The Demon Awakens (36 page)

The monk snarled in defiance and kicked at the heavy door. It jolted but did not open. He kicked again and again, repeatedly slamming the lock, until finally, the wood of the jamb gave way, the door flying wide to reveal a portly man, richly dressed, standing behind a large oaken desk, a loaded crossbow in hand.

“You have one shot,” Brother Justice said evenly, striding directly into the room, his eyes locked on those of the merchant. “One shot, and if it does not kill me, I will torture you to a slow death.”

The man’s hands trembled; Brother Justice knew that without even looking at them. He saw the merchant flinch as a line of sweat rolled from his brow into one eye, saw the man chewing his lip.

“Not another step!” the merchant said with all the courage he could muster. Brother Justice stopped and smiled wickedly. “Can you kill me?” he asked. “Is this the end you desire?”

“I desire only to defend what is mine,” the merchant replied.

“I am no enemy.”

The merchant stared at him incredulously.

“I had thought you to be another,” Brother Justice said calmly, turning his back on the merchant to close the door as tightly as the shattered jamb would allow. He sneered at the curious servants gathering in the hall to keep them at bay. “I am hunting a dangerous fugitive, one who employs the magic of the stones,” he explained, turning back to the merchant, a disarming look on his face. “I had not thought that any but he would be so powerful with the magic.” Brother Justice did well to hide his wicked grin as the crossbow slipped down.

“I am always ready to lend aid to those of St. Precious,” the merchant declared.

Brother Justice shook his head. “St.-Mere-Abelle,” he corrected. “I have traveled the breadth of Honce-the-Bear in my most vital quest. I had thought it to be at its end. Forgive my entrance; my Father Abbot will reimburse you for all the cost.”

The merchant waved his hand, his face brightening at the mention of the man. “How fares old Markwart?” he asked, his tone one of familiarity.

Again the monk restrained his feeling of outrage that this man—this simple, pitiful, wretched merchant—could speak of Father Abbot Markwart as if he were the man’s equal. Obviously he had dealt with Markwart—where else would he have garnered so powerful a stone?—but Brother Justice understood the relationship between the merchants and the abbey far more clearly than did the merchants. Father Abbot Markwart was always willing to take their money, but never in exchange for honest respect.

“Perhaps, then, I can help you with your quest,” the merchant offered. “Ah, but where are my manners? I am Folo Dosindien, Dosey to my friends, to your Father Abbot! You must be hungry or perhaps in need of a drink.” He lifted his hand and started to call out, but Brother Justice cut him short.

“I require nothing,” he assured the merchant.

“Nothing but help in your search, perhaps,” the man said teasingly.

The monk tilted his head, somewhat intrigued. The man had at least one powerful stone—he knew that and suspected it to be hematite. Many things could be accomplished with such a stone.

“I seek a fellow monk,” Brother Justice explained. “He is known as the mad friar.”

The merchant shrugged; the name obviously meant nothing to him. “He is in Palmaris?”

“He came through, at least,” the monk explained, “not more than two weeks previous.”

The merchant sat down behind his desk, his features tightening with concentration. “If he travels, if he is an outlaw, then likely he would have sought out the lowlier regions of the southern docks,” he reasoned. He looked up at the monk, his expression resigned. “Palmaris is a large place.”

Brother Justice did not blink.

“I have offered my name,” the man prompted.

“I have no name to offer,” replied Brother Justice, and the tension grew once more, instantly emanating from the monk’s cold stare.

Dosey cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I wish that I had more answers to give to one of Markwart’s underlings.”

Brother Justice narrowed his eyes, not appreciating the sentiment, the way the foolish merchant tried to dominate him by referring to his superior in such familiar terms.

“But there is a place,” the merchant whispered, coming forward suddenly in his chair, “where one might get answers. Answers to any question in all the world.”

Brother Justice had no idea where this conversation was going, had no idea what to make of the man’s sudden, almost maniacal expression.

“But not until we have dined,” Dosey said, falling back in his chair. “Come, then, I will set for you a table unrivaled in Palmaris, that you might return to St.-Mere-Abelle with kind words for Markwart’s dear old merchant friend.”

Brother Justice played along, and, indeed, the merchant Dosey was not exaggerating. His servants—the man Brother Justice had dropped to the foyer floor and three women, one undeniably beautiful—brought in course after course of the finest cuts of meat and the sweetest fruits. Juicy lamb and thick cuts of venison buried in brown sauces and mushrooms, oranges that exploded in a shower of juice as soon as the integrity of their peels was breached, and large, round, yellow melons that the monk had never before seen but that were sweeter than anything he had ever tasted.

He ate and he drank, neither to excess, and when the meal was over, some two hours later, he again sat quietly and let the merchant guide the conversation.

The man rambled on and on, telling mostly stories of his dealings with the various monasteries of Honce-the-Bear, even with St. Brugalnard in faraway Alpinador. Brother Justice knew that he was supposed to be impressed, and he worked hard to pretend that he was as the minutes dragged on into yet another hour. Dosey interrupted his tales only for an occasional belch; so lost was he in his own sense of importance that he hardly bothered to gauge the monk’s reaction. Brother Justice figured that the man was accustomed to dealing with people in need of or with great desire for his wealth, and, thus, he could ramble on and on to an attentive, though captive, audience. Such were the trappings of power that Dosey did not realize what an ultimate bore and ridiculous buffoon he truly was.

But Brother Justice needed the merchant, as well, or at least it seemed plausible that the man might aid the monk in his all-important quest. That alone held the monk at the table long after the sun had set.

Finally, so suddenly that the surprise shook the monk from his almost dreamlike state of boredom, Dosey announced that it was time to get some answers and that these things were better done in the dark.

The mysterious tone of his voice set the monk on his guard, though, in truth, Brother Justice really didn’t expect much from the merchant. Perhaps the fool Dosey would use his hematite to invade the bodies of several innkeepers from the lowlier sections of the city, using their forms to inquire about the mad friar.

The pair went back to Dosey’s study, to the great oaken desk. Dosey had his manservant retrieve a second chair, placing it at the desk’s side, and then he bade the monk to sit and relax.

“I could go,” the merchant offered, and then he shook his head, as if not liking that notion, almost as if he were afraid of that thought.

Brother Justice made no move at all to reply, no verbal or body language to let the man know that he was even the least bit intrigued.

“But perhaps you should see for yourself,” the merchant went on, a wry smile on his face as he spoke. “Would you like to go?” he asked.

“Go?”

“For your answers.”

“I know not of this place of which you speak,” Brother Justice admitted. “You have a stone, that much I know.”

“Oh, much more than a simple stone,” Dosey teased. He reached under the lapel of his fine gray jacket and produced a pin, a large broach, and held it out for Brother Justice to see. Now the monk could not fully hide his interest. The central stone of the broach was a hematite, as he had suspected, an oval of liquid gray, deep and smooth. Encircling it, set in the yellow gold, were a series of small, clear, round crystals. Brother Justice did not immediately recognize them, for they might have been several different types, but he sensed that they were indeed magical, in some way tied to the powers of the hematite.

“My own design,” Dosey bragged. “The fun of the stones is in combining their powers, is it not?”

The fun, Brother Justice silently echoed, hating this man and the irreverence with which he spoke of something so sacred. “This broach presents a combination not known to me,” the monk admitted.

“Simple clear-crystal quartz,” Dosey explained, running his finger about the large broach’s edge. “For distant sight.”

A stone of divining, Brother Justice then realized, and he was beginning to catch on. With the clear quartz, a man could send his vision across the miles; perhaps combining that with the spirit-walking of the hematite . . .

“With this, you can go to a place to find your answers,” Dosey promised, “a place that only I know of. The home of a friend, a powerful friend indeed, one that would impress your Markwart, to be sure!”

Brother Justice hardly noted the familiar reference to the Father Abbot this time, so caught up was he in the implications. His intrigue was fast shifting to trepidation now, as he got the distinct feeling that he had stumbled on to something potentially dangerous. He recalled Dosey’s fearful expression when he hinted that he would make the journey, a mixture, it seemed, of the sheerest horror and the highest titillation. What manner of being could so inspire such a reaction? What, then, lay at the end of this spirit-journey?

A shudder coursed up the monk’s spine. Perhaps the monastery should reconsider its practice of selling stones to fools like Dosey.

The thought flew away in an instant, for this monk, this Brother Justice, had been trained to be unable to hold long to any ill feelings, any questions at all, concerning the decisions of his superiors.

“Go,” Dosey bade him, handing over the broach. “Let the stone guide you. It knows the way.”

“Am I to possess the body of another?”

“The stone knows the way.” It was spoken simply, calmly, and, somehow wickedly. That part of Brother Justice, that small flicker of memory that recalled his life as Quintall, recognized Dosey’s expression as that of an older boy pressing a youngster to mischief.

He took the broach, felt its power in his hand, eyeing Dosey cautiously all the while. His physical body would be vulnerable while spirit-walking, he knew, but he doubted that Dosey would strike against one of Markwart’s emissaries. Even if he did attack, Brother Justice, already using the hematite, figured that he would have little trouble possessing the merchant’s body. And Dosey likely knew the same thing, and that understanding, the monk decided, would give him the insurance he needed.

So Brother Justice sat back in the chair, closed his eyes, and let the magic of the broach engulf him. He visualized the hematite as a dark liquid pool and he waded in slowly, letting the physical world dissipate into gray nothingness. Then his body and spirit were apart, two separate entities. The monk looked about the room from this new perspective, but his eyes could not remain fixed on anything but the clear stones surrounding that hematite. They pulled at him as forcefully as anything he had ever felt, a compulsion too great to ignore. Doubts about the wisdom of his choice, about the wisdom of selling such powerful stones to fools, flapped up about him, flashes of dark wings that beat at the will of the powerful monk.

He was sinking, ever sinking, into that crystal glare, away from the room, away from his corporeal body and the fool Dosey.

And then he was flying, faster than thought, across the miles. Time and distance warped. It seemed as if an hour went by, but then as if only a second had passed; what appeared as an infinite plain was crossed by a single step. On and on Brother Justice flew, north to the Timberlands, to the Wilderlands, across great lakes and deep forests, and then to mountains, towering peaks.

So many times he thought he would collide with jags of stone only to watch them rush under him at the last possible second. He had never imagined such an attunement of stone magic, that these crystals could be so focused in their divination. It was something dangerous and beyond his understanding—and he knew as much about the stones as any man alive, with, as far as he knew, the exceptions of only Father Abbot Markwart and Avelyn Desbris!

He crossed the range into a huge, high valley, a great plateau ringed by the towering mountains. Below him, massed like ants, were the campsites of armies. He wanted to go lower, to distinguish the individual forms, to see what force had gathered in such unbelievable numbers, but the compelling crystals would not let him out of their grasp. He flew on above the plateau to a singular, smoking mountain, its southern face tree covered, but with two black arms reaching down, reaching out to encompass the gathered armies.

Brother Justice nearly swooned, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer speed at which his spirit entered a series of connecting narrow tunnels. Every breakneck turn jolted him, though his physical form was hundreds of miles away. Every dip and sudden rise blurred his vision, scrambled his thoughts.

He came up fast on a pair of great bronze doors, inlaid with a myriad of designs and symbols. They opened but a crack, and through that tiny space flew his disembodied spirit into a huge chamber lined by stone columns that resembled gigantic sculpted warriors. He soared through their twin lines, his attention stolen as he approached the far end of the chamber, a raised dais, and a creature whose strength was beyond anything Brother Justice had ever known, whose emanations of power and of evil mocked life itself.

The flight stopped, leaving Brother Justice standing right before the dais. He considered his own form, for normally spirit-walkers were invisible. Not in here, though. The monk could see himself, as he appeared within his corporeal trappings, except that he was a singular shade of gray and translucent, so that he could look right through his form to see the gray stone beneath his feet.

But that spectacle couldn’t hold Brother Justice’s attention for any length of time, not with this huge monstrosity leering at him from on high. What monster was this? the monk wondered as he studied the reddish skin and black eyes, the bat wings, horns, and claws. What manifestation of hell had come to walk the material world? What demon?