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

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.

Braumin looked to Pagonel. “A more difficult target,” he explained, and the mystic nodded.

“But I cannot call forth the power of the sacred stones,” a confused Elysant remarked.

“You need not with such an item,” the Father Abbot explained. “Which is why the Church frowned upon creating them for those not of the Order. And this,” he said, bending low and retrieving one last item from the sack, which was not empty after all, “is among the most precious ever made in this abbey.”

He brought forth a small coffer, and opened it reverently before the woman, who gasped, as did the others. For within the coffer on black silk sat a leather bracer, set with a large and beautiful dolomite, and surrounded by five others.

“It was made for a queen in the fifth century, because she was beloved and ever sickly. But alas, she died before it was finished, and so it has remained, locked away, in the lower chambers of St.-Mere-Abelle these four hundred years.”

He glanced again at the mystic. “Pagonel feared that for all of your hard work, he simply did not have enough time to properly toughen you against the blows you will surely face.”

He picked up the bracer and dropped the coffer, then took Elysant’s right arm and tied the item about her wrist.

The small woman’s jaw dropped open. She felt the magic, apparently, and to the others, she seemed sturdier somehow.

“Saint Belfour had such sacred dolomite sewn into his robes,” he explained.

“It is a precious gift,” Sister Elysant said, her voice barely a whisper, so overwhelmed was she. “I cannot…”

“Keep it well,” said Braumin. He hugged her tightly, then stepped back. “All of you,” he said. “These gifts I entrust to you. Let them remind you of the importance of this journey you are soon to take. I do not give them lightly!”

The three women nodded solemnly, and Braumin knew that they understood the weight of the responsibility he had put upon tem, and the trust he had shown in them.

He was taking a great chance here, he knew. If this group, this legionem in primo , was waylaid and defeated on the road, then his doubters and enemies in the Church would be bolstered greatly, and so his hopes for Reformation could fast dissipate.

But he believed in Pagonel.

And, he knew in looking at these disciples of the saints, he believed in these extraordinary young sisters.

The meetings the next day between the members of the Church leadership had begun quietly, but as those who opposed Father Abbot Braumin came to believe that they were under no threat of retribution, the discussions became more and more contentious.

Braumin listened more than he spoke, and realized as the arguments raged that his proposed changes would only hold if they brought very positive results in short order.

He nodded through every point raised by those supporting him, and opposing him. He was no dictator here, and given the disruption to every abbey and chapel, now was the time for the brothers to air their every concern and let their opinions be known.

In the back of his mind, through every shout and growling response, Father Abbot Braumin reminded himself that the pile of red chips, for a man who had not even attained the rank of Abbot, was substantial, and that he was the Father Abbot of all the Abellican Church, not just those who had supported his ascension.

He grew concerned, however, when he looked over at Master Arri and Sister Mary Ann. He had thought to take care of that messy business initially, before the two sides had dug in their respective heels, but then had reconsidered. He glanced over at Arri then, and offered a reassuring nod, for he understood that now the animosity was palpable, and that many of his allies would support him regarding the two monks from St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea even if they disagreed.

“My brethren,” Braumin called, and he banged the heavy gavel down upon the wood, demanding the attention of all. When the room quieted, he continued, “Particularly since we are considering the matter of so many sisters entering the Order, perhaps we should now discuss the disposition of the one abbey where such was not uncommon. To begin the matter, and since St. Gwendolyn is emptied of her brothers and sisters, I nominate Master Arri to the rank of Abbot.”

“Perhaps we should adjudicate the matter of Sister Mary Ann first,” Dusibol remarked — Abbot Dusibol, who had been promoted that very morning.

“Arri is the obvious choice,” Braumin countered. “He has never held any mark against him, is well known among the supporters of Avelyn, and would seem to be the only remaining Master, if not the only remaining monk, other than Sister Mary Ann, of the abbey! Do you intend to oppose the nomination, Abbot?”