“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.