The Demon Awakens (Page 3)
Twenty-five stood in a line, cloaked in thick brown robes with voluminous sleeves and large hoods that were pulled low to hide their faces. Quiet and humble, they kept their heads bowed, their shoulders stooped, and their hands folded before them, though not a digit showed from beneath the folds of cloth, not a flash of flesh in the whole of the line.
"Piety, dignity, poverty," the old father abbot, Dalebert Markwart, intoned in his nasal voice. He stood alone on the balcony above the main entrance of St.-Mere-Abelle, the most prominent monastery in all the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear, in the northern temperate zone of Corona. Intertwined with the rocky cliffs of the southeastern coast, St.-Mere-Abelle had stood solemn and dark for nearly a millennium, with each generation of monks adding their toil and craftsmanship to the already huge structure. Its gray rock walls seemed to grow right from the solid stone, an extension of the earth's power. Squat towers anchored every turn in the wall; narrow windows showed that the place was built for somber reflection and defense. The visible parts of the monastery were impressive; the sea wall alone rose and melted back into the cliff face for more than a mile. But the bulk of the place could not be seen from beyond the walls; it was buried under the ground, in tunnels strong and square, in vast underground chambers -- many smoky from the constant torchlight, others brightened by ways magical. Seven hundred monks lived here and another two hundred servants, many of them never leaving the place except to go on short visits, usually to market in the village of St.-Mere-Abelle, some three miles inland.
The new class of twenty-five stood one behind the other. As they were positioned according to height, Avelyn Desbris, tall and large-boned, was near the back, with twenty-two before him and only two behind. He could barely hear the Abbot above the constant groan of the wind, weaving always through the many rocks. But Avelyn hardly cared. For the majority of his twenty years, the young man had dreamed of this day, had set his sights on the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle as surely as any general would focus on his next conquest. Eight years of formal study, eight years of grueling testing, had brought Avelyn to this point, one of twenty-five remaining of the two thousand twelve-year-olds who had begun the process, each desperately vying to gain admittance in this class of God's Year 816.
Avelyn dared to peek out from under his hood at the handful of spectators lining the road before the monastery's. front gates. His mother, Annalisa, and father, Jayson, were among that small group, though his mother had taken ill and would not likely make it back to their home in the village of Youmaneff, some three hundred miles from the coast. Avelyn knew with near certainty that this would be the last time he saw her, and likely the last time he'd see his father, as well. Avelyn was the youngest of ten, and his parents had been well into their forties when he was born. His next youngest sibling was seven years his senior, and so he wasn't really close to any of them. By the time Avelyn was old enough to understand the concept of family, half the children had already moved out of the family house.
His life had been good, though, and he had been close to his parents, more so than any of his brothers or sisters had been. The bond had been particularly strong with Annalisa, a humble and spiritual woman, who had encouraged her youngest child to follow the path of God from his earliest recollections.
Avelyn dropped his gaze once more, fearful of discipline should he be caught peeking out from under his hood. Rumors hinted that students of St.-Mere- Abelle had been dismissed for less. He pictured his mother on that day many years before when he had announced that he would enter St.-Mere-Abelle: the tears that had come to her; the smile, gentle, even divine. That image, that confirmation, was burned into Avelyn's thoughts as clearly as if it had been painted and magically illuminated on the inside of his eyelids. How much younger and more vibrant Annalisa had seemed! The last few years had been hard on her, one illness after another. She was determined to see this day, though, and Avelyn understood that with its passing, with his entering St.-Mere-Abelle, the woman would no longer fight against mortality.
It was all right, to Avelyn and to Annalisa. Her goals had been met, her life lived in the spirit of generosity. Avelyn knew he would cry when word reached him of her passing, but he knew, too, that his tears would be selfish -- tears for himself and his loss, and not for Annalisa, whom he knew would be in a better place.
"Do you willingly enter the service of God?" Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart asked.
The twenty-five responded with a unified "Yes, say I!"
"Show then your desire," the Father Abbot demanded. "Pass ye the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering!"
The line shuffled forward. "My God, our God, one God," they chanted, and they lifted their voices even higher when the first of their ranks entered the gauntlet, stepping between two lines of monks, those who remained of the classes of the previous two years, all armed with heavy wooden paddles.
Avelyn heard the slaps of wood, the unintentional groans, even an occasional cry from the younger students near the front. He fell deeper within himself, chanted with all his strength, and listened to his own words, grabbing at his faith and building with it a wall of denial. So strong was he in meditation that he did not even feel the first few blows, and those that slapped against him afterward seemed a minor thing, a momentary pain, lost in the ultimate sweetness that awaited him. All his life, he had wanted to live in service to God; all his life he had dreamed of this day.
Now was his time, his day. He came through the gauntlet without uttering a single sound beyond the range of his controlled, even-toned chant.
The huge stone gates of St.-Mere-Abelle slammed shut with a resounding crash that jolted Annalisa Desbris violently. Her husband held her tight then, understanding her pain, both physical and emotional.
Annalisa knew, as. Avelyn had known, that she would never see her son in this world again. She had given him over to the service of God, to her ultimate joy, but still, the very real human pain of final parting tugged at her weak heart, stole the strength from her tiny arms and legs.
Jayson supported her, always. He, too, had tears in his eyes, but unlike Annalisa's, which were of joy, Jayson's tears came from a mix of emotions, ranging from simple sadness to anger. He had never spoken openly against Avelyn's decision, but privately the pragmatic man had wondered if his son wasn't merely throwing his life away.
He couldn't say that to frail Annalisa, he knew. A simple word could break her. Jayson only hoped that he could somehow get her home, into her own bed, before she died.
Thoughts of his parents could not hold Avelyn's attention as the group crossed the windblown courtyard and entered the grand entrance hall of St.-Mere- Abelle. Now, the young man did utter an unintended sound, a gasp of disbelief and delight.
The place was not bright, having only a handful of tiny windows set high up on the tall walls. Torches burned at regular intervals, and the massive beams that supported the hall's ceiling seemed to dance in their light. Avelyn had never seen a place so huge, could not comprehend the effort that had been expended to put this hall together. His own village of Youmaneff would fit inside this one hall, with room left over to stable the horses!
The statue beside the powrie, sporting a pair of nearly translucent wings, had to be a representation of an elf, the mysterious Touel'alfar. Its limbs were slender and long and its armor a silver shining coat of fine interlocking links. Avelyn wanted to go closer to it to study the stern facial features and the incredible craftsmanship of the armor. That thought, and the potential punishment it might bring, reminded the young man of where he was and that many seconds, minutes perhaps, had slipped past him unnoticed. He blushed deeply and lowered his head, taking a quick glance all around. He calmed quickly, though, seeing that all of his classmates were similarly entranced and that the Father Abbot and the other ranking monks seemed not to care.
The initiates were supposed to be overwhelmed, Avelyn suddenly realized, and he looked again around the room, this time more openly, nodding as he began to understand the true. nature of the place. The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle was noted not just for its pious and humble priests but also for their long reputation as fierce warriors. The eight years of Avelyn's' pretraining had included only minor instruction in the martial arts, but he had suspected that the physical qualifications of the brotherhood, the ability to fight, would become more prominent once inside the monastery.
To Avelyn, it was more of a distraction than anything else. All that the gentle and idealistic young man wanted was to serve God, to foster peace, to heal, and to comfort. To Avelyn Desbris, nothing in all the world, not the treasures of a dragon's hoard, nor the powers of a king, could outweigh that accomplishment.
Now he was on the other side of the great stone gates of St.-Mere-Abelle. Now he had his chance.
So he believed.