R. Salvatore - The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars

And therein lies my madness, my confusion, and my pain. The measure of holiness rests in affinity to the gemstones — of this, I am sure. I have been ordained as an Abellican monk for only two years, but before that, I trained in the nunneries, or more precisely, I was tested there, repeatedly. I did not understand my training at that time, for I was not allowed to handle the sacred Ring Stones, of course. None of us were. But the stones were being handled, quietly, all about us, as those who would decide which lucky few could enter the class of God’s’Year 845 at St.-Mere-Abelle determined which held affinity to the stones .

Not everyone can use them. Fewer still can use them well. I am one of those few; there is no doubt in the mind of the Masters and Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy as to my proficiency. I am the youngest student ever to be allowed to light the diamond sconces of many of the lower halls of St.-Mere-Abelle, and I can do so with the intensity one would normally see from a Tenth-Year Immaculate, or a Master, even!

Brother Avelyn was blessed in the stones, and was declared a heretic and murderer, and hunted by the Church .

The new powers of St.-Mere-Abelle have reversed that edict wholeheartedly, and there are whispers that Brother Avelyn will soon be beatified, and almost certainly sainted soon after that .

Brother De’Unnero, now approaches to battle this reversal, to battle the brothers who have declared this intent, and yet, Marcalo De’Unnero, too, is possessed of great affinity with the sacred stones. None have ever called upon the tiger’s paw more powerfully than he! Nor were any of recent memory as dedicated in the physical training — is there anyone in the world who can defeat the man in martial combat? — though that means little to me. The physical training is a distraction. The Ring Stones are the power of God, and holding that, who needs to throw a punch? Still, though, Brother De’Unnero’s willingness and expertise in the training surely speaks to loyalty .

And yet, here we are, a Church torn against itself, with the sacred Ring Stones surely to be used by both sides in the coming conflagration .

This is madness!

For only godly men can use the stones, and proficiency should be the highest test of worth! Are they, or are they not, the direct gifts from God?

So many seek to obfuscate that question, it seems, to weave in shades of gray about that which is black or white. And always, they do it for their own convenience and personal gain!

Human failing has no place before Godly magic .

I must fight in the next few days for St.-Mere-Abelle, for the Church, which I hold above all else. But is that the Church of Fio Bou-raiy or the Church of Marcalo De’Unnero? Is that the Church which is generous with the sacred stones and their powers, granting them to all in need, based on sophistry, even, on justifications other than the word of God? Or is it the Church, as Brother De’Unnero has always claimed, which holds the gemstones close, which bestows the power upon the deserving alone and which teaches the undeserving the error of their ways through lack of mercy?

Is not such a lack of mercy truly merciful if the result is to enlighten the undeserving?

And that is my madness, roiling within me these last years and now forced to the head by the storm that approaches. I serve the Abellican Church and so I must fight for St.-Mere-Abelle, but I see the truth of Brother De’Unnero’s vision, and wish my current brethren, Father Abbot Bou-raiy, Bishop Braumin, Master Viscenti and all the rest, would see the error of their ways, would see that their generous and liberal sharing of that which is sacred diminishes the value of the Church itself, diminishes the mystery of God, and diminishes the glory of those of us who, through God’s good grace, understand the power of the stones and can channel it through our imperfect mortal coils .

Oh, but how I wish that diplomacy would win the day and that brother De’Unnero would return to his rightful place as a Master of St.-Mere-Abelle! A Master and soon enough to be elected as Father Abbot, for that is a vote that I would surely cast!

By the Pen of Brother Thaddius Roncourt

This troubled midsummer day, God’s Year 847

The great hall of St.-Mere-Abelle had remained untouched in the hours since the battle. Even the bodies remained, exactly where they fell. Braumin Herde and the other masters had ordered this — they wanted every monk at the monastery to see the harsh reality of this most awful day.

Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy lay crumpled on the floor just before the throne, a hole blown through his head. The result of a hurtling lodestone, certainly, and the reality of a gem propelled so powerfully by someone considered an enemy of the Church stung Brother Thaddius profoundly, a poignant reminder to him of the madness.

Before the throne, the gigantic circular stained-glass window was no more than twisted metal and shattered shards. A dragon had flown through that window, so the story went.

A dragon! Never in his life had Brother Thaddius expected to see such a beast, never had he even believed that such beasts existed.

Most of the other brothers who were now filtering through the great hall on their way to the front doors of the monastery focused on that window, of course. It was a recent construction, a beautiful depiction of the petrified arm of Brother Avelyn, standing defiantly in the midst of the carnage of the Barbican volcanic explosion. Now it was gone, so suddenly, so violently, so…amazingly.

For one of the other brothers, however, the window seemed to hold little interest. Brother Thaddius smiled as he watched the stocky monk, a bruiser named Mars, standing before the sweeping stairway that led up to the balcony encircling the room. On those stairs lay two bodies: a woman Thaddius did not know and Marcalo De’Unnero.

Thaddius moved over to stand beside Brother Mars, measuring the intensity on the monk’s face. Thaddius knew him well, for though Mars was several years older than Thaddius, they had come into the mother abbey in the same month, Thaddius as a newly-ordained monk and Mars transferring in from St. Gwendolyn. Because of that circumstance, Mars had made more acquaintances among Thaddius’s peers than among those of his age.

It hadn’t taken Brother Thaddius long to figure out that he didn’t much like the man. For Mars was everything Thaddius was not. He was handsome and powerful, as solid as stone and as good a fighter as any brother of the class.

But he could barely light an oil-soaked rag with a ruby, and anyone needing magical healing from Brother Mars’s soul stone would surely perish. By Thaddius’s estimation, brothers like Mars were the reason the Abellican Church was in such disarray and dire straights. The man was not worthy to be a brother.

A situation that might soon be remedied, Thaddius understood as he noted the moisture gather in Brother Mars’s eyes as he stared at the face-down body of Marcalo De’Unnero.

“They know the truth of your loyalties,” Thaddius remarked quietly, and Brother Mars turned to him with a start.

“I…of what do you speak, brother?” the man replied.

“Your loyalty to De’Unnero. To the heretic. It is obvious. It has been obvious for a long while. The masters know, and so does everyone in the room who sees you now, your hero dead before you.”

“You presume much, brother,” Mars answered.

“I think not,” Thaddius was quick to reply. “There were many here at St.-Mere-Abelle, serving under Father Abbot Bou-raiy who were intrigued with the vision of Marcalo De’Unnero. I can name myself among those. It is no secret, nor does it need to be, for we brothers are expected to question and explore. But some, it would clearly seem, moved beyond simple intrigue. Some brothers here were loyal not to the Father Abbot, but to the man they thought should hold the title. This man, De’Unnero.”