The Demon Awakens (24 page)

Avelyn fought hard to dismiss all those ridiculous notions and doubts. Whatever logic assured him, Avelyn knew that he would not relax until he saw the dark-haired woman’s blue eyes again, eyes to which Avelyn had brought back a good measure of sparkle, at the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle.

The reception awaiting the three returned monks inside the abbey was more in tune with what they had been expecting. The chapel hall was lined with the finest baked goods from all the region—muffins and sweet rolls, cinnamon and raisin breads—all to be washed down with mead and even some of the rare and precious wine known as boggle. The choir was there, singing joyously. The Father Abbot watched from his high perch on the balcony, and all the monks of the order and all the servants of the abbey danced and sang, and laughed the whole night through.

How Avelyn wished that Dansally were there! That thought led him to wonder why she and the others of the
Windrunner
had not been invited. With the tides, the ship could not put out until after midnight, so why hadn’t the thirty, or at least the captain, been included in the much-deserved festivities?

The last bite of a cinnamon roll turned over in Avelyn’s stomach, a sinking feeling. A group of monks were walking toward him—he recognized Brother Pellimar among them—no doubt to pester him about the events on the island. Avelyn knew that he could say nothing about that time until he had reviewed his words with the Father Abbot.

And at that moment, the young monk had other things on his mind. He considered the stones Master Siherton had carried to the ship: a diamond and a smoky quartz. He knew the properties of diamonds, the creation of light, but had never used quartz. Avelyn closed his eyes, ignoring the call of his name by Pellimar, and reviewed his training.

Then it came to him in a sudden, horrifying rush. Diamonds not for light but sparkles! Quartz to create an image that was not real! The crew and captain of the
Windrunner
had been cheated! Now Avelyn knew why Adjonas was not at the gathering, and as he considered the implications, his gut churned violently.

Avelyn rushed past the approaching group, muttering something about speaking with them soon, then ran about the room, taking a mental count of those in attendance. He noted with mounting trepidation that not all of the monks were in attendance, that one group in particular, the older students, tenth-year immaculates, those men on the verge of becoming masters, were absent.

Neither could he find Master Siherton.

Avelyn ran from the chapel, skittering down the empty halls, his footsteps echoing noisily. He didn’t know the hour but suspected that midnight was near or that it had come and gone.

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.