The Demon Apostle
Chapter 6 Sitting on the Fence

Roger Lockless thought himself foolish. He scolded himself that his judgment was distorted by desperation and loneliness. But stub-bornly he kept moving along the corridor outside Father Abbot Markwart's quarters, broom in hand, trying very hard - too hard? - to look as if he was on some cleaning duty.
He paused outside the Father Abbot's door, looking both ways along the quiet corridor, even sweeping a bit.
"An hour," he whispered to himself to bolster his confidence. The monks were gathering for vespers, and none would likely come this way for at least an hour. Roger had studied the routine carefully, night after night, for he knew that one mistake now would get him tortured to death. He thought of Elbryan and Pony and the heroic centaur he had never met, and found his resolve. With a final glance each way, he went right to the door, falling to one knee.
True to his surname, Roger had the simple lock opened in a matter of seconds. Surprised by how easy it had been to break into the quarters of the highest-ranking Abellican monk in the world, he paused, fearing suddenly that there might be some magical or mechanical trap set about the door. He gave a thorough inspection of the seams on the jamb, but found nothing; then he hesitated again, looked both ways, and took a deep breath, reminding himself that a magical trap would likely offer no physical signs.
Except for the ashes - his ashes - left behind after it was sprung.
With a growl, the stubborn young man pushed open the door.
Nothing happened, and then he was inside, falling to one knee again to relock the door. Leaning against it, catching his breath and his resolve, Roger scanned the suite. Markwart's quarters consisted of four rooms. This office, the largest, was the hub, with a door - closed - to the left, another across the room behind the great desk partly open to reveal a corner of the Father Abbot's bed. A third door, to the right, was open wide, revealing a group of four comfortable chairs set on a rug before a smoldering hearth.
Roger went through that open door first, into the study, but returned to the office in a short while, having found nothing of any importance, not a single clue concerning his missing friends. He moved into the bedroom next, and found Markwart's journal on a night table. Roger wasn't much of a reader, though a kindly woman in Caer Tinella, Mrs. Kelso, had taken him in and taught him. Markwart's writing was stylish and quite legible; Roger could understand quite a bit of the script - an amazing feat for one who had lived the life of a common peasant in Honce-the-Bear. The monks could read and write, as could the majority of the nobility, the elven- trained Nightbird, Pony, and other exceptional individuals. But less than two in thirty of those who called themselves subjects of King Danube Brock Ursal could understand simple letters.
By that standard, Roger Lockless was an amazing reader. Still, he found many words that he did not know, and sometimes he could not discern the logical connection between the sentences. A quick perusal of the journal showed him nothing of value. Self-serving philosophical musings mostly, the Father Abbot writing his thoughts about the importance of the Church above the importance of the common folk, and above the secular leaders, even the King. Roger winced at the words, recalling all too clearly the murder of one of those secular leaders, Baron Bildeborough, the man who had taken him in and joined in his cause against the Church.
Roger continued to scan the book, and though he had little luck with its finer points, he did come to believe that it had been penned by two dif-ferent men - one hand, perhaps, had done the actual writing, but a large part of it must have been dictated, Roger believed. It wasn't so much the wording of the text but rather a difference in tone.
Either two men had done the writing, or Father Abbot Markwart was a man in serious emotional turmoil!
Now Roger wondered if he might find some way to use this journal against Markwart. Perhaps he could go to the King and present this book, along with his claims that a monk, and no powrie, had murdered Abbot Dobrinion of St. Precious, and that an agent of the Church, and not a wild animal, had killed Baron Bildeborough.
He would be treated like a blithering idiot, Roger realized, even with the journal as evidence. He read again all the entries he could find about the King and recognized that the author, Father Abbot Markwart, had been quite careful not to cross over the line into treason, spouting merely about philosophical differences, but writing of no actions against the Crown. This was gossip, not evidence.
One other thing caught Roger's attention: Markwart's repeated refer-ences to a new insight, a voice inside his head, guiding his hand. The Father Abbot clearly thought himself speaking directly to God, acting as the single agent of the Supreme Being.
Roger shuddered at that thought, seeing the split personality within the writing in a new light and understanding that no man was more dangerous than one believing himself to be the agent of God.
He put the book back on the table and left the room.
Thinking to leave the office for the last and most thorough inspection, Roger went to the closed door next. His suspicions heightened when he found it secured with not one, but three separate locks. Even more intrigu-ing, the young thief found an even greater protection, a needle- and-spring trap, on two of the locks.
Roger spent a long time studying those traps, then went to work with nimble fingers and delicate picks, disabling them but in a manner that would allow him to easily rearm them upon his exit. Roger groaned as min-utes slipped by and he realized how much time he was losing at this door, but still he took the time to inspect it once more for further traps before going at the locks, popping all three open, considering again the possibility of a deadly magical trap before pushing open the heavy door.
The room was empty except for a few candlesticks, a large book lying open, and a curious design cut into the floor, but Roger's heart started beating quickly, his blood racing, his breath coming in gasps. A tangible aura, a coldness that seeped right into his spine, assailed him, a darkness of spirit, a sense of profound hopelessness. He stayed only long enough to glance at the title of the great tome,The Incantations Sorcerous, and then he left the room in a hurry, leaning again against the closed door for several long minutes while he steadied his trembling hands enough to reset the locks and traps.
All that remained was the office and the great desk, with many drawers showing, and, likely, many more concealed.
"He should be here, brother," Master Machuso, a round little man with red cheeks that seemed to envelop his tiny nose, said apologetically when he led Brother Francis into the larders only to find that the young man in question was nowhere to be seen. The master had been on his way to ves-pers when Francis had intercepted him, claiming a most urgent necessity. "Roger Billingsbury has been assigned to the larders all the week."
"Your pardon, Master Machuso," Francis said with a polite bow and smile, "but it seems that he is not here."
"Obviously!" Machuso agreed with an embarrassed burst of laughter. "Oh, I do try to keep them in line, you see," he explained, "but most of those who come here for work will not stay long. Only long enough to earn a bit for the drink or pipe weed, I'm afraid to say. All the villagers know our generous nature and know that no harm will come to them if they run off. I will even hire them back, if they come 'round in a few weeks begging again for work." The cheery master laughed again. "If men of God cannot forgive human foibles, then who can?"
Francis managed a strained smile. "Villagers, you said," he remarked. "This Roger Billingsbury is of St.-Mere-Abelle village, then? Are you familiar with his family?"
"No to the second question," replied Machuso. "And likely no to the first. I know most of the townsfolk - certainly every leading family - and know no Billingsburys. Well, none but the young Roger, of course. A fine lad. Good worker and quick with his hands - and with his wits, so they say."
"Did he claim that he was from the village?" Francis pressed.
Machuso gave a noncommittal shrug. "He might have," he replied. "In honesty, I pay little attention to such details. Many have been displaced by the war. Entire villages that once were, simply are no more. So if our young Roger claimed that he was of St.-Mere-Abelle, why would I question him?"
"You would not, of course," Brother Francis answered, bowing once more. "And I do not question your procedure, Master Machuso. If all of us at St.-Mere-Abelle could attend our duties as well as Master Golvae Machuso, then surely the Father Abbot's life would be much easier."
That brought another laugh bubbling from the jovial Machuso.
"Is there anywhere else that the young Billingsbury might have gone?" Francis asked.
Machuso's face scrunched up in thought, but he was soon shaking his head and holding his hands up helplessly. " If he has not left the abbey, then I am sure he will return to the larders," he offered. "A good worker, that young man."
Francis worked hard to hide his frustration. He hoped that Roger had not left St.-Mere-Abelle, for if his suspicions about the young hireling were correct, then Roger could help rid him of some very troubling issues. He said a quick farewell to Machuso and rushed away, back to his private quar-ters, back to the soul stone the Father Abbot had allowed him to procure from the private collection. He had to do his own searching, and fast.
The hints were sparse: a crumpled piece of paper, apparently a first draft of the edict that had condemned Master Jojonah, which spoke of some mysterious "intrusion and escape" at St.-Mere-Abelle, and another paper concerning a continuing conspiracy at the abbey. To add to Roger's frustra-tion, he had not found a single secret compartment in the great desk, though he was certain that there had to be many. Still, he had counted care-fully the minutes and knew that he was fast running out of time. He went back to the door, glanced about the room one last time to make sure that all was as he had found it, then quietly went back out into the hall.
"You should reset the lock," came a voice from the shadows, even as Roger turned to do just that.
The young man froze in place as if turned to stone. Only his eyes moved, darting to and fro, looking for some way out. Waves of panic rushed through him, and he tried to concoct some believable story. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, and straightened suddenly to face the man, broomstick in hand.
"An odd tool for the larders, Roger Billingsbury," Brother Francis said calmly.
Roger recognized from the white rope binding the dark robes that this was a higher-ranking monk, an immaculate brother, perhaps. "I was told to come up here and clean - "
"You were told to work in the larders," Brother Francis interrupted, having no time or patience for such foolishness. With his soul stone, Francis' spirit had soared about the corridors of the abbey, and chance alone had brought him to the office of his superior, only to find, to his absolute amazement, the young kitchen helper bending over the great desk.
"Ah, y-yes," Roger stuttered, "but Brother Jhimelde - "
"Enough!" Francis growled, silencing the man. "You are Roger Billingsbury?"
Roger nodded slightly as he considered his options. He might strike the monk with his broom and dart away, he thought, for though the monk was larger than he, the man did not appear strong.
"And where are you from?" Francis asked.
"St.-Mere-Abelle," Roger replied without hesitation.
"You are not from St.-Mere-Abelle," Francis stated coldly.
"The v-village, not the abbey," Roger stuttered.
"No!"
Roger stood straight and gripped the broom all the tighter. He had killed a monk before, a brother justice. It was an experience he'd hoped he would never have to repeat.
"There are no Billingsburys in St.-Mere-Abelle village," Brother Francis insisted.
"New to the region," Roger replied. "Our homes were burned - "
"And where were those homes? " Francis asked.
"A small village - "
"Where?" Francis demanded, and added in rapid succession, his voice wickedly sharp and intimidating. "What was its name? How many people lived there? What other family names?"
"To the south," Roger started, but his mind was whirling.
"You are from a village somewhere north of Palmaris," Brother Francis put in, "unless I miss my guess - and that is not likely, I assure you. I recog-nize your accent."
Roger straightened and stared hard at the man, but Francis' next words nearly knocked him over.
"You are a friend of those who knew Avelyn Desbris," the monk announced. "Perhaps a friend of the heretic yourself."
Roger's jaw hung slack.
"But no matter," Brother Francis went on. "You are a friend of the woman, Pony by name, and of her companion, the one called Nightbird."
Roger's knuckles whitened, so tight was his grip on the broom. Des-perate, he started to move to strike, but Francis came against him hard, grabbing the broom handle with one hand, slapping Roger back with the other. "Fool," the monk said, pulling the broom free with a subtle twisting maneuver. "I am not your enemy. If I were, you would be in chains already, on your knees before the Father Abbot."
"Then what?" Roger dared to ask, rubbing his sore cheek, surprised that this man, seeming so average, could have so easily disarmed and struck him.
"Come along, and quickly," Francis instructed, turning and starting away. "Vespers is at its end and you would not be wise to let the Father Abbot find you loitering here.
"What are we to do?" Brother Viscenti asked for perhaps the twentieth time, and, like all the other times before this, Brother Braumin offered no direct response.
"When will Dellman join us?" the older monk asked.
Viscenti glanced at the door of Braumin's room as if he expected Dellman to burst through it at any second. Then he twitched and turned his head quickly, eyes darting. "He will be here - he said he would," Viscenti insisted, his voice rising with his anxiety.
Braumin patted a hand in the air to try to calm the man. In truth, though, Braumin understood the gravity of their situation. Brother Francis, perhaps the closest counsel of Father Abbot Markwart, had walked right in on their meeting!
"We should go and beg the Father Abbot for forgiveness!" Viscenti said suddenly, frantically.
Braumin turned a cold stare on the nervous man, angered that Viscenti would consider such a notion. Even if he was tied to the stake, the fires burning beneath his feet, Brother Braumin Herde would not beg for Markwart's forgiveness. And how, if he truly believed in the holiness of Avelyn and Jojonah, could Viscenti say such a thing?
But Braumin calmed quickly, sympathizing with the man's fear. Viscenti was scared, and with good reason.
"Better that we admit to wrongdoing against the Abellican Church," Braumin said in as calm a tone as he could manage. "We met for prayer, nothing more. Better that we craft our story - "
He stopped as a quiet knock sounded; both men froze.
"Brother Dellman?" Braumin whispered to Viscenti.
"Or Brother Castinagis," the skinny man replied, his voice nasal even in a whisper.
Braumin moved slowly and silently to the door, putting his ear up close, trying to get some hint of who it might be.
Another knock sounded.
Braumin looked back at Viscenti; the man was nearly chewing his bottom lip off. With a helpless shrug, Braumin gingerly grasped the handle and took a deep breath, his imagination conjuring images of Father Abbot Markwart and a host of angry, armed executioners come to cart him away. Finally he mustered the nerve and opened the door a crack, and though it was not Markwart and a mob, Brother Braumin's heart sank.
"Let me in," Brother Francis said quietly.
"I am busy," Braumin replied.
Francis snorted. "And whatever you might be doing, I assure you that this takes precedence," he declared, putting a hand on the door and pushing.
Braumin braced his shoulder against the wood and held the door steady. "I assure you that we have nothing to discuss, good brother," he said. He started to close the door, but Francis stuck his foot in the opening.
"Good brother, I am terribly busy," Braumin said more insistently.
"Preparing your next meeting?" Francis asked.
"A prayer meeting, yes," Braumin replied.
"Blasphemy, you mean," Francis said sternly. "If you prefer to air this argument with me in the corridor," he went on, raising his voice, "then so be it. You are the one in need of secrecy, not I."
Braumin swung wide the door and stepped aside, and Brother Francis promptly entered the room. Braumin poked his head out into the corridor behind the man, then closed the door. He turned his attention back to the room to find Francis and Viscenti staring hard at each other. A wild look was in Viscenti's eye, the look of a timid animal caught in a corner; for a moment, Braumin thought the skinny man might pounce upon Francis. Viscenti couldn't hold the stare, though, and he turned away, hands twitch-ing at his side.
"You seem to be walking in on my every conversation," Brother Braumin said dryly, purposefully diverting Francis' attention from Viscenti. "Some-one less trusting than I might believe that you were watching me."
"Someone wiser than you would understand that you need watching," Brother Francis replied.
"And you are that wiser man? "
"I am wiser than to speak heresy in the cellars of St.-Mere-Abelle."
"Only truth," Braumin said, and his lip turned up in a snarl and he advanced a step.
"Only lies," Francis retorted, not backing away an inch.
Brother Viscenti scrambled suddenly to stand right beside Francis, very close, so that he and Braumin had the man between them, the two conspira-tors holding a threatening posture.
Still, Francis seemed totally unconcerned. "I did not come here to argue theology," he explained.
"Then why did you come here?" Braumin demanded.
"To warn you," Francis said bluntly. "I know of your group, dedicated to the memory of the heretic Jojonah and to Avelyn Desbris."
"No heretic!" Viscenti squealed.
Francis paid him no heed. "And the Father Abbot knows of you, too, and soon enough he will turn his attention to you and destroy you as he destroyed Jojonah."
"No doubt using information that Brother Francis dutifully supplied," Braumin replied.
Francis blew an exasperated sigh. "You cannot begin to understand his power," he said. "Do you really believe that Father Abbot Markwart needs anything at all from me?"
"Why are you telling us this? " Braumin asked. "Why not just accompany the Father Abbot's guards when they take me? Perhaps Markwart will allow you to add the first flaming brand to the pyre beneath my feet."
A strange expression came over Francis, one that gave Braumin pause. The man seemed wounded almost, or perplexed, a faraway look in his eyes.
After some time, Francis focused again on Brother Braumin, his look deadly serious. "The Father Abbot is closing in on you," he said earnestly. "Do not doubt this. He will prepare heresy hearings, and since none of you have attained the rank of master, they will be convened here at St.-Mere-Abelle with or without the blessings of the other abbots. You cannot hope to win."
"We are not heretics," Braumin replied through gritted teeth.
"That matters not at all," Francis replied. "The Father Abbot has all the evidence he will need against you. If he deems it necessary, he can manufac-ture any other crimes easily enough."
"Do you hear your own words?" Braumin cried. "Is there no true justice in our Order?"
Francis stared straight ahead, giving no signals.
"Then we are doomed," Brother Viscenti wailed a moment later. He looked to Braumin for comfort, for some denial, but the man had nothing to offer.
"Perhaps there is another way," Francis remarked.
Brother Braumin's face went tight. He expected Francis to advise him to openly disavow the heretics Jojonah and Avelyn, to genuflect before the all-powerful Markwart and beg forgiveness. Viscenti might choose that course, Braumin realized, as might one or two of the others.
Brother Braumin closed his eyes and pushed past the one moment of anger he held for his fellow conspirators. If they chose to beg for mercy, whatever they might say or do, even if their actions weighed heavily against him, he would not judge them.
Nor would he join them. Brother Braumin determined then and there, with certain doom staring him right in the eye, that he would accept the punishment, the flames - but that he would not divorce himself from the tenets of Avelyn Desbris and would speak no ill of his mentor Jojonah.
But then Francis caught him off guard.
"I can get you out of St.-Mere-Abelle," the monk offered, "and you might fly away and hide."
"You would help us?" Viscenti cried doubtfully. "Have you found truth at last, Brother Francis?"
"No," Braumin answered before Francis could respond. Braumin studied him curiously. "No, he does not agree with our beliefs."
"I called you a heretic," Francis confirmed. "My word for you, and not the Father Abbot's."
"Then why would you help us? " Braumin asked. "Why would you see us out of St.-Mere-Abelle when you know that we present no threat to you or your beloved Father Abbot?" Even as he spoke the words, Brother Brau-min wondered if the Father Abbot might know of Francis' visit, might have sent Francis here in an attempt to quietly rid himself of the problem monks. "Or do you see a threat?" Braumin asked slyly. "Perhaps you fear the re-action, from within the Church and without, when we five, like Jojonah before us, are tied to poles and publicly burned. Perhaps you wonder how solid the Father Abbot's hold over the Church truly is."
Francis was shaking his head slowly and somberly, but Braumin pressed on. "Thus, you convince us to leave, and by that overt action, we have sev-ered our position in the Church."
"Your reasoning is not sound, brother," Francis replied. "You overesti-mate the negative reaction of the populace to a gruesome execution. Many of the villagers still speak in excited, even thrilled, tones about the burning of the heretic Jojonah."
"Do not call him that!" Brother Viscenti demanded.
"They were not terribly upset by the spectacle, as you well know," Fran-cis went on. "And indeed, they would welcome another bit of excitement in their mundane existence. And as to the other Church leaders, they are back at their own abbeys now, recovering from a war. They will not raise more than an eyebrow, I assure you. The Father Abbot will name you as heretics and be done with you before any can protest; and then, the deed done - one less problem before any of them - they will let the matter fade."
The answer set Braumin back on his heels and killed his previous suspi-cions about Francis' motives. Markwart, who dared to usurp the power of Abbot Dobrinion while he was in Palmaris, who took citizens of another town captive and let them die in his care, who burned Jojonah publicly before the Church leaders, would not fear any retaliation if he chose to get rid of a handful of minor conspirators. But why, then, was Francis here?
"You haven't the belly for it!" Marlboro Viscenti said suddenly, hopping back and pointing at Francis. "Even Brother Francis, the Father Abbot's avowed lackey, was sickened by the treatment of good Jojonah."
Francis didn't immediately respond, and Braumin looked from him to Viscenti, who wore a confident expression. Marlboro Viscenti was not con-sidered a great thinker by either his peers or his instructors, but Braumin knew that he was possessed of certain insights. Perhaps it was his perpetual nervousness that kept him keenly aware of his surroundings; but whatever the reason, Viscenti many times found answers to puzzles that had seemed quite beyond Brother Braumin.
"You believed Jojonah a heretic," Braumin said to Francis.
"His actions doomed him," Francis said firmly. "You heard him admit that he helped the intruders steal our prisoner."
Braumin waved his hand as if that mattered not at all. "I'll not argue the virtue of his actions with you," he explained. "We can agree that you con-sidered him a traitor to the Church, and yet my good brother Viscenti has spoken truthfully. Why then, Brother Francis, do you fear to see us burned? Why did the spectacle of Jojonah's fate so unnerve you?"
Francis was fighting hard to hold his cool, determined demeanor, but he was losing the battle now, Braumin could see. He was trembling, sweat on his forehead.
"Master Jojonah forgave me," Francis at last blurted. "He forgave me my sins, against him and against others."
Braumin eyed him incredulously, then looked at Viscenti, trying to make some sense of it, but found his friend staring at Francis, equally at a loss.
"Do not confuse my coming to you with compassion or any agreement with your beliefs," Francis added. "I offer you a chance to save your mis-erable lives, to get out of St.-Mere-Abelle, out of my life and the life of the Father Abbot. To go hide in a hole and bury your foolish beliefs with you."
"How do you plan to do that?" asked Viscenti.
"And where are we to go?" Braumin added.
"You know that Jojonah aided the escape of the centaur Bradwarden," Francis explained. "And with him, we believe, were two former friends of Avelyn Desbris."
Again Braumin painted that suspicious look on his face. Were he and his companions to become the signal beacon to the lair of a larger conspiracy?
"Yet there remains at St.-Mere-Abelle another of those conspirators, a man who came in afterward and only recently learned that the centaur and his other friends had escaped. He will be returning to them, I believe, and I believe also that you might persuade him to take you along."
"How convenient for you and the Father Abbot," Braumin remarked.
"I'll not guarantee your safety," said Francis. "Once you are out of the abbey, you must fend for yourselves - and do not doubt that powerful foes may come against you. Do not doubt that the Father Abbot will recapturethe centaur and take the other conspirators as well. No, your fate beyond St.-Mere-Abelle is your own to decide. I only do this one thing alone to repay Jojonah. I'll not spend the rest of my life in the debt of a heretic."
"If he was a heretic - " Viscenti started to protest, but Brother Braumin held up his hand, indicating that the man should be quiet. Braumin under-stood, if Viscenti did not - if even Francis did not.
"All that I ask in return is that you do not name me if you are captured," Brother Francis went on. "And . . . the book."
"What book? " Braumin asked.
Francis turned a stern stare on the man. "The book you read from at your ridiculous meeting," he explained, "the book of lies about our past, by which you measure the rumors about our present."
Braumin scoffed at the notion.
"You will not leave St.-Mere-Abelle unless I have that book," Francis said calmly.
"Why?" Braumin retorted. "So that you might put it on a shelf of for-bidden tomes? So that you might bury it away with all the other truths that would tumble down the walls of your sacred institution? "
"There is no compromise here, brother," Francis stated. "I will have the book, or I will take it from your room while you are burning."
"Jojonah gave me that book," Braumin said. "He bade me to keep it safe."
"It will be safe," Francis replied. "And back where it rightfully belongs."
Brother Braumin closed his eyes, understanding that Francis would hold fast. He prayed to Master Jojonah for guidance then, to help him through this dilemma. Was it now his time to stand up for the truth? Was his fight to end so soon? Jojonah had wanted him to ascend the ranks of the Abel-lican Order, but if he left now, that would be impossible. Even if he man-aged to elude Markwart's executioners, he and his friends would be outside the Church, unable to bring about any positive change.
But if they stayed, Braumin believed, they would die, and soon.
His answer came in the form of an image, a memory of a faraway place, once the home of evil incarnate but now the tomb of a true saint. Braumin saw again the arm of Avelyn, sticking from the ground, uplifted, the final act of defiance against the demon dactyl, the final act of reaching for God.
Brother Braumin had his answer. Whatever God had in mind for him, he wanted to see that place again before he died. He moved to the side of his bed, bent down to the floor, and reached under it, then moved back to stand in front of Francis, locking the man's gaze with his own. Braumin gave a slight nod and turned over the book. "Read it," he said. "Read the words of another Brother Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle. Learn what once was, and know the truth of the man you serve."
Brother Francis didn't say a word, just moved past Braumin for the door, then out of the room.
"You gave it to him," Marlboro Viscenti said incredulously and fearfully. "Now he will surely betray us."
"If he meant to betray us, then Markwart would already have us," Braumin insisted.
"Then what are we to do? "
"Wait," Braumin answered, laying a comforting hand on Viscenti's shoulder. "Let Francis do as he promised. He will return to us."
Brother Viscenti wiped his hand across his lips and shuddered. He didn't question Braumin further, though, just stood with him, staring at the door, wondering.
In truth, if the door hadn't been there to block their vision, the two men would have still seen Brother Francis in the empty and dimly lit corridor, staring down at the tome Brother Braumin had given him. In one unac-knowledged corner of his brain, Brother Francis understood that there might well be a measure of truth in Braumin's claims. Surely Francis had seen enough brutality perpetrated by his beloved Church to give some cre-dence to the pessimistic man's arguments.
And now Francis held this ancient book, which could shatter the founda-tions of his beliefs, which could make a lie of his life and a devil of his master. If he opened the pages and read it, would he, too, be brought into the depths of heresy, as had Jojonah, and now these disciples of the man?
Brother Francis tucked the book under his arm and started briskly for the stairwells that would take him to the lower library, where he might rid himself of the dangerous tome. He had to pay another visit to Roger Billingsbury and had many other preparations to make, but they would wait, he decided. Burying this book in a dark corner of a dark place was far more important.
PART TWO
CHURCH AND STATE
For centuries, the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear has been divided between the secular powers of the state and the spiritual powers of the Church, and this balance, I have come to believe, is essential to the long-term life of any country. This is not the case in Corona, as I learned during my time with the Touel'alfar - how wise are the elves about so many subjects! In Alpinador, religion is a day-to-day practice, an important aspect of every man's every action. This, I believe, is because of the rigors of the Alpinadoran environment, where the possibility of death is ever present. A barbarian slays a deer, then prays over its carcass, giving thanks that he and his family will not starve. He finds himself far from home and prays to the god of storms, and then, if the weather grows more ominous, to the god of home to help him quickly find his way. Few matters of such a man's daily routine do not involve spirituality, but to the barbarians, religion is a private matter, for there is no organized church in Alpinador, other than the small missions set up by the Abellicans. That is true, too, of the state, for the villages of Alpinador are, in effect, independent states, too isolated by landscape and climate to hear the edicts of any central government. My homeland, the towns of the Timberlands, were much like that, except that we acknowledged the King of Honce-the-Bear.
Still, we did not hear much from the man, or from any of his emissaries.
In the southern kingdom of Behren, church and state are much the same. The Chezru chieftain of Behren is also the highest-ranking yatol priest, a dangerous situation lacking the balance of power necessary to hold tyrants in check. The Chezru chieftain is all-powerful, and can, and often does, kill at a whim without fear of consequence. Could King Ursal of Honce-the-Bear make the same claim? I think not, for in Honce-the-Bear the actions of the King are monitored by the abbots of the Church - if only for selfish reasons, so they could expose any crimes of the state and weaken the King considerably in the eyes of his subjects.
But what of the crimes of the Church, Uncle Mather? Logically, the King should be their counterweight, yet I have heard of no complaints from King Danube about the treatment of the Chilichunks by the Church. Perhaps it is a matter of practicality, with King Danube and his nobles weighing the value of the Chilichunks lives against the trouble that exposing the Church might bring. For that matter, would King Danube strike hard against the Father Abbot if he knew the actual cause of Baron Bildeborough's death?
Or, perhaps, has the balance of power dangerously shifted?
This is my fear, Uncle Mather, and I do not think I am simply overreacting to personal loss. I believe the Abellican Church has always held the upper hand in this struggle. The daily routines of the subjects of Honce-the-Bear are no doubt more greatly influenced by the state than the Church. Taxes, the military, construction of roads and tolls to pay for them are all the domain of King Danube.
But in the end, the Abellican Church holds the power. In the end, on one's death bed, it is faith and not material wealth that matters. In the end, it is not the edicts of King Danube or any other secular leader, but the words - calming or threatening - of the local abbot or friar that ring true. King Danube holds the purse strings, but father Abbot Markwart holds the soul; and that is by far the greater treasure, and the greater power. The King may hold power over people's lives and livelihoods, but the Church can promise far worse than death. The Church can threaten eternal damnation, and no pain in this life can compare to that.
The Church holds the true power, Uncle Mather, and if, as I have seen over the last few months, the Church chooses to twist that power into something malicious, then the darkest days are yet ahead - even if all the powries, goblins, and giants have been banished, even if the demon dactyl has been destroyed.
Destroyed?
Or maybe not, Uncle Mather. Perhaps the dactyl's spirit is alive and well and living in an even more dangerous host.