The Demon Awakens (DemonWars), page 19
Three sets of eyes bore down on the young monk, who felt small indeed. “Go,” the nervous young monk bade Thagraine, before he hardly considered his options. “I am weary from the days of storm.”
“Hold!” Quintall said forcefully, stopping Thagraine before he had taken a single step. To Avelyn, he asked, “Are you to join with the barrelbumpers, then?”
Avelyn’s eyebrows rose with curiosity. He had heard the term before, and he knew Quintall and the others used it for the common seamen, but he had no idea what it meant. Now, putting it so obviously in sexual terms only confused poor Avelyn even more.
“Yes,” Quintall remarked quietly, “that might be more to your liking.” Thagraine and Pellimar chuckled; Avelyn noted that they tried to stifle the laughs and were thus somewhat sympathetic to him, at least.
“I know not of what you speak, Brother Quintall,” he replied bluntly, firming his jaw. “Perhaps you would tell me what a ‘barrelbumper’ might be.”
That brought a loud snort from Pellimar. Thagraine nudged him hard.
Avelyn scrunched his face with distaste and disbelief. To see other members of his order acting so . . . juvenile was the only word he could think of to describe it, pained him greatly.
“Do you see that barrel,” Quintall happily explained, pointing across the open deck to a single keg set far forward.
Avelyn nodded gravely, not liking where this was going.
“It has a small hole in one side,” Quintall went on, “for those who cannot use the woman.”
Avelyn took a deep breath, trying to calm his mounting anger.
“Of course, you’ll have to pay on your appointed night,” Quintall finished.
“The night you are in the barrel!” Thagraine howled, and all three broke into laughter.
Avelyn saw nothing at all humorous in the ridiculous joke, nor did the few crewmen close enough at hand to hear the insults. For Avelyn, this was a most sacred mission, the most important duty of the Abellican Church, and to profane it so by indulging in a shipboard orgy, was surely blasphemous.
“The woman was sanctioned by Father Abbot Markwart,” Quintall said suddenly, sternly, as if he had read Avelyn’s thoughts—not so difficult a feat, given the man’s sour expression. “In his wisdom, he knows the trying times of a shipboard voyage and would have us reach Pimaninicuit healthy of mind and body.”
“And what of soul?” Avelyn asked, but Quintall snorted at the notion.
“The choice is yours,” Quintall finished.
Avelyn didn’t think so, not at all. He had been called onto the table, so to speak. His actions now carried serious consequences concerning his future dealings with his three companions. If he didn’t have their respect, he couldn’t expect their loyalty, and given the level of jealousy that had been creeping about the four since they had become the chosen Preparers . . .
Avelyn took a bold step, cutting between Quintall and Thagraine. The stocky man willingly fell back, a smirk on his dark face—darker now for the week of beard—but Thagraine put his arm out to hold Avelyn back.
“After me,” the monk said firmly.
Too angry for debate, Avelyn hooked his arm under, then up and over Thagraine’s and gave a sharp tug to put the monk off balance. Avelyn then let go and dropped into a leg sweep that left Thagraine lying flat on the deck. Not wanting to continue the struggle, Avelyn was up and walking fast before the felled monk could respond.
Quintall’s laughter followed him.
Captain Adjonas came out of his room as Avelyn neared. He looked at the flustered young monk, then across the deck at the other three. His grin was telling when he looked back at Avelyn, and he merely tipped his great feathered hat and continued on his way.
Avelyn didn’t look back. He stalked up to the stateroom and lifted his hand to knock, then thought that perfectly ridiculous and simply walked in.
He caught her by surprise, wearing only a dirty nightshirt. She jumped when he briskly entered, pulling the covers from her bed up before her.
She wasn’t what he expected—and was certainly not the monster of his dreams. She was younger than he, probably just a year or so past twenty, with long black hair and blue eyes that had long ago lost their sparkle. Her face seemed tiny, framed by the voluminous hair, but cute, if not beautiful, and her frame, too, was small and thin. Avelyn suspected that to be from lack of food not from any desire to be fashionable.
She looked at Avelyn curiously, her fear fast fading. “One o’ the monks, then?” she asked in a throaty voice. “He said there’d be four, but I thought I’d seen all . . .” She paused and shook her head, apparently confused.
Avelyn swallowed hard; she was so oblivious of her partners that she didn’t even know how many of them had visited her.
“Are ye?”
“What?”
“A monk?”
Avelyn nodded.
“Well, good enough then,” she said, and she tossed the blanket onto the bed, then reached for the hem of her short shirt, pulling it up.
“No!” Avelyn said, near panic. He noted bruises on her legs, his eyes drawn down despite his good intentions. And the dirtiness of the woman assaulted him. Not that he was any cleaner; it amazed Avelyn how difficult it was to stay washed in the middle of so much water.
“Not yet,” Avelyn quickly clarified, seeing the woman’s stunned expression. “I mean . . . what is your name?”
“Me name?” she replied, and then she thought about it and chuckled and shrugged. “Yer friend calls me Miss Pippin.”
“Your real name,” Avelyn insisted.
The woman looked at him long and hard, obviously confused and surprised but also seeming a bit intrigued. “All right then,” she said at length. “Call me Dansally. Dansally Comerwick.”
“I am Avelyn Desbris,” the monk responded.
“Well, are ye ready then, Avelyn Desbris?” Dansally asked, pulling up the hem a bit more and striking a teasing pose.
Avelyn considered the sight from two widely disparate viewpoints. Part of him wanted to take her up on the offer, to rush right over and crush her under him; but another part, the part that had spent more than half of Avelyn’s life in fervent effort to elevate him and all of mankind somehow above this level—above following base, animalistic urges without thought, without reason—could not accept it.
“No,” he said again, walking near her and gently moving her hand away so that the nightshirt slipped back down over her legs.
“What would ye have me do?” the confused woman asked.
“Talk,” Avelyn answered calmly, under control.
“Talk? And what would ye have me say?” she asked, a mischievous, lewd sparkle coming to her blue eyes.
“Tell me where you are from,” Avelyn bade her. “Tell me of your life before this.”
If he had slapped her, she would not have looked more wounded. “How dare ye?” she asked.
Avelyn couldn’t hide a smile. She seemed insulted, as if he had gotten too personal with her, and yet she was offering willingly what should have been the most personal thing of all! He held up his hands and backed off a step.
“Please sit, Dansally Comerwick,” he bade, motioning at the bed. “I mean you no harm.”
“I am here for a reason,” she said dryly, but she did sit on the edge of the bed.
“To give us comfort,” Avelyn said, nodding. “And my comfort will come in the form of conversation. I would like to know you.”
“To save me, then?” Dansally asked sarcastically. “To tell me where I wandered from the righteous path and guide me back to it?”
“I would never presume to judge you,” Avelyn said sincerely. “But indeed I would like to understand this, which I apparently cannot comprehend.”
“Have ye never felt a bit funny then?” she asked, again with that teasing sparkle. “A bit itchy?”
“I am a man,” Avelyn assured her in all confidence. “But I am not certain that my definition of the term and that of my companions is nearly the same.”
Dansally, not a stupid woman, settled back and digested the words. She had spent the four days of the storm alone—except for the regular visits of Quintall, who never seemed to get enough of her. In truth, though, Dansally had felt alone for so very long—for all the voyage to and from St.-Mere-Abelle and for years before that.
It took more than a bit of coaxing, but at last Avelyn got the woman to answer his questions, to speak with him as she might a friend. He spent the better part of two hours with her, sitting and talking.
“I should go back to my duties now,” Avelyn said at last. He patted her hand and rose, heading for the door.
“Are ye sure ye’ll not stay just a bit longer?” Dansally asked. Avelyn looked back to see her stretched languidly on the bed, blue eyes sparkling.
“No,” he answered quietly, with respect. He paused a moment, considering the wider picture. “But I would ask a favor.”
“Don’t ye worry,” Dansally replied with a wink before he could begin to ask. “Yer friends’ll look on ye with respect, don’t ye doubt!”
Avelyn returned her smile warmly. He found that he believed her, and he walked back out into the sunlight truly relieved, but not in the way that the others, particularly Quintall, could ever have guessed.
Avelyn visited Dansally at least as often as all the others, sitting and talking, laughing, and one night even with Dansally crying on his shoulder. She had lost a baby, so she told him, stillborn, and her outraged husband had thrown her out into the street.
As soon as the story came pouring out, Dansally pulled away from Avelyn and sat staring hard at the man. She couldn’t believe she had so opened up to him. It made her more than a bit uncomfortable, for Avelyn, with his clothes on, had reached her in ways that the others never could, had touched a very private part of her indeed.
“He was a dog,” Avelyn said, “and no better. And a fool, Dansally Comerwick, for no man could ask for a better companion.”
“There goes Brother Avelyn Desbris,” Dansally said with a huge sigh, “Savin’ me again.”
“I would guess that you need less saving than most,” Avelyn replied. His words, the sincerity of his tone, struck her dumb. She dropped her gaze to the floor and the tears came again.
Avelyn went to her and hugged her.
The Windrunner made great time, cutting southwest from the southern reaches of the Mantis Ann in a direct run to Freeport. Adjonas swung her out wide at first, explaining that it would not do to be too close to treacherous Falidean Bay, where the water could rise forty feet in twenty minutes and the undertow of the tremendous flood tide could pull a sailing ship against gale winds and smash it to bits on the rocks.
They put into Freeport only briefly, with but a handful of sailors going ashore in the boat. The Windrunner caught the next tide away from the unlawful and dangerous place, and they were soon into Entel harbor.
Entel was the third largest city in Corona, behind Ursal, the throne seat, and Palmaris. The wharves were long enough in water deep enough for the Windrunner to dock, and Adjonas gave leave for all hands to go ashore, in two shifts.
On Quintall’s orders, the four monks ventured out together to see the city. Pellimar suggested that they pay a visit to the local abbey. Thagraine and Avelyn nodded, but pragmatic Quintall overruled that choice, fearing that any discussion of what might have brought four brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle so far south could lead to some uncomfortable questions. The secrets of Pimaninicuit were the domain of St.-Mere-Abelle only; according to Master Siherton, even the other abbeys of the Abellican Church knew little concerning the source of the magic stones.
Avelyn remembered the speech Master Jojonah had given him when first they had talked about the island, the stern warning that to utter even its name to any without sanction of Father Abbot Markwart was punishable by death, and he agreed with Quintall’s logic.
So they spent the day walking and marveling at the sights of the great city, at the thick rows of exotic flowers in the tree-lined green that centered the place, at the shining white buildings, at the frantic bazaar, the largest open market that any of them had seen, reputably the largest open market in all Honce-the-Bear. Even the vivid, bright colors of the clothing of Entel’s inhabitants struck the four as unusual. The city, it was said, was more akin to those of exotic Behren than to any in Honce-the-Bear, and Avelyn, after half a day of one astounding sight after another, decided that he would indeed enjoy a visit to Behren.
“Another time, perhaps,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder as he made his way back aboard the Windrunner, the sun dipping over the city.
Resupplied, the Windrunner put out the next day, sails full of wind with a favorable tide, sailing fast to the south.
Avelyn got his wish sooner than expected, for, without explanation, Captain Adjonas put his ship into the next harbor in line, Jacintha, just a score of miles to the south, but across the mountain range that divided the kingdoms.
The three nervous monks looked to Quintall for answers, but he had none, caught as completely off his guard as the others. He went at once to the captain, demanding an explanation.
“None know the southern waters better than the sailors of Behren,” Adjonas explained. “What winds we should catch, what troubles we might face. I have friends here, valuable friends.”
“Take care that your questions do not lead your contacts to the way to Pimaninicuit,” Quintall whispered ominously.
Adjonas straightened, the blood rushing to his face, making that garish scar seem all the more imposing. But Quintall did not back down an inch. “I will accompany you to your . . . friends.”
“Then change out of your telling robes, Brother Quintall,” Adjonas replied. “I’ll not guarantee your safety.”
“Nor I yours.”
The pair, along with Bunkus Smealy, went out late that afternoon, leaving the nervous gazes of three monks and thirty crewmen at the rail. Pellimar relieved his tensions with a visit to the woman—to Avelyn’s satisfaction, his companions still didn’t know her real name—but Avelyn and Thagraine remained at the rail, watching the sunset and then the lights of the structures that lined the harbor.
Finally came the welcome sound of oars and the boat, all three safely aboard. “We are out in the morning, at first light,” Adjonas said sharply to Smealy and to the nearby crew when the three gained the deck.
Thagraine and Avelyn exchanged grave looks, given the man’s uncharacteristic tone and the severe look on Quintall’s face.
“The waters are not clear, by any reports,” Quintall explained to his brothers.
“Pirates?” asked Thagraine.
“Yes, that and powries.”
Avelyn sighed and moved back to gaze at the unfamiliar landscape, layers of lights lifting up to the darkness of the great range known as the Belt-and-Buckle. He felt so far from home, and now, with the vast open Mirianic looming before him and the talk of fierce powries, he began to understand that he had much further yet to go.
He, too, visited Dansally that night. Brother Avelyn needed a friend.
CHAPTER 16
Endwar
Elbryan’s fifth summer in Andur’Blough Inninness was among the very best times in all his young life. He was no more a boy but a young and strong man, with all traces of his youth gone except for a mischievous-streak Tuntun feared he would never be rid of. He continued his ritual with the milk-stones, running out eagerly each morning, attacking the task with pride, for he could see the difference the continual exercise had made on his tall, graceful form. His legs were long and covered with muscle, and his arms had grown huge, each muscle clearly defined. When Elbryan bent his fist forward and flexed, he couldn’t put his other hand—and his hands were not small by human standards!—halfway around the bulging forearm.
But even with all that mass, there was nothing awkward about the young man. He danced with the elves, he fought with the elves, he skipped along the winding trails of Andur’Blough Inninness. His light brown hair had grown long, to his shoulders, but he kept it clean and neatly trimmed, pushed back from his face, which he still kept clean shaven.
He was welcomed in every elven ritual now—in every dance, in every celebration, in every hunt—but still, perhaps more than ever, Elbryan felt alone. It wasn’t that he craved human companionship; he continued to fear that thought greatly. It was simply Elbryan’s realization of how different he was from these creatures, and not just in stature. They had taught him to view the world as an elf might, with utter freedom and often more veiled in imagination than reality. Elbryan found that he could not possibly maintain such a stance. His sense of order was simply too strong, his sense of right and wrong too keenly developed. He expressed that sentiment to Juraviel one quiet afternoon, he and the elf out on a long walk, talking of the plants and animals.
Juraviel stopped in his tracks and stared at the young man. “Could you expect differently?” he asked simply.
It wasn’t the wording but the way Juraviel spoke that offered Elbryan comfort. For the first time, he realized that perhaps the elves were not expecting him to be as one of them.
“We are showing you a different way to view the world about you,” Juraviel explained, “one that will aid you in your journeys and trials. We are giving you tools that will put you above your kin.”
“Why?” Elbryan asked simply. “Why was I chosen for these gifts?”
“Blood of Mather,” Juraviel replied, a phrase the young man had heard all too often, usually derisively, from Tuntun. “Mather was your uncle, your father’s oldest brother.”
As he spoke, Elbryan found his mind drifting back to a specific place and moment, a time nearly five years previous, when he had stood on the ridge outside of Dundalis, Pony beside him, looking up at the glowing Halo. Though his mind conjured that image, that feeling, and placed him squarely within that space and time, he remained alert to Juraviel’s every word.
