The Demon Awakens (DemonWars), page 26
He ran for the south side of the abbey, the seaward side, and turned into one long corridor, its left-hand wall dotted with small windows that overlooked the bay. Avelyn rushed to one and peered out desperately into the night.
Under the light of a half moon, he saw the outline of the Windrunner gliding out into the bay. “No,” he breathed, noting the bustle on the deck, tiny silhouettes rushing past a small fire near the stern. He saw a second fire on the water.
“No!” Avelyn screamed.
Another ball of flaming pitch soared out from the monastery, skipping in along the starboard rail of the vessel, igniting the mainsail into one tremendous flame.
The barrage intensified, more pitch, great heavy stones, and giant ballista bolts battering the ill-fated craft. Soon the Windrunner was adrift, the strong currents of All Saints Bay taking her toward a dangerous reef. Avelyn winced, seeing men leaping from the deck, their doom at hand.
The screams of the crew drifted across the dark water; Avelyn knew that the other monks, at their celebration, would not hear. He watched helplessly, hopelessly, as the ship that had been his home for nearly eight months jolted and listed, then broke apart on the reef as still more missiles soared in. Tears ran freely down his cheeks; he mumbled the name “Dansally,” over and over.
The bombardment went on for many minutes. Avelyn heard the people in the cold water, and hoped against hope that some of them, that his dear Dansally, might make it to shore.
But then came the worst thing of all—a hissing, sizzling noise. A bluish film covered the dark water, snapping and crackling off the stones and the sailors, off the remnants of the proud ship. A sheet of conjured lightning silenced the screams forever.
Except in Avelyn’s mind.
More missiles went out, though their task was certainly finished. The strong ebb tide of All Saints Bay would collect the flotsam and jetsam and carry it out to the open sea. All the world, save Avelyn and the perpetrators, would think this a tragic accident.
“Dansally,” Avelyn breathed. His shoulders slumped, the young man needing the stone wall for support. He rolled away from the window, putting his back to the wall, facing the corridor.
“You should not have come,” Master Siherton said to him, the tall, hawkish man standing quietly.
Avelyn noted the considerable bag of stones at his belt and the grayish graphite he held in his hand. Graphite was the stone of lightning.
Avelyn slumped back against the wall even more, thinking Siherton would use the stone to destroy him then and there and, in many ways, hoping Siherton would do just that. The master only reached out and grabbed Avelyn by the arm and led him to a small, dark room in one far corner of the massive abbey.
The next morning, a crestfallen Brother Avelyn was in Father Abbot Markwart’s private quarters, Masters Siherton and Jojonah flanking him. It stung Avelyn even more to realize that the actions taken against the Windrunner had not been a rogue decision by brutal Siherton but had been sanctioned by the Father Abbot, apparently with Master Jojonah’s knowledge.
“There can be no witnesses to the location of Pimaninicuit,” Father Abbot Markwart said evenly.
As there will be no witnesses to my death, Avelyn thought, for the corridors of St.-Mere-Abelle had been deserted that morning, the monks and servants sleeping off their evening of revelry.
“Do you realize the implications to the world?” Markwart said suddenly, excitedly. “If Pimaninicuit became common knowledge, the security of the Ring Stones would be lost and petty merchants and kings would hold the secret to wealth and power beyond their comprehension!”
It made sense to Avelyn that, for the security of the world, the location of Pimaninicuit should remain secret, but that thought did little to erase his revulsion at the destruction of the hired ship and the murder of her crew.
And the murder of Dansally.
“There could be no other outcome,” Markwart said flatly.
Avelyn glanced around nervously. “May I speak, Father Abbot?”
“Of course,” Markwart replied, resting back in his chair. “Speak freely, Brother Avelyn. You are among friends.”
Avelyn tried hard to keep his expression calm at that absurd notion. “All aboard the ship would have been long dead before the next occurrence of the stone showers,” he argued.
“Sailors make maps,” Master Siherton said dryly.
“But why would they?” Avelyn protested. “The map would be of no use to them, since seven generations—”
“You are forgetting the wealth strewn about Pimaninicuit,” Father Abbot Markwart interrupted, “a treasure trove of jewels beyond imagination.”
Avelyn hadn’t thought of that. Still he shook his head. The journey was too treacherous, and if the crew had been well paid, as promised, they would have had no reason to dare the perils of the South Mirianic again.
“It was God’s will,” Markwart said with finality. “All of it. You are to speak nothing of what you have witnessed. Return now to the room that Master Siherton assigned to you. Your punishment will be determined and revealed later this same day.”
Avelyn’s thoughts whirled, too confusing a jumble for him to utter even a sound of protest. He staggered away as if he had been struck. Markwart verbally hit him again when he got to the door.
“Brother Pellimar succumbed this morning to his grievous wounds,” the Father Abbot informed Avelyn.
Avelyn turned, stunned. Pellimar would carry scars forever, but surely he had mended. Then Avelyn understood. The previous night, at the party, Pellimar had been loose with his tongue. Too loose. Even to utter the name of the island without Father Abbot’s permission was forbidden.
“A pity,” Markwart went on. “That leaves only you and Quintall of the four who went to Pimaninicuit. You will have much work before you.”
Avelyn stepped out of the room, into the stone corridor, and vomited all over the floor. He staggered away, half blind, half insane.
“He is being watched?” Markwart asked Siherton.
“Every step,” the tall master replied. “All along, I feared this response from him.”
Master Jojonah snorted. “Avelyn worked alone on Pimaninicuit, yet the hoard he retrieved is inarguably the finest ever brought back from the island. How can you doubt his value?”
“I do not,” Siherton replied. “I only wonder when those qualities that give Avelyn such value will become dangerous.”
Jojonah looked at Markwart, who was nodding grimly. “He has much work to do,” the Father Abbot told them both. “Committing his adventures to the page, cataloguing the stones, even seeking out their true strength and deepest secrets. The crystal amethyst most of all. Never have I seen such a magnificent stone, and Avelyn, as its Preparer, has the finest chance to discern its true measure.”
“Perhaps I can persuade him to our way of thinking before he is finished his work,” Jojonah offered.
“That would be most fine,” replied Markwart.
Siherton gave his fellow master a dubious glance. He did not believe that Avelyn, so full of idealism and ridiculous faith, could be corralled.
Jojonah noted the look and could not disagree. He would try, though, for he was fond of young Brother Avelyn and he knew the alternative.
“The summer solstice,” Father Abbot Markwart remarked. “At that time, we will discuss the future of Brother Avelyn Desbris.”
“Or lack thereof,” Master Siherton added, and from his tone, it wasn’t hard for Jojonah to figure out which event would most please the hawkish, brutal man.
Avelyn found himself secluded from the rest of the monks over the next few weeks. His only contacts were with Siherton, Jojonah, and a couple of other masters, as well as the pair of guards—more tenth-year immaculates, who remained with him wherever he went—and Quintall, who was often at work beside him in the room of the Ring Stones.
Disturbing questions haunted the young monk every day. Why did they have to kill the men of the Windrunner? Couldn’t Father Abbot Markwart have simply imprisoned them? Or, if this procedure was always the case, then why didn’t the monastery simply man its own ship and send only trusted monks to Pimaninicuit?
Every logical argument ran smack into a wall, though, for Avelyn knew that he would not impress any change over his superiors and the way of the Abellican Order. And so he worked, as he was instructed, penning the tale of his adventures in great detail, studying and cataloguing the newest stones, their type, their magic, their strength. Whenever he was allowed to handle a magical stone, Master Siherton was at his side, a potent and lethal gem in hand.
Avelyn realized his place now, and truly he felt like one of the Windrunner’s crew. His only solace came in his many discussions with Master Jojonah, to whom he still felt a bond. But while Jojonah continually tried to explain the necessity for the actions taken upon the monks’ return, Avelyn simply would not accept it.
There had to be a better way, he believed, and despite the potential for disaster, there could be no justification for murder.
The spring of 822 was late when his work neared completion, and Avelyn noted with some concern that Master Jojonah spoke with him less and less, noted with some concern the tender master’s sympathetic expression whenever he looked upon Avelyn.
Avelyn grew uneasy, and then desperate. So much so that he chanced to pocket a gemstone, a hematite, one day. Fortune was with him, for a mistake by Quintall caused a minor explosion that afternoon, and though no one was hurt and nothing too badly damaged, it proved enough of a distraction for the theft to go unnoticed, at least for the moment.
Back in his cell, Avelyn fell into the powers of the stone. He didn’t really know what he would do, other than spy on the masters and confirm his fears of his approaching fate.
His spirit walked free of his body, passed through the porous wood of the door and past the pair of oblivious guards. Avelyn felt that tug of the stone, wanting possession, but his will was strong and he resisted, floating invisibly down the corridor and finally to Father Abbot Markwart’s door.
Inside, Avelyn glimpsed Siherton and Jojonah with the Father Abbot, the old man livid about the mishap in the stone room.
“Brother Quintall is a bumbler,” Jojonah pointed out.
“But a loyal one,” Siherton snapped back, an obvious comparison to Avelyn.
“Enough of this,” demanded Markwart. “How goes the work?”
“The cataloguing is nearly complete,” answered Siherton. “We are ready for the merchants.”
“What of the giant crystal?”
“We have found no practical use for it,” Siherton replied. “Avelyn—Brother Avelyn,” he corrected with a derisive snort, “is convinced that it is thick with magic, but how to extract that magic and what purpose it might serve, we do not know.”
“It would be folly to auction it,” Jojonah put in.
“It would not bring a good price unless we could determine its powers,” Father Abbot Markwart agreed.
“There are merchants who would purchase it simply for the mystery,” Siherton argued.
Avelyn could hardly believe what he was hearing. They were talking about a private auction of the sacred stones! How much that notion diminished the sacrifice of Thagraine and Pellimar, of the Windrunner’s crew and of Dansally! The thought of unbelieving merchants plying the gift of the stones, to amuse guests, perhaps, or even for sinister purposes, wounded Avelyn deeply. His spirit drifted out of the room, unable to bear any more of the sacrilegious talk.
He was heading back for his physical coil when he realized that time was against him. His spirit hovered there in the hall. The missing hematite would surely be discovered, and even disregarding that stone, Avelyn’s future was far from secure.
What was he to do? And how could he tolerate any of this madness, this insult to God?
Master Siherton came out of Markwart’s room alone, his boots clicking on the floor as he made his way in the direction of the stone room. To check on the damage from Quintall’s misstep, no doubt, the spying Avelyn realized; to check on the lists of reorganized stones.
Tugged by a sense of urgency, Avelyn gave in to the hematite, his spirit floating fast for Siherton’s back.
The pain as he entered the man’s body was excruciating, beyond anything Avelyn had ever felt. His thoughts mingled with Siherton’s; their spirits clashed and battled, shoving and pushing for possession. Avelyn had struck the man off guard, but even so, the struggle was nothing short of titanic. Avelyn realized then that an attempt at possession was akin to fighting an enemy on his home ground.
If any had been about to bear witness, they would have seen Siherton’s body lurching back and forth across the corridor, slamming into walls, clawing at its own face.
Then Avelyn felt the weight of a corporeal form again. He knew instinctively that Siherton’s spirit was nearby, locked in some dimensional pocket that Avelyn did not understand. And he had control of the body; it moved to the commands of his spirit!
Avelyn went off with all speed to the stone room, entering forcefully and snapping his glare over the two guards and Quintall before they could utter a word of protest.
“You remain,” Avelyn commanded one of the guards. “You,” he said to Quintall, “your punishment has not yet been determined.”
“Punishment?” Quintall echoed breathlessly. He had been told that there would be no consequences from his mishap, and indeed, such minor problems had not been uncommon in the month in which he and Avelyn had been at work with the new stones. Just a week before, Avelyn had melted a leg of one table while examining a ruby sprinkled with carnallite!
“Brother Avelyn was not—” Quintall began to protest.
“To your room and prayers!” the voice of Siherton commanded.
“Yes, my master,” said a cowed Quintall, and he moved off out of the room.
“Be gone!” Avelyn commanded the other guard, and the man ran out of the room, swiftly passing Quintall in the hall.
Then Avelyn and the remaining guard began selecting and collecting stones: the giant crystal amethyst, a rod of graphite, a small but potent ruby, and several others, including turquoise and amber, celestine and a tiger’s paw, a chrysoberyl, or cat’s eye, some gypsum and malachite, a sheet of chrysotile, and a piece of heavy magnetite. Avelyn placed them in a bag, and in it he placed, as well, a small pouch of tiny carnallites, the one stone whose magic could be brought forth only a single time. Avelyn then went to the other end of the room and pocketed a valuable emerald, not an enchanted one, but one used as an example of a particular cut, and then he bade the guard to follow him—and quickly, since the use of the hematite was draining the monk and Siherton’s spirit was nearby, trying, Avelyn knew, to find some route back to its body.
They made their way to the secluded cell that held Avelyn’s body, the master’s voice quickly and forcefully dismissing the two men who stood guard in the hall.
The one remaining guard, the man from the stone room, opened the door on Siherton’s order. There stood Avelyn’s corporeal form, as he had left it, clutching the hematite. Avelyn in Siherton’s body stepped past the guard and deftly took the hematite, then instructed the guard to shoulder the inanimate body and follow him.
“Brother Avelyn is to be punished for treason against the Order” was all the explanation he offered, and the guard, who had heard rumors to that effect for weeks now, did not question the news.
It was vespers, so few were about to observe the master and the guard, bearing his extraordinary burden, as they made their way to the abbey roof overlooking All Saints Bay. The guard, as instructed, placed the body at the base of the low wall and stepped back
Avelyn waited for many moments, gathering his strength. He bent over the body, slipping the hematite and one other stone, into its hand, tying the gemstone sack to the body’s rope belt.
“The stones will allow us to find the body,” he explained to the guard, noting that the man was growing increasingly suspicious. “They will take from Brother Avelyn the last of his physical strength as he dies.”
The guard’s face screwed up with curiosity, but he did not dare to question the dangerous master.
Avelyn knew that he had to be quick—that he had to be perfect.
With great effort, Avelyn tore his spirit free of Siherton’s corporeal form and reentered his own, coming to his physical senses even as Siherton’s body shivered with the return of his own spirit.
Avelyn was up, quick as a cat, clutching the stones in one hand and grabbing Siherton by the front of his robe with the other. Before the guard could come to the master’s aid, Avelyn hauled the stunned Siherton and himself over the rail.
They plummeted past the abbey walls, down the cliff face, into the gloom, Siherton screaming his protests.
Avelyn kicked and pushed the man away, then called upon the second stone he held, the malachite.
Then he was floating, Siherton continuing to plummet.
Avelyn continued to push out as he descended gently past the angled cliff. Near the bottom, he pulled the amber from his pouch. He touched down lightly on the water, as he had done in an exercise that seemed to him a million years ago. He was glad that Siherton’s body was not in sight; he could not have borne that spectacle.
Using the amber, he walked across the cold water to a point where he could get ashore, then he moved off down the road.
He knew that he would never look upon St.-Mere-Abelle again.
He used the stones. With the malachite, he floated gently over cliffs that any pursuing monks would spend hours climbing down. With the amber, he crossed wide lakes that his pursuers would have to circumvent. Using a chrysoberyl, a cat’s-eye, he could see clearly in the dark and move along at daylight pace without the telltale glow of a light. At the first town he entered, he happened upon a caravan of several merchant wagons, and there he sold the common emerald, giving him all the funds he would need for a long, long time.
