Might Gwendolyn still have a lesson for the Abellican Order, Pagonel wondered?
He turned to the young monk. “What is your name?”
“Brother Thaddius,” the man answered.
Pagonel smiled and nodded. “These are the Saints of the Abellican Church?”
He nodded.
“Tell me of them,” the mystic asked.
“I have my duties…”
“Bishop Braumin and the others will forgive you for indulging in my demands. I expect that this is important. So please, young Brother Thaddius, indulge me.”
“What am I to do?” Braumin asked Viscenti a few nights later in the private quarters of Fio Bouraiy, where the two were separating dead Bou-raiy’s private items from the robes and gemstones reserved for the office of the Father Abbot..
“It falls to you,” Viscneti replied. “Of that, there is no doubt.”
“It?”
“Everything,” said Viscenti. “I do not envy you, but know that I will be there standing behind you, whatever course you chart.”
“A bold claim!”
“If not Braumin Herde — Bishop Braumin Herde — then who?” Viscenti asked. “Is there an abbot left alive after the De’Unneran Heresy?”
“Haney in St. Belfour.”
Viscenti snorted and shook his head. “A fine man, but one who was not even ready for that position, let alone this great responsibility we see before us. Besides, he is a Vanguardsman, as is Midalis who will be King.”
“Perhaps an important relationship then.”
Again, the skinny, nervous man snickered. “Midalis would not have it,” he declared, and Braumin couldn’t disagree. “Our new King is no fool and having a Vanguardsman as King and as Father Abbot would surely reek of invasion to the folk of Honce proper! Duke Kalas would not stand for it, nor would the other nobles.
“Abbot Haney would be the wrong choice, in any case,” Brother Viscenti went on. “He has no first-hand understanding of De’Unnero or his potential followers. He does not understand what drove the heretic, or even, I fear, the true beauty of Avelyn. He is no disciple of Master Jojonah!”
That last statement, spoken so powerfully, jolted Braumin upright. Just hearing the name of Jojonah bolstered him and reminded him of the whole point of…everything. Master Jojonah had trained Brother Avelyn, and had shown a young Brother Braumin and some other even younger brothers the truth of the Abellican Church, as opposed to the course Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart and his protégée De’Unnero had charted for Order.
Master Jojonah had been burned at the stake clinging to his beliefs, had gone willingly into the arms of God — and had charged Brother Braumin with carrying on his bold course. So many others, too, had died for those beliefs. Braumin thought of brave brother Romeo Mullahy, who had leaped from the cliff at the Barbacan, the ultimate defiance of Marcalo De’Unnero, an action that had shaken De’Unnero’s followers and resonated within those who had opposed him.
And Brother Castinagis, one of Braumin’s dearest friends. The excitable fellow had never wavered, even in the face of certain death.
De’Unnero had burned him in his chapel in Caer Tinella.
“He is a good man,” Braumin at last replied. “He witnessed the miracle of Aida…”
“He is not even as worldly as Master Dellman, who serves him!” Viscenti interrupted. “Were he to ascend, then to those outside the Church, it would seem a power play by King Midalis, forcing his hand over the Abellican Church even as he strengthens his hold on Honce. We have walked that dark road already, my friend.”
Braumin Herde kept his gaze low, chewing his lips, and he nodded in agreement.
“Nay,” said Viscenti, “It falls to you. Only you. St.-Mere-Abelle is yours, surely. The Order is yours to chart.”
Braumin Herde shrugged, and it seemed more a shudder. “I want her back,” he said quietly.
Viscenti nodded and wore a wistful expression suddenly, clearly recognizing that his friend was speaking of Jilseponie.
“I feel as if I best serve the Church by enlisting our southern friends to fly me on their dragon to the Timberlands, that I might drag Pony back to St.-Mere-Abelle to save us all.”
“That we will not do,” came another voice, wholly unexpected, and both monks jumped and spun about to see Pagonel standing quietly in the shadows of the room.
“How did you get in here?” Viscenti shouted as much as asked.
“Have I upset you, brother?” the mystic asked. “I was offered free travel through the monastery, so I was told…”
“No, no,” Braumin put in, and he dropped his hand on Viscenti’s shoulder to calm the man. “Of course, you are welcome wherever you will go. You merely startled us, that is all.”
The mystic bowed.
“And heard us, no doubt,” said Viscenti.
“I took great comfort in your advice to Bishop Braumin,” Pagonel admitted. He stepped up before Braumin Herde. “I take less comfort in your expressed fears.”
The monk stared at him hard.
“I will not take you to Jilseponie, nor to her should you go,” Pagonel insisted. “She has done enough. Her tale is written, for the wider world at least. Besides, I have witnessed the power of Aydrian and believe that Jilseponie would best serve the world if she can instill in her son a sense of morality and duty akin to that she and her dead Elbryan once knew. You wish to go to her, to beg her to return and assume the lead in your wounded Order. This is understandable, but not practical.”
Clearly overwhelmed, Bishop Braumin fell back and into a chair, nearly tumbling off the side of it as he landed hard and off-balance. “What am I to do?”
“Summon a College of Abbots,” said Master Viscenti. “I will nominate you as Father Abbot — none will oppose!”
“Abbots?” Braumin asked incredulously. “Myself and Abbot Haney are all that remain, I fear!”
“Then bring them all in, all together,” said Pagonel. “Summon every brother from every chapel and every abbey.” He lifted a fist up before him, fingers clutched. “This is the strongest position for the hand,” he explained. “Bring your Church in close and move outward one piece at a time.”
Braumin didn’t respond, but hardly seemed convinced.
“Brynn Dharielle and the dragon will fly south in the morning, going home,” the mystic explained. “I was to go with them, but I have quite enjoyed my journey through the catacombs of this wondrous place. With your permission, I will remain longer.”
Braumin Herde looked at the man curiously.
“Call them in,” Pagonel bade him. “I will stand beside you, if you so desire.”
“You have a plan,” said Viscenti, and it seemed as much an accusation as a question.
The mystic glanced over at him and smiled. “Our Orders are not so different, my friend. This I have come to understand. Perhaps there are lessons the Jhesta Tu have learned which will now be of use to Father Abbot Braumin Herde.”
He looked to Braumin.
The man who would rule the Abellican Church nodded. He summoned again the memories of Jojonah, and Mullahy, Castinagis and the others, and silently vowed to find the courage to lead. If Midalis would rebuild the kingdom, then Braumin Herde would rebuild the Abellican Church.
PART 2: THE COLLEGE OF ABBOTS
Master Arri couldn’t help but smile as he looked down on the young couple dancing in the evergreen grove. The sun was high above in the east, stretched shadows from the pines about them so that they twirled and spun in light and then shadow, repeatedly, the woman’s white robes flashing, the man’s light green robes somewhat muting the effect, serving almost as a transition from light to darkness. Their smiles shone even in the shadows, though.
She was such a pretty thing, her light hair dancing in the breeze, her bright eyes shining back at the sun, her slender frame carrying her gracefully through the twirling dance. Her partner was heavier set, stocky and strong, with long and curly black hair and a beard that could house a flock of birds! His robe was open at the chest, and there too he was a shaggy one. Unlike the fair-skinned woman, his skin was olive, speaking of ancestry in the south, likely.