Read Online The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga) by R.A. Salvatore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.A. Salvatore
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his façade, discard this lie his life had become, and proclaim openly his support for De’Unnero! How he had hoped that he would stand beside that man, the greatest warrior the Abellican Order had ever known, to reshape the Order into one of sacrifice and valor and utter devotion!
Guilt brought many pained squints to Mars’s eyes that night as he replayed the disastrousbattle. He should have been stronger. He should have gone to Marcalo De’Unnero in the great hall and fought beside the man.
He conjured the image, burned forever into his memory, of De’Unnero lying dead on the stairs beside the woman called Sadye. Brother Mars should have been there, fighting with his idol, dying beside De’Unnero if that, too was God’s will.
He should have.
But he had failed.
*****
At first glance, the brown-skinned man seemed quite out of place in this monastery, the mother abbey of the Abellican Church, but Pagonel walked with a quiet confidence and ease, and if he was out of place, no one had bothered to tell him.
He was a small man, well into middle age, thin and wiry, though not a nervous and excitable type like Brother Viscenti. He walked in sandals, or barefoot, as he was now, and in either case, a shadow made no less noise than he. He wore a tan tunic and loose-fitting pants, tied at the waist with a red sash, the Sash of Life, the highest rank of the Jhesta Tu mystics of Behren.
He stood in a grand hallway now, the Court of Saints, lined on one side by windows looking out over All Saints Bay, and on the opposite wall by grand paintings of the heroes of the Abellican Order, amazing works of arts that each stood twice the height of Pagonel. Few who were not of the Abellican Order had ever seen this place, but Bishop Braumin had offered Pagonel free rein of St.-Mere-Abelle, naming the mystic as one of the true heroes of the battle that had, in Braumin’s words, “defined the world.”
Pagonel hadn’t even really fought in that battle, not conventionally at least, although if he had, then surely many would have fallen before him. He was Jhesta Tu, and a grandmaster of that martial art. An Allheart Knight’s shining armor would not protect him from the lethal hands of Pagonel, for the mystic could strike with the speed of a viper and the strength of a tiger. A warrior’s sword would never get close to striking him, for Pagonel could move like the mongoose, faster than the sword hand, faster than the eye.
But no, he hadn’t fought in the battle, other than to fight against the battle. When Midalis and Aydrian and their closest cohorts had engaged in their duel in the great hall of the monastery, Pagonel, riding the dragon Agradelious, had flown low about the larger battlefield, calling for peace, insisting that the victor would emerge from within St.-Mere-Abelle, no matter the outcome on the field. He had saved many men and women that day outside of St.-Mere-Abelle, and in the aftermath, many indeed had come to him with their thanks and praise.
None of that had been lost on Bishop Braumin. On Braumin’s word, Pagonel could go where he pleased in St.-Mere-Abelle, and could stay as guest of the Church for as long as he desired.
Truly the mystic had been pleasantly surprised by what he had found in the quieter corners of the great monastery, whose walls ran a mile long atop the cliff wall, and where secret stairways led to quiet rooms full of wondrous treasures – of sculpture, painting, glassworks, tapestries, and jewelry design.
As in this hall, lined with huge paintings meticulously and lovingly crafted.
Lovingly.
Pagonel could see that truth in every delicate stroke, in the favorable and painstaking use of light, in the frames, even, wrought of gold and as artistic as the paintings themselves.
One in particular caught the mystic’s eye and held him, and not only because of the subject – the only woman depicted in any of the hall’s masterpieces – but because of the sheer grace in the form, her form.
Guilt brought many pained squints to Mars’s eyes that night as he replayed the disastrousbattle. He should have been stronger. He should have gone to Marcalo De’Unnero in the great hall and fought beside the man.
He conjured the image, burned forever into his memory, of De’Unnero lying dead on the stairs beside the woman called Sadye. Brother Mars should have been there, fighting with his idol, dying beside De’Unnero if that, too was God’s will.
He should have.
But he had failed.
*****
At first glance, the brown-skinned man seemed quite out of place in this monastery, the mother abbey of the Abellican Church, but Pagonel walked with a quiet confidence and ease, and if he was out of place, no one had bothered to tell him.
He was a small man, well into middle age, thin and wiry, though not a nervous and excitable type like Brother Viscenti. He walked in sandals, or barefoot, as he was now, and in either case, a shadow made no less noise than he. He wore a tan tunic and loose-fitting pants, tied at the waist with a red sash, the Sash of Life, the highest rank of the Jhesta Tu mystics of Behren.
He stood in a grand hallway now, the Court of Saints, lined on one side by windows looking out over All Saints Bay, and on the opposite wall by grand paintings of the heroes of the Abellican Order, amazing works of arts that each stood twice the height of Pagonel. Few who were not of the Abellican Order had ever seen this place, but Bishop Braumin had offered Pagonel free rein of St.-Mere-Abelle, naming the mystic as one of the true heroes of the battle that had, in Braumin’s words, “defined the world.”
Pagonel hadn’t even really fought in that battle, not conventionally at least, although if he had, then surely many would have fallen before him. He was Jhesta Tu, and a grandmaster of that martial art. An Allheart Knight’s shining armor would not protect him from the lethal hands of Pagonel, for the mystic could strike with the speed of a viper and the strength of a tiger. A warrior’s sword would never get close to striking him, for Pagonel could move like the mongoose, faster than the sword hand, faster than the eye.
But no, he hadn’t fought in the battle, other than to fight against the battle. When Midalis and Aydrian and their closest cohorts had engaged in their duel in the great hall of the monastery, Pagonel, riding the dragon Agradelious, had flown low about the larger battlefield, calling for peace, insisting that the victor would emerge from within St.-Mere-Abelle, no matter the outcome on the field. He had saved many men and women that day outside of St.-Mere-Abelle, and in the aftermath, many indeed had come to him with their thanks and praise.
None of that had been lost on Bishop Braumin. On Braumin’s word, Pagonel could go where he pleased in St.-Mere-Abelle, and could stay as guest of the Church for as long as he desired.
Truly the mystic had been pleasantly surprised by what he had found in the quieter corners of the great monastery, whose walls ran a mile long atop the cliff wall, and where secret stairways led to quiet rooms full of wondrous treasures – of sculpture, painting, glassworks, tapestries, and jewelry design.
As in this hall, lined with huge paintings meticulously and lovingly crafted.
Lovingly.
Pagonel could see that truth in every delicate stroke, in the favorable and painstaking use of light, in the frames, even, wrought of gold and as artistic as the paintings themselves.
One in particular caught the mystic’s eye and held him, and not only because of the subject – the only woman depicted in any of the hall’s masterpieces – but because of the sheer grace in the form, her form.
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