Back in the abbey, the Father Abbot played all the possibilities about in his mind. Was he pragmatic or cowardly? What might be the cost of guessing wrong?
And what might be the cost of guessing right but not having the courage to act on that guess?
Inevitably, the Father Abbot kept coming back to the image of a brother dying on the field before the impenetrable walls of St.-Mere-Abelle, a brother whose courage surely humbled old Agronguerre.
'Ah, Francis,' he muttered with a sigh. He remembered the night when Francis had gone out to the sick, the eve of the New Year. Not only had the man put himself in obvious physical jeopardy, but the action had brought him only snickers of derision from many of his so-called brothers.
That image haunted gentle Agronguerre as he walked slowly up to his private chambers, and it stayed with him all the way back down the circular stone stairwell.
Down, down, to the first floor of the abbey, he went, and then down again, until he stood before a little-used but extremely important doorway, ornately decorated-so much so that the great latch that secured it could hardly be noticed unless one looked at it carefully.
Agronguerre fumbled with the keys, wanting to get through the door and get done with this business before anyone could persuade him differently. For though his heart was strong now in his decision, bolstered by the image of poor dead Francis, his mind was filled with fear.
He turned open the lock, lifted the latch, and pulled the door open, but only an inch, for another, stronger hand came against the portal, pushing it closed.
Abbot Agronguerre stepped back and turned to see Master Bou-raiy, the man fixing him with a cold glare, a lock of eyes that would have gone on for a long while had not the two men heard the sound of footsteps descending the staircase back down the corridor.
'Live a long time, old man,' Bou-raiy warned ominously. 'For, if you do this thing, you must know that when you die, the Abellican Church will be thrown into turmoil beyond anything it has ever known.'
'Is that what is honestly within your heart, Master Bou-raiy? '
'That is what I know to be true.'
'Would you have me preside over a Chu'rch that turns its back on the agony of the common folk? ' the Father Abbot asked.
'The plague will pass in time,' said Bou-raiy, and he lowered his voice as Master Glendenhook, with Master Machuso right on his heels, appeared a short distance down the corridor. 'The Church must be eternal.'
Master Glendenhook walked over to stand equidistant from the two men, glancing curiously back and forth between them. 'Pray, brethren,' he asked, 'what is it that so troubles you? '
Father Abbot Agronguerre turned a skeptical look on the man, then stepped back from Bou-raiy. 'You know our viewpoints,' he replied. 'You have heard the tale ofJilseponie and thus have seen the drawing of the line. On which side of that line does Master Glendenhook stand? '
Glendenhook's shoulders sagged a bit at the blunt question, a reflection of the fact that he did not want to be so drawn into any open argument. He looked at Agronguerre sympathetically, then turned to Bou-raiy, who fixed him with an unyielding stare-one, it seemed to Agronguerre, that demanded the man take a definitive stand.
Glendenhook put out his hand to pat Agronguerre on the shoulder, but then stepped away from the Father Abbot, to Bou-raiy's side. He faced Agronguerre and bowed. 'With all respect and honor, Father Abbot,' he said, 'I fear the plague and heed well the old words written about itwords penned from the bitter experiences of those who have suffered through it. I fear sending the brethren out from St.-Mere-Abelle, and I fear even more the release of the soul stones into hands untrained and undeserving.'
'The brothers will carry the stones,' Agronguerre replied, not understanding that second point.
'And what of the brothers who will surely die along the road? ' Bou-raiy asked. 'They will fall while carrying soul stones, and those stones will, inevitably, fall into the hands of the undeserving and untrained.'
'Jilseponie will train them,' Agronguerre argued, his tone sharp, for the way in which Bou-raiy had said the word 'undeserving' had struck him as very wrong.
'And that, Father Abbot, I fear most of all,' Master Glendenhook remarked.
The words hit Agronguerre as surely as if Glendenhook had just punched him across the face. The Father Abbot felt so old at that moment, so defeated, and he almost threw up his hands and walked away. But then he turned to see the face of Master Machuso, the kindly man who oversaw all the secular workers at St.-Mere-Abelle, the gentle man whom Agronguerre had caught on several occasions stuffing extra supplies into the loads sent out to the sickly masses.
'My young brethren spend too many days looking into old books,' Machuso said, managing a smile, 'and too many hours on their knees with their arms and eyes uplifted to the heavens.'
'We are Abellican brothers!' Master Bou-raiy sharply reminded him.
'Who would learn more of the world if they spent more time looking into the eyes of suffering folk,' Machuso was quick to reply. 'Abellican brothers who are so wrapped up in their own rituals and own importance, who are so determined to elevate themselves above the flock they pretend to tend that they cannot see the truth of the opportunity presented to us this day.'
'By a laywoman,' Bou-raiy remarked.
'A false prophet,' Glendenhook echoed.
'She who destroyed the dactyl with Brother Avelyn at Mount Aida!' Machuso shot back. 'And who defeated the demon spirit within Father Abbot Markwart, by Markwart's own admission to Master Francis at the time of his death. And now she is showing us the way again, Father Abbot,' the suddenly energetic Machuso went on, turning to aim his words directly at Agronguerre, 'the way to Avelyn, in body and in spirit.'
Agronguerre reached for the door again, and so did Bou-raiy, but then the Father Abbot fixed him with such a stare that he backed off.
'Do not do this,' Fio Bou-raiy warned. 'You are condemning us all.'
'I am damning myself if I do not,' Agronguerre answered firmly. 'Send word throughout the abbey, Master Machuso,' he went on. 'This is a choice and not an edict. All who wish to join the pilgrimage should be ready to leave within the hour.'
'The hour?' Glendenhook said, as if the mere thought that hundreds of brothers could be packed with wagons readied within that time was preposterous.
'It will be done,' Machuso answered with a bow. 'And I doubt that many will choose to remain.' 'And if the hope is false? ' Bou-raiy had to ask one last time. 'Then better to die trying,' Father Abbot Agronguerre said, putting his face only an inch from Bou-raiy's.
He pulled open the door, the portal that led into the gemstone treasuryof St.-Mere-Abelle, where more than a thousand soul stones waited.
Chapter 43
When Jilseponie returned to the Barbacan near the end of summer, she found that her call to Vanguard had not gone unheeded. Led by Brother Dellman and Abbot Haney, the procession from the northernmost Honce-the- Bear province had nearly emptied the place.
The woman saw them up on the plateau, hundreds and hundreds milling about; and she went straightaway to find them, anxious to see Dellman again and Abbot Braumin, who had become the caretaker of the arm itself, the guide to any and all who came to enter Avelyn's covenant.
She found Dellman first and shared a great hug with him on the rim of the sacred plateau, then made her way through the crowd, toward the arm and Braumin. She was surprised, then, to find a pair of faces that she recognized.
'Andacanavar!' she cried. 'Liam O'Blythe!'
The huge ranger wheeled, his face beaming with a great smile. To Jilseponie's surprise, though, another man off to the side, his hair bright red, his face covered in freckles, also turned to her, beaming.
'Do I know ye, beautiful lady? ' the red-haired man remarked.
