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Authors: R.A. Salvatore
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concerning the magic which might not sit well in a man so deep in faith, in a man so obviously convinced that he understood the desires of God.
“Father Abbot Markwart is quite pleased with the young man,” Jojonah remarked.
True enough, Siherton had to admit, and he understood that he would not win any debate he might wage against the selection of Avelyn as one of the Preparers. The position of the second Preparer remained wide open, though, and so the tall master decided then and there that he would use his energy to put forth a student better to his liking. Someone like Quintall, a young man full of fire and full of life. And, because of that passion, because of worldly lusts, a man who could be controlled.
He was not surprised; his lip didn’t quiver.
“Pray tell me, Master Siherton, was it peaceful?” he heard himself ask.
Master Jojonah was glad to hear the sympathetic question. Avelyn’s lack of initial response to the news that his mother had died had lent credence to Siherton’s complaints. “The messenger said that she died in her sleep,” Jojonah interrupted.
Master Siherton eyed his peer sternly, considering the lie, for the messenger, a young boy, had only delivered news of the death and had offered no details surrounding it. Master Jojonah hadn’t even conversed with the messenger. In a rare display of sympathy, with Jojonah glaring at him out of the corner of his brown eye, Siherton let it go.
Avelyn nodded, accepting the news.
“You will want to leave at once,” Siherton offered, “to join your father at your mother’s gravesite.”
Avelyn stared at him incredulously.
“Or you may choose to stay,” Jojonah put in immediately, seeing the lure. If Avelyn left St.-Mere-Abelle for any reason, he would have to wait until the following year to enter. His reentry would be guaranteed, but his position as a Preparer—though he had no idea that he would be offered such a position or even that there was such a thing—would be lost.
“My mother is already buried, I assume,” Avelyn responded to Siherton, “and my father has surely left her grave to return home. Given the short time since their departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, he has yet a long road before him.”
Master Siherton squinted ominously and leaned close over Avelyn, glaring openly. “Your mother has died, boy,” he said slowly, accentuating each syllable. “Do you care?”
The words hit young Avelyn hard. Did he care? He wanted to punch out at the tall master for even insinuating otherwise. He wanted to fly into a rage, tear the room—and anyone who tried to stop him—apart!
But that would be a disservice to Annalisa, Avelyn knew, an insult to the memory of the gentle woman. Avelyn’s mother had lived in the light of God. Avelyn had to believe that, or else all of her life—and all of his own life—would be no more than a lie. The reward for such a life, for such a good heart, was a better existence in a better place. Annalisa was with God now.
That thought bolstered the young man. He straightened his shoulders and looked squarely at the imposing Master Siherton.
“My mother knew that she would not make it home,” he said quietly, aiming his words at Jojonah. “We all knew it. She lived on, in sickness, only to see me enter the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle. It was her glory that I join the Abellican Church, and I would be stealing that glory if I left now.” He sucked in his breath, bolstering his declaration.
“The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle, God’s Year 816,” Brother Avelyn said without the slightest quiver in his voice. “That is my place. That is the vision that allowed Annalisa Desbris to pass on peacefully from this world.”
Master Jojonah nodded, seeing the calm and logical reasoning, and at once impressed with, and frightened of, the depth of this young man’s faith. It was obvious that Avelyn had loved his mother dearly, and yet, there was a sincerity in his demeanor. In that, Jojonah could clearly
“Father Abbot Markwart is quite pleased with the young man,” Jojonah remarked.
True enough, Siherton had to admit, and he understood that he would not win any debate he might wage against the selection of Avelyn as one of the Preparers. The position of the second Preparer remained wide open, though, and so the tall master decided then and there that he would use his energy to put forth a student better to his liking. Someone like Quintall, a young man full of fire and full of life. And, because of that passion, because of worldly lusts, a man who could be controlled.
He was not surprised; his lip didn’t quiver.
“Pray tell me, Master Siherton, was it peaceful?” he heard himself ask.
Master Jojonah was glad to hear the sympathetic question. Avelyn’s lack of initial response to the news that his mother had died had lent credence to Siherton’s complaints. “The messenger said that she died in her sleep,” Jojonah interrupted.
Master Siherton eyed his peer sternly, considering the lie, for the messenger, a young boy, had only delivered news of the death and had offered no details surrounding it. Master Jojonah hadn’t even conversed with the messenger. In a rare display of sympathy, with Jojonah glaring at him out of the corner of his brown eye, Siherton let it go.
Avelyn nodded, accepting the news.
“You will want to leave at once,” Siherton offered, “to join your father at your mother’s gravesite.”
Avelyn stared at him incredulously.
“Or you may choose to stay,” Jojonah put in immediately, seeing the lure. If Avelyn left St.-Mere-Abelle for any reason, he would have to wait until the following year to enter. His reentry would be guaranteed, but his position as a Preparer—though he had no idea that he would be offered such a position or even that there was such a thing—would be lost.
“My mother is already buried, I assume,” Avelyn responded to Siherton, “and my father has surely left her grave to return home. Given the short time since their departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, he has yet a long road before him.”
Master Siherton squinted ominously and leaned close over Avelyn, glaring openly. “Your mother has died, boy,” he said slowly, accentuating each syllable. “Do you care?”
The words hit young Avelyn hard. Did he care? He wanted to punch out at the tall master for even insinuating otherwise. He wanted to fly into a rage, tear the room—and anyone who tried to stop him—apart!
But that would be a disservice to Annalisa, Avelyn knew, an insult to the memory of the gentle woman. Avelyn’s mother had lived in the light of God. Avelyn had to believe that, or else all of her life—and all of his own life—would be no more than a lie. The reward for such a life, for such a good heart, was a better existence in a better place. Annalisa was with God now.
That thought bolstered the young man. He straightened his shoulders and looked squarely at the imposing Master Siherton.
“My mother knew that she would not make it home,” he said quietly, aiming his words at Jojonah. “We all knew it. She lived on, in sickness, only to see me enter the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle. It was her glory that I join the Abellican Church, and I would be stealing that glory if I left now.” He sucked in his breath, bolstering his declaration.
“The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle, God’s Year 816,” Brother Avelyn said without the slightest quiver in his voice. “That is my place. That is the vision that allowed Annalisa Desbris to pass on peacefully from this world.”
Master Jojonah nodded, seeing the calm and logical reasoning, and at once impressed with, and frightened of, the depth of this young man’s faith. It was obvious that Avelyn had loved his mother dearly, and yet, there was a sincerity in his demeanor. In that, Jojonah could clearly
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