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

St. Rontlemore, on the other hand, had ever stayed faithful to the line of Ursal, and indeed had been built by one of the former kings who was angered by the Abbot of St. Bondabruce and the man’s overt love and loyalty to Jacintha. In the De’Unneran Heresy, Bondabruce had sided with the powers of Ursal, with De’Unnero and King Aydrian.

St. Rontlemore had been routed.

And now, with the smell of blood still lingering in the heavy air about the mother abbey, the upstart new Abbot of St. Bondabruce was trying to spread his covetous wing over St. Rontlemore!

The volume in the great hall reached new heights that day, a volume not seen since the battle in that very room. A weary Father Abbot Bruamin hadn’t even lifted the gavel, and could only shake his head, knowing that this had to play out, however it might.

“Dusibol will challenge you if all of Entel falls under his domain,” Viscenti warned Braumin and Haney at one point. “Entel is strong, very strong.”

Braumin Herde merely nodded and rubbed his weary face, with so many trials hovering about him. Given his bold moves, all controversial even among his supporters, he knew that he was not strong here, certainly not strong enough to determine the situation in Entel, which, with its proximity and strong ties to Jacintha, had always been a trouble spot for the Abellican Church.

And so the arguing continued.

“Vespers cannot be called soon enough,” Braumin lamented to Haney and Viscenti. He perked up even as he spoke, seeing the room’s outer door swinging open and a young brother rushing in, perhaps to call that very hour.

Braumin’s excitement turned to curiosity when he noted that the clearly agitated young monk was rushing his way and holding a very wet sack.

The man dared approach the Father Abbot directly, ignoring the stares of many in the room who were beginning to catch on that something must be amiss.

“From legionem in primo , Father Abbot,” the young brother explained, handing him the sack, along with a rolled parchment. “It was brought in by a peasant rider. The man was nearly dead from starvation, as was his horse, for he had not stopped for many hours.”

Braumin stared at him, unsure of what to make of the curious turn of the phrase describing the band sent to St. Gwendolyn, a playful name that had been no more than a private joke among Braumin’s inner circle, Brother Thaddius, and the three sisters who had gone off to St. Gwendolyn-by-the-Sea.

Braumin unrolled the parchment, his eyes widening with every word.

“Brothers,” he cried, rising from his seat. “Brothers! Sisters!”

Now he did reach for the gavel, but he didn’t need it, for his tone had demanded and received the attention of all.

“What news, Father Abbot?” Abbot Dusibol called — for no better reason than to inject himself into what seemed an important moment, Braumin recognized.

Braumin could hardly read, for his hands began to tremble, and as he digested the text scrawled before him, he realized that he might have erred in calling attention to it before he fully understood its contents.

He looked up, the blood drained from his face, and he knew it was too late.

“Our dear sisters and brother bound for St. Gwendolyn were waylaid on the road by bloody cap dwarves,” he stated.

A collective gasp was followed by more than a little grumbling and smug proclamations of some variation of “I told you so.”

Father Abbot Braumin handed the parchment to Viscenti and grabbed up the sack, pulling it open.

His eyes lit up as he stared into the bag. He looked up at the crowd, leaning forward as one in anticipation.

With a knowing smile — knowing that Pagonel’s band had, for the second time, bolstered his position, Father Abbot Braumin reached into the sack, and very deliberately began removing the contents.

One powrie beret at a time.

The cheers grew and grew and grew.

Father Abbot Braumin knew then that he would indeed have a great voice over the events in Entel.

“There they are,” Sister Diamanda announced. She lay atop a bluff, under drooping pines with branches pulled down by heavy, melting snow. Down the slope before her sat a collection of farmhouses, and in the lane between them stood a man in Abellican robes.

Elysant, Victoria, and Brother Thaddius crawled up beside her. They had been hunting for these monks since their encounter with the powries several days earlier — the powries had hinted pretty clearly that they were in contact with some monks, after all.

“They deal with powries,” Diamanda went on. “They must be De’Unnerans.”

“We do not know that,” Thaddius replied, rather sharply. He stared down at the houses and the brother in the square. A second brother joined the man, and Thaddius’s eyes flashed with recognition. He knew this man, Glorious, and knew, too, that Diamanda’s claims of allegiance were quite true.

“Are you ready for a fight, sister?” Diamanda asked Elysant, who smiled and nodded.

“She was ready before Thaddius used his soul stone on her wounds after the battle,” Victoria put in.

“Truly,” Diamanda agreed, tapping Elysant’s forearm. “I cannot believe how powerfully you shook off the pain and continued the fight.”

Elysant shrugged.

“The dolostones,” Diamanda said with a shrug, indicating the stone set bracer Elysant wore.

Elysant shrugged and smiled. “I will thank the Father Abbot when we return,” she said, and meant it.

“It was not the bracer,” Thaddius remarked as he moved around Elysant. “It was you.”

Surprised the apparent compliment, all three women turned back to regard Thaddius, who was moving around Victoria then, at the end of the line.

“I know these brothers,” he explained, continuing off to the side, down the side slope of the bluff, and motioning for the women to stay put. “I will determine their purpose and intent.”

“If they are De’Unnerans, they will kill you,” Diamanda warned.

Thaddius stopped, not because she had given him pause or reason for concern, but because of the simple unintentional irony in the naive woman’s remark. They were De’Unnerans — at least, Glorious was — and as far as Glorious knew, so was Thaddius.

And Thaddius still wasn’t sure that Glorious was incorrect.

“If they seek to attack me, I know you will be there,” Thaddius said to keep the three in place. “Be ready, I beg.”

Once he was away from the women, Thaddius stood up and brushed off his brown robes as thoroughly as he could. He rubbed his face, too, but out of concern and confusion. More than once, he looked back up the bluff, where lay these three women who had fought the powries beside him. He thought of the demands of Elysant and Diamanda that Victoria run off, for she could outdistance the dwarves, no doubt, and the Church needed to know.

Above all else, the Church needed to know.

But Victoria would not run away, because she would not admit defeat, no matter the price. Above all else for her, loyalty.

Brother Thaddius stared long and hard at the top of the bluff, unable to see the women, but knowing they were there. He couldn’t reconcile their admission to the Church, particularly Elysant who had no affinity with the sacred Ring Stones.

And yet, there was so much about them brother Thaddius could not deny…

The young monk bolstered himself and started toward the houses, erasing all fear from his face determinedly.

The two monks turned sharply on him when he crossed into the lane, making no attempt to hide himself, both assuming fighting stances.

From a porch to the side, a third monk leveled a crossbow his way.

“Brother Glorious!” Thaddius called excitedly. “After all that has happened, it is good to see you alive!”