The Demon Awakens (DemonWars), page 77
“But you two should go to those towns,” he said at length. “Do for those folk what you did for the people of Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o’-the-World, and all the region might soon be freed of the legacy of the demon dactyl.”
Elbryan looked to Pony, and both gave a nod to the elf. Elbryan studied his diminutive friend closely then, seeking unspoken signals that would clue him in to the importance of it all. He knew Juraviel well, and had a feeling that many things were not as set in stone as the elf had indicated.
“You two are formally betrothed?” Juraviel asked suddenly, catching Elbryan off his guard.
Pony and Elbryan looked to each other. “In our hearts,” the ranger explained.
“There has not been time nor opportunity,” Pony said, and then with a great sigh she added, “We should have asked Avelyn to perform the ceremony. Could any have been more fitting to such a task than he?”
“If you are married in your hearts, then married you are,” Juraviel decided. “But there should be a ceremony, a formal declaration made openly, to friend and to kin. It is more than a legality, and more than a celebration. It is a declaration, openly made, of fidelity and undying love, a proclamation to all the world that there is something higher than this corporeal form, and a love deeper than simple lust.”
“Someday,” Elbryan promised, staring at Pony, the only woman he believed he could ever love, and understanding every word Juraviel had just said.
“Two ceremonies!” Juraviel decided. “One for your human companions, one for the Touel’alfar.”
“Why would the Touel’alfar care?” Elbryan said, a hint of anger in his tone, which surprised both his companions.
“Why would we not?” Juraviel replied.
“Because the Touel’alfar care only for the affairs of the Touel’alfar,” Elbryan reasoned.
Juraviel started to protest, but saw where the trap was leading and only laughed instead.
“You do care,” Elbryan said.
“Of course,” Juraviel admitted. “And glad I am, and glad are all the elven folk of Caer’alfar, that Elbryan and Jilseponie survived the quest to Aida and have found each other. To us, your love is a shining light in a dark world.”
“That is how I knew,” Elbryan said.
“Knew what?” Juraviel and Pony asked together.
“That I . . . we,” he corrected, indicating Pony, “are not n’Touel’alfar. Not in the eyes of Belli’mar Juraviel.”
The elf gave a great, exaggerated sigh. “I admit it,” he said. “I surrender.”
“And that is how I know the other thing, as well,” Elbryan said, grinning from ear to ear.
“And what is that?” Juraviel asked, his tone one of feigned disinterest. “What else does the wise Nightbird know?”
“That Belli’mar Juraviel intends to accompany us to the south and east,” Elbryan replied.
That widened Juraviel’s eyes. “I had not considered that!”
“Then do,” Elbryan instructed, “because we, all three, leave at first light.” He rolled back from the fire then, nestling into his bedroll. “Time for us to sleep,” he said to Pony. “And time for our friend to go back to his valley, that he might tell his Lady Dasslerond that he will be away for a while.”
Pony, weary from the road and the wine, and content with the meal, was more than happy to fall back into her blankets.
Juraviel said not a word and did not move for some time. Before him, both Elbryan and Pony were soon breathing in the rhythms of a deep and contented sleep, and behind him, Symphony nickered softly in the quiet night. Then the elf was gone, slipping away silently into the darkness, running with his thoughts and running to his lady.
Quiet though he was, his departure woke Pony, whose sleep had become filled with troubling dreams. She felt the weight of Elbryan’s strong arm about her, felt the warmth of his body curled against her. All the world should have been warm and happy for her in that embrace.
But it was not.
She lay awake for a long while, and then Elbryan, too, as if sensing her anxiety, awoke.
“What troubles you?” he asked softly, nuzzling closer and kissing the nape of her neck.
Pony stiffened, and the ranger felt it. He pulled away and sat up, and she could see his dark silhouette against the starry sky. “I was only trying to be comforting,” he apologized.
“I know,” she replied.
“Then why are you angry?” he asked.
Pony considered that for a long while. “I am not angry,” she decided. “I am only frightened.”
Now it was the ranger’s turn to pause and reflect. He lay back down beside Pony, shifting to his back and looking up at the stars. He had never known Pony to be frightened—not since the day their homes were sacked, at least—and he was certain now that her fears were not based on any powries or giants, or even the demon dactyl. He considered her tenseness when he had touched her. She was not angry with him, he knew, but . . .
“You were quiet when Juraviel spoke of marriage,” he said.
“There was little you had not already said,” Pony replied, rolling over to face Elbryan. “We share hearts, and are of like mind.”
“But?”
Her face clouded over.
“You are afraid of becoming with child,” Elbryan reasoned, and Pony’s expression shifted to one of wonderment.
“How did you know?”
“You just said that we were of like hearts,” the ranger replied with a slight chuckle.
Pony sighed and draped her arm across Elbryan’s chest, kissing him softly on the cheek. “When we are together, I feel like all the world is wonderful,” she said. “I forget the loss at Dundalis, the loss of Avelyn and Bradwarden, of Tuntun. The world does not seem so terrible and dark, and all the monsters run away.”
“But if you were to become with child now, out here,” Elbryan said, “then those monsters would become all too real again.”
“We have a duty,” Pony explained. “With the gift the Touel’alfar gave to you, and the one Avelyn gave to me, we must be more to the folk than observers. How could I fight on if I become pregnant? And what life would our child know in these times?”
“How could I fight on if you could not remain beside me?” Elbryan asked, running his fingertips across her face.
“I do not wish to refuse you,” Pony said. “Ever.”
“Then I shan’t ask,” Elbryan replied sincerely. “But you told me that there were times each month when it was not likely that we would conceive a child.”
“Not likely?” Pony echoed skeptically. “What chance is acceptable?”
Elbryan thought on that for just a moment. “None,” he decided. “The stakes are too high, the cost too great. We will make a pact, here and now. Let us finish this business at hand, and when the world is put aright, we will turn our attention to our own needs and our own family.”
He said it with such simplicity, and such optimism that this pact would be a temporary thing, that the world would indeed be put aright, that a smile found its way across Pony’s troubled face. She snuggled closer then, wrapping herself around Elbryan, knowing in her heart that he would be true to his pact and that their lovemaking would wait until the time was right.
Both of them slept soundly the rest of the night.
Juraviel was back at the small camp when Pony awoke, to find their belongings already packed and in place atop Symphony. The sun was up, though still low in the eastern sky.
“We should already be on the road,” a sleepy-eyed Pony said through a yawn and a stretch.
“I gave you this one night of sleep,” Juraviel replied, “for I doubt you’ll find another anytime soon.”
Pony looked to Elbryan, still sleeping contentedly. Long and restful sleep, like other pleasures, would be a rarity now.
But only for a short while, she reminded herself determinedly.
CHAPTER 5
To Seek the Truth
The mountainous ring surrounding the Barbacan was fully twelve hundred miles from the stone walls of St.-Mere-Abelle, and that as a bird might fly. By road, in those places where a traveler would be fortunate enough to even find a road, the distance was much closer to two thousand miles, a trek that would have taken a conventional caravan twelve weeks to traverse—and that, only if the caravan ran into no unforeseen problems and did not stop a single day for any respite. In truth, any merchant planning such a journey would allow for three months of travel, and would have carried enough gold to replace his horse team several times. And in truth, in these dangerous times, with goblin and powrie forces running wild even along the normally tame areas of Honce-the-Bear, no merchant; not even the soldiers of the famous elite Allheart Brigade, would have made the attempt.
But the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle were not merchants or soldiers, and were possessed of magics that could cut tremendous amounts of time from their journey and keep them well-hidden from the eyes of potential enemies. And if it so happened they were discovered by goblins or other monsters, those magics would make them a formidable force indeed. The planning for such a journey from the abbey had already been done, centuries before. The monks of St.-Mere-Abelle were the original cartographers of Honce-the-Bear, and even of the Timberlands, northern Behren, southern Alpinador, and a good deal of the western reaches of the Wilderlands, as well. In those long past times, journey logs had been turned into travel guides, detailing supplies needed, magic stones recommended, and fastest routes. Those guides, in turn, were updated on a regular basis, and so Brother Francis’ biggest task that day after the repulsion of the powrie attack was to find the proper guide tomes, and convert the recommended supply figures to accommodate a party of twenty-five, the number of brothers that Father Abbot Markwart had determined would make the journey.
After vespers on only the second day, Brother Francis reported to the Father Abbot and the masters that the lists were complete and the route confirmed. All that needed to be done was rounding up the supplies—a task that Francis assured the Father Abbot could be done in a matter of two hours—and the naming of the journeying monks.
“I will lead the team personally,” the Father Abbot informed them, drawing gasps from Francis and all the masters, except for Master Jojonah, who had suspected that all along. Markwart was obsessed, Jojonah understood, and in such a state, his decision-making was greatly flawed.
“But Father Abbot,” one of the other masters argued, “this is unprecedented. You are the leader of St.-Mere-Abelle and all of the Abellican Church. To risk your safety on such a perilous trek—”
“We would risk less by sending the King himself!” another master protested.
Father Abbot Markwart held up his hand, silencing the men. “I have thought this through,” he replied. “It is fitting that I go—the greatest power of good sent to do battle with the greatest power of evil.”
“But surely not in your own body,” offered Master Jojonah, who had also done quite a bit of thinking on this very subject. “Might I suggest Brother Francis as a suitable vessel for your inquiries as to the progress of the troupe?”
Markwart looked long and hard at Jojonah, the Father Abbot obviously caught off his guard by the perfectly reasonable suggestion. With a telepathic connection between the two bodies, facilitated by a soul stone, physical distance would mean little. Father Abbot Markwart could make the trip, or could check in on its progress personally—in spirit—without ever leaving the comfort of the abbey.
“You would be honored at such a position, would you not, Brother Francis?” Master Jojonah went on.
Brother Francis’ eyes shot daggers at the sly master. Of course he would not be “honored” by such a position, something that he, and Jojonah, understood well. Possession was a horrible thing indeed, and nothing to ever be desired. Even worse, Francis knew that serving as a mere vessel for Markwart would reduce his role significantly, should he be chosen to go along on the journey. How could he be placed in any position of leadership, after all, if there was the possibility that he would not even be there, if his spirit and will were thrown out into empty limbo while Markwart used his body?
Brother Francis looked from Master Jojonah to the Father Abbot, to the other seven masters in attendance, all of them eyeing him expectantly. How could he refuse such a proposal? His angry gaze fell back over Jojonah, the younger monk staring unblinkingly at the master even as he mouthed, through gritted teeth, “Of course it would be the highest honor that any brother could expect or desire.”
“Well done, then,” the victorious Jojonah said, clapping his hands. In one fell swoop he had prevented Markwart from leading the caravan and had put the too-ambitious Brother Francis in his place. It wasn’t that Jojonah wanted to protect Markwart from any perils; far from that. It was simply that he feared the mischief Markwart might cause if the journey proved successful. More than a few speculations placed Avelyn Desbris at the scene of devastation in the north, and Jojonah feared that Markwart might cover whatever truth was to be found there with calculated tales that fell more in line with his hatred of Avelyn. If Markwart was in control of the caravan that reached the Barbacan, then Markwart would determine what had happened there.
“I do fear, though, that my work will have then been wasted,” Brother Francis added suddenly, even as Father Abbot Markwart started to speak.
All eyes turned to the young brother.
“I have planned the trip,” Francis explained—improvising, Jojonah and several others realized. “I am familiar with the course we must take and the amounts of supplies that should be remaining at each stop. Also, I am well-versed and, by all accounts, proficient with the stones, a necessary ingredient if we are to meet the timetable of three weeks offered in the guide tomes.”
“Twelve days,” Father Abbot Markwart said, drawing looks from all, and a gasp of disbelief from Brother Francis. “Our timetable will be twelve days?” the Father Abbot clarified.
“But . . .” Brother Francis started to respond, but if the old man’s tone left little room for debate, his glare left none, and the young monk wisely fell silent.
“And Master Jojonah is correct, and his suggestion is accepted as the wiser course,” Markwart went on. “Thus I will not go, but will look in on the expedition on a regular basis, through the willing eyes of Brother Francis.”
Jojonah was pleased by that announcement; he had feared that stubborn Markwart would hold out longer. He wasn’t surprised that his recommendation of Francis as the vessel had been accepted, though. The ambitious brother was one of the few in St.-Mere-Abelle trusted by the old Father Abbot, who had grown increasingly paranoid ever since Avelyn Desbris absconded with the gemstones.
“Since I will not personally, or at least not physically, lead the quest,” Markwart went on, “one of you masters must go.” His gaze drifted about the room, settling for a moment on eager De’Unnero before falling fully over Jojonah.
The portly old master returned that look with an incredulous expression. Surely Markwart would not choose him, he prayed. He was among the oldest of the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle, and was easily the least physically prepared for any long and hard road.
But Markwart did not back down from that gaze. “Master Jojonah, the senior master of St-Mere-Abelle, is the logical choice,” he said aloud. “With an immaculate to serve as his second, Brother Francis to serve as his third, and twenty-two others working the wagons and the horse teams.”
Jojonah stared long and hard at the Father Abbot as Markwart and the other masters began discussing which of the younger and stronger brothers would be best suited for the road. Jojonah offered no input into the selection process, just sat staring and thinking, and hating the man. Markwart had chosen him for no practical reason, he knew. He was being punished by the old man for his friendship and mentoring of Avelyn and for his continued arguments against so many of Markwart’s decisions on every issue, from the abbey’s role in the larger community to philosophical discussions about the true value of the gemstones and the true meaning of their faith. Markwart had voiced his displeasure with Jojonah on more than one occasion, had even once threatened a College of Abbots gathering to discuss, as he had put it, “Jojonah’s increasingly heretical way of thinking.”
Jojonah had almost hoped for that meeting, for he was convinced that many of the other abbots of the Abellican Church would see things his way. He saw the bluff for what it was, for he knew that Markwart probably feared the same judgments. Over the last few years, Markwart had purposefully lessened St.-Mere-Abelle’s contact with the other abbeys, and the last thing the old Father Abbot wanted was a showdown with the rest of the Church over philosophical matters.
Despite that, Master Jojonah had feared that Markwart would find a way to get back at him, and so, it seemed, it had come to pass. Twelve hundred miles in twelve days, with much of that time, no doubt, spent dodging disaster in the form of powries, goblins, and giants. And then the troupe would spend weeks, perhaps months, trying to decipher the riddles left behind in the inhospitable wasteland of the Barbacan, tormented by a climate, according to the tomes, where water might freeze even on a summer night, and surrounded by vast hosts of their enemies, perhaps even including the demon dactyl itself. They did not know, after all, whether the fiend had really been destroyed. It was all speculation.
Ambitious Brother Francis desperately wanted to make this journey—though with his own spirit inhabiting his own body—but for Master Jojonah, having passed the mark of his sixth decade and with no further aspirations for power or for glory, and certainly not for adventure, this was indeed a punishment, and quite possibly a death sentence.
There would be no debate, however. The twenty-two were selected quickly, based on their strengths both magical and physical. Most were fifth- or sixth-year students, men in the prime of their physical life, though a pair of immaculates, a tenth-year and a twelfth-year student, had been included.
