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.”