“Vaguely,” Pagonel replied.
The two monks joined Pagonel over by the board.
“You were playing against the Father Abbot,” Viscenti remarked and Braumin nodded.
“A fine opponent was Fio Bou-raiy,” said Braumin. “He had me beaten, I fear.”
“He was playing black, then,” said Pagonel, and Braumin at the board, then back at Pagonel curiously. A casual glance at the board revealed little advantage for either side — indeed, black had lost more pieces — and given the mystic’s response that he “vaguely” knew the game, how could he have known the truth of the situation on the board?
“This piece,” Pagonel asked, tapping one of the white bishops, “it runs along the white diagonal squares, yes?”
“Yes,” Braumin answered.
Pagonel nodded. “We have a similar game in Behren, at the Walk of Clouds. More pieces, but the concepts align, I believe. Sit.” He motioned to the chair behind the base for the black side, and he slipped into the chair behind the white king.
“Pray show me how each of these pieces move and attack,” the mystic bade.
Braumin and Viscenti exchanged a curious glance, and proceeded. When they were done, Pagonel wore a sly grin. “I will replace your opponent, if you allow,” he said. “And yes, if my objective is to defeat your king, then you are defeated.”
“Then why play?” Viscenti asked.
“We could play anew,” Pagonel started to offer, but Braumin waved that thought away.
“It is your move,” Braumin told the mystic.
A short while later, Bishop Braumin conceded, and accepted the mystic’s offer to begin anew.
“If he offers you a bet, do not take it,” Master Viscenti said with a laugh just a few moves into the new game. “I do believe that our friend here has been less than forthcoming regarding his experience with chess!”
“Not so,” said Pagonel.
“Then how do you play so well? This is no simple game!”
“Your monks fight well,” Pagonel answered. “The best of your fighters would match up favorable in single combat against a Jhesta Tu of equal experience.”
“We pride ourselves…” Braumin started to reply, but Pagonel kept going.
“But were a group of four brothers to line up in battle across from four Jhesta Tu, they would lose, and badly, and not a single of my acolytes would be badly harmed.”
“Quite a claim,” said Viscenti.
“You will see, my friend,” Pagonel said.
A few moves later, the game was clearly and decisively turning in Pagonel’s favor, so much so that Braumin, one of the best chess players remaining at St.-Mere-Abelle, suspected that he would soon resign.
“How?” Viscenti asked when Braumin soon groaned and moved his king away from Pagonel’s check, the outcome becoming clearer.
“This is not a battle of individual pieces,” Pagonel explained.
“It is a game of strategy,” Braumin remarked.
“It is a game of coordination, and within the boundaries of this board lie your answers, Bishop Braumin.”
The monks stared at him hard. “Answers?” Braumin asked.
“How will your Church survive, and thrive, after the punishment the heretic De’Unnero inflicted upon it? That is your fear, yes? How will you lead them out of the darkness and rebuild from the ashes of De’Unnero’s deadly wake?”
“It will take time,” Viscenti said.
“Given the way you select — or should I say, deselect? — your brethren and the way you train them, I would agree,” said Pagonel. “But it does not have to be like that.”
He turned to the board and lifted the castle-like piece, the rook. “This piece is straightforward in attack, and thus, easily detected as a threat,” he explained. “But that is not its purpose. This piece shortens the board, and creates a defensive wall that limits your opponent’s movements.”
Braumin nodded. He hadn’t thought of a rook in those terms before, but it made sense.
“This piece,” Pagonel said, lifting a bishop, “is more clever. The eye of your opponent will not see the angled attack lines so easily, and so the bishop strikes hard and fast and with devastating effects.”
“That is true of the knight,” Viscenti remarked.
“Ah, the knight, the battlefield dancer,” said Pagonel. “St. Gwendolyn.”
That last remark had the monks leaning forward with surprise and intrigue.
“It is true that the knight is deadly, but the piece better serves to turn your opponent’s eye. The knight is a feint and a fear. You cannot block her from moving…”
As he spoke, he lifted one of his knights over Braumin’s pawn and set it down in a position to threaten the king.
“And as you watch her,” Pagonel went on slowly as Braumin shifted his king aside, further from the threat.
Pagonel moved his bishop down the line across the board, taking Braumin’s rook, which was no longer protected by his king. “As you watch her,” he said again, “the bishop strikes.”
Viscenti blew a low whistle of admiration. Braumin Herde shook his head and knocked over his king, defeated.
“She is St. Gwendolyn, dancing about the battlefield with her violin,” Pagonel explained, lifting the knight. “Her job is not to defeat you, but to enable her allies to defeat you.”
“We are talking of how St.-Mere-Abelle trains her monks,” Braumin remarked.
“There is your answer, Bishop Braumin Herde,” said Pagonel.
“Arri?”
The name struck the monk profoundly, not just because it was uttered without “brother” or “master” before it, but because the speaker emphasized the second syllable and because the voice was known to Arri.
He stopped short and turned his head to the side, to the porch of the small tavern, to the man standing there, a man he had known as a companion before he had even been born.
“Mars?” he whispered, somewhat confused, for his brother was not wearing the brown robes of an Abellican monk. Arri and Sister Mary Ann had learned much in the days of their journey from the Mantis Arm. All the land buzzed with rumors of the great battle at St.-Mere-Abelle, of the dragon, of the death of Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy, of the defeat of King Aydrian and the death of Marcalo De’Unnero.
They had heard, too, that disciples of De’Unnero had fled the Order, including some who had been at St.-Mere-Abelle at the time of the battle.
That last rumor resonated in Master Arri’s ear now as he looked at his twin brother.
The man came forward from the shadows of the porch, rushing up to Arri and wrapping him in a great hug. “Oh, Arri,” he whispered. “I thought you dead. I have heard of the troubles of St. Gwendolyn…”
Arri pushed him back to arms’ length even as Sister Mary Ann spat, “Troubles? You mean murder by the heretic De’Unnero. Troubles?”
“No,” Mars said, shaking his head as he regarded the woman. “There is no simple…”
“It is that simple, brother,” Master Arri interrupted. He turned to his traveling companion. “Sister Mary Ann, this is Brother Mars — my twin brother.”
Mary Ann looked from Arri to Mars skeptically, for at first glance, they surely did not appear to be twins, each of very different body types, Arri tall and lean and Mars short and stocky. She noted the resemblance in their facial features, however, and surely could have guessed them as brothers, if not twins.
“Where are you robes, brother?” Arri asked.
Mars swallowed hard and stepped back. His mouth began to move as if he meant to say something, but he wound up offering only a slight shake of his head and a helpless shrug.
“De’Unnero is dead,” Arri said a few moments later.
“On the stairs of the great hall, beneath the shattered window of Brother Avelyn,” Mars explained. “Perhaps there is some significance there.”
Arri stiffened at that remark, for this was an old wound between himself and his brother. Arri favored the gemstones and was quite adept with them, and, not coincidentally, he also agreed with the premise of the promise of Brother Avelyn, that the stones could be used to benefit the world.