his hands began to tremble, and as he digested the text scrawled before him, he realized that he might have erred in calling attention to it before he fully understood its contents.

He looked up, the blood drained from his face, and he knew it was too late.

“Our dear sisters and brother bound for St. Gwendolyn were waylaid on the road by bloody cap dwarves,” he stated.

A collective gasp was followed by more than a little grumbling and smug proclamations of some variation of “I told you so.”

Father Abbot Braumin handed the parchment to Viscenti and grabbed up the sack, pulling it open.

His eyes lit up as he stared into the bag. He looked up at the crowd, leaning forward as one in anticipation.

With a knowing smile — knowing that Pagonel’s band had, for the second time, bolstered his position, Father Abbot Braumin reached into the sack, and very deliberately began removing the contents.

One powrie beret at a time.

The cheers grew and grew and grew.

Father Abbot Braumin knew then that he would indeed have a great voice over the events in Entel.

“There they are,” Sister Diamanda announced. She lay atop a bluff, under drooping pines with branches pulled down by heavy, melting snow. Down the slope before her sat a collection of farmhouses, and in the lane between them stood a man in Abellican robes.

Elysant, Victoria, and Brother Thaddius crawled up beside her. They had been hunting for these monks since their encounter with the powries several days earlier — the powries had hinted pretty clearly that they were in contact with some monks, after all.

“They deal with powries,” Diamanda went on. “They must be De’Unnerans.”

“We do not know that,” Thaddius replied, rather sharply. He stared down at the houses and the brother in the square. A second brother joined the man, and Thaddius’s eyes flashed with recognition. He knew this man, Glorious, and knew, too, that Diamanda’s claims of allegiance were quite true.

“Are you ready for a fight, sister?” Diamanda asked Elysant, who smiled and nodded.

“She was ready before Thaddius used his soul stone on her wounds after the battle,” Victoria put in.

“Truly,” Diamanda agreed, tapping Elysant’s forearm. “I cannot believe how powerfully you shook off the pain and continued the fight.”

Elysant shrugged.

“The dolostones,” Diamanda said with a shrug, indicating the stone set bracer Elysant wore.

Elysant shrugged and smiled. “I will thank the Father Abbot when we return,” she said, and meant it.

“It was not the bracer,” Thaddius remarked as he moved around Elysant. “It was you.”

Surprised the apparent compliment, all three women turned back to regard Thaddius, who was moving around Victoria then, at the end of the line.

“I know these brothers,” he explained, continuing off to the side, down the side slope of the bluff, and motioning for the women to stay put. “I will determine their purpose and intent.”

“If they are De’Unnerans, they will kill you,” Diamanda warned.

Thaddius stopped, not because she had given him pause or reason for concern, but because of the simple unintentional irony in the naive woman’s remark. They were De’Unnerans — at least, Glorious was — and as far as Glorious knew, so was Thaddius.

And Thaddius still wasn’t sure that Glorious was incorrect.

“If they seek to attack me, I know you will be there,” Thaddius said to keep the three in place. “Be ready, I beg.”

Once he was away from the women, Thaddius stood up and brushed off his brown robes as thoroughly as he could. He rubbed his face, too, but out of concern and confusion. More than once, he looked back up the bluff, where lay these three women who had fought the powries beside him. He thought of the demands of Elysant and Diamanda that Victoria run off, for she could outdistance the dwarves, no doubt, and the Church needed to know.

Above all else, the Church needed to know.

But Victoria would not run away, because she would not admit defeat, no matter the price. Above all else for her, loyalty.

Brother Thaddius stared long and hard at the top of the bluff, unable to see the women, but knowing they were there. He couldn’t reconcile their admission to the Church, particularly Elysant who had no affinity with the sacred Ring Stones.

And yet, there was so much about them brother Thaddius could not deny…

The young monk bolstered himself and started toward the houses, erasing all fear from his face determinedly.

The two monks turned sharply on him when he crossed into the lane, making no attempt to hide himself, both assuming fighting stances.

From a porch to the side, a third monk leveled a crossbow his way.

“Brother Glorious!” Thaddius called excitedly. “After all that has happened, it is good to see you alive!”

“Thaddius?” the young man called back, and his face lit up. “Ah, brother, have you heard the terrible news?”

“I was there when Father Abbot De’Unnero fell,” he said, never slowing as he joined the two.

The third heretic came down from the porch, crossbow lowered. “You are alone?” the older man, whom Thaddius did not know, asked suspiciously.

*****

“Can we trust him?” Diamanda quietly asked as they three watched the gathering in the lane below. “They are De’Unnerans, certainly.”

“Yes,” Elysant replied confidently.

“There is a chapel not far from here,” Diamanda said. “If they are loyal to Father Abbot Braumin, then why are they out here? And surely this is the band the powries thought us!”

Victoria nodded, not disagreeing, but she added her own affirmation to Elysant’s claim regarding Thaddius.

“Pagonel would not have chosen him,” Elysant reasoned. “He could have escaped the powries with his gems, but he did not use his malachite and fly away.”

“They seem quite friendly,” Diamanda warned. “How do we know that Thaddius was unaware of this band when we left St.-Mere-Abelle?”

The others wanted to argue, but really couldn’t. Together, the three lifted up in a crouch and eased to the edge of the bluff, ready to leap away to Thaddius’s aid.

Or perhaps to run off if their hopes were dashed.

On and on went Brother Glorious and the other two, and then a fourth of their band came in happily.

“My prayers are answered!” the newcomer exclaimed. “More will join our cause. More will recognize the truth of Marcalo De’Unnero.”

“Avelyn was a fraud,” another insisted.

“Demon possessed,” Brother Glorious agreed.

“Bishop Braumin has been elected Father Abbot, so say the rumors filtering out of St.-Mere-Abelle,” Thaddius remarked, and that brought disgusted gasps from all about.

“Jojonah’s lapdog!” the newcomer cried. “Oh, but we have much fighting ahead, brothers.”

“They will reinstate us, brothers,” Thaddius said.

The looks that flashed his way sent chills down his spine.

“They seek healing, I am told,” Thaddius went on, a bit less assuredly. “Truce and compromise.”

“They demand fealty, you mean,” the one with the crossbow growled, and Thaddius wondered if the man was about to shoot him.

“Ohwan has been elected as Abbot of St. Honce,” Thaddius argued. “Ohwan was no enemy to Marcalo De’Unnero, and was his choice for that position.”

“Then let us go to Ursal,” Brother Glorious said to all. “Ohwan will have us. We will bolster his cause when he marches on St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“No, he will summon the Father Abbot to Ursal, to the Court of the King,” said the newcomer. “And there we will end the reign of foul Braumin.”

They all began talking excitedly about their fantasies of murder, and of keeping true the cause of De’Unnero. For a long while, they lost all interest in Thaddius, too consumed by their hopes. Brother Glorious himself spoke of a sister of St. Gwendolyn they had hunted down and killed, and what a godly deed that had been!

“We will find our sunrise, Brother Thaddius!” Glorious finished, at last turning back to the thin young monk.

Glorious’s expression changed indeed when he looked upon his old acquaintance from the shadows of the monastery where Marcalo De’Unnero’s name had been spoken with quiet reverence, to see Brother Thaddius encased in the holy blue-white glow of magical serpentine, his hand uplifted, a ruby teeming with fiery energy, begging catastrophic release.