The Education of Brother Thaddius and other tales of DemonWars (The DemonWars Saga) by R.A. Salvatore Page A
Authors: R.A. Salvatore
Ads: Link
by great punishment to the merchant or lord caught with them in his possession.
“That last Reformation was almost six hundred years ago,” Viscenti reminded.
“Then the answer is clear before you,” Pagonel insisted.
“To allow entry to all of the brothers currently in training,” Braumin said, “regardless of their affinity with the Ring Stones.”
“You are half correct,” the mystic replied with that grin. “As your Church is half of what it could be.”
The two monks looked to each other, then back at him curiously, and skeptically.
“When I return to the Walk of Clouds, I will train Brynn Dharielle further in the ways of the Jhesta Tu,” he explained. “Half of those at her rank will be women.”
“A monumental proposition,” Viscenti said. “We should begin training women in the ways…”
“You already have them, so you have just told me,” said Pagonel. “Need I remind you of your own St. Gwendolyn? If Jilseponie had agreed to remain at St.-Mere-Abelle, as you begged her, would you have not nominated her to serve as Mother Abbess of your Church?”
“Jilseponie is a remarkable exception,” Braumin replied.
“Perhaps only because you prevent any others from proving the same of themselves!” the mystic countered. “Bring them in, brothers and sisters equally. Indeed, empty your convents and fill your chapels and monasteries! These are proven Abellicans, are they not?
“And you take them in at too old an age!” he went on, passionately. “Twenty? Find your disciples among those just becoming adults. The clay is softer and easier to mold.”
“Men and women, cloistered together,” Viscenti said, shaking his head doubtfully. “The temptation.”
Pagonel, who had lived most of his life in the mountainous retreat of the Walk of Clouds, surrounded by the men and women of the Jhesta Tu, laughed aloud at that absurd notion.
“If we are cloistered, then perhaps we have already lost,” Braumin said to Viscenti. “Is not the word of Avelyn that we should go out and serve? Do we not consider Brother Francis redeemed because he went out among the sick and died administering to them?”
“Perhaps Brother Avelyn has shown us the way, then,” Viscenti agreed.
Braumin patted his friend on the shoulder and moved to stand directly before the mystic, looking him in the eye. “Stay and help us,” he begged.
Pagonel nodded. “Where is the nearest convent?”
“In the village of St.-Mere-Abelle, an hour’s walk.”
“Take me.”
“We cannot formalize the changes you desire until the College of Abbots is held, and that will not be for months, perhaps a year.”
“And on that occasion, we will show your brethren the error of their ways.”
P ART 3: T HE B ATTLEFIELD P HILOSOPHER
P agonel returns,” Master Viscenti announced one dreary Decambria morning in God’s Year 847, nearly four months after the Jhesta Tu mystic had left the monastery for the town of the same name some three miles away.
Bishop Braumin had expected the news; the winter weather had broken for a bit in that last month of the year, and for the previous week, young brothers and sisters from the convent of St.-Mere-Abelle, and even from some other convents of nearby towns, had begun pouring into the monastery, bearing word from Pagonel that they should be considered for immediate ordainment into the Order.
“We are well ahead of the College of Abbots,” Viscenti ominously warned, for the formal meeting of the remaining Masters and Abbots of the Abellican Order wasn’t set until the fourth month of 848, or perhaps even longer if the Gulf of Corona was still impassable and the brothers from Vanguard could not safely make the trip south. “These dramatic changes you are instituting are hardly approved.”
“Necessity drives our decisions,” Braumin replied.
“You rely wholly on the counsel of one who is not of the Church.”
“Brother, who is left among the Church to counsel us?” Braumin countered.
“That last Reformation was almost six hundred years ago,” Viscenti reminded.
“Then the answer is clear before you,” Pagonel insisted.
“To allow entry to all of the brothers currently in training,” Braumin said, “regardless of their affinity with the Ring Stones.”
“You are half correct,” the mystic replied with that grin. “As your Church is half of what it could be.”
The two monks looked to each other, then back at him curiously, and skeptically.
“When I return to the Walk of Clouds, I will train Brynn Dharielle further in the ways of the Jhesta Tu,” he explained. “Half of those at her rank will be women.”
“A monumental proposition,” Viscenti said. “We should begin training women in the ways…”
“You already have them, so you have just told me,” said Pagonel. “Need I remind you of your own St. Gwendolyn? If Jilseponie had agreed to remain at St.-Mere-Abelle, as you begged her, would you have not nominated her to serve as Mother Abbess of your Church?”
“Jilseponie is a remarkable exception,” Braumin replied.
“Perhaps only because you prevent any others from proving the same of themselves!” the mystic countered. “Bring them in, brothers and sisters equally. Indeed, empty your convents and fill your chapels and monasteries! These are proven Abellicans, are they not?
“And you take them in at too old an age!” he went on, passionately. “Twenty? Find your disciples among those just becoming adults. The clay is softer and easier to mold.”
“Men and women, cloistered together,” Viscenti said, shaking his head doubtfully. “The temptation.”
Pagonel, who had lived most of his life in the mountainous retreat of the Walk of Clouds, surrounded by the men and women of the Jhesta Tu, laughed aloud at that absurd notion.
“If we are cloistered, then perhaps we have already lost,” Braumin said to Viscenti. “Is not the word of Avelyn that we should go out and serve? Do we not consider Brother Francis redeemed because he went out among the sick and died administering to them?”
“Perhaps Brother Avelyn has shown us the way, then,” Viscenti agreed.
Braumin patted his friend on the shoulder and moved to stand directly before the mystic, looking him in the eye. “Stay and help us,” he begged.
Pagonel nodded. “Where is the nearest convent?”
“In the village of St.-Mere-Abelle, an hour’s walk.”
“Take me.”
“We cannot formalize the changes you desire until the College of Abbots is held, and that will not be for months, perhaps a year.”
“And on that occasion, we will show your brethren the error of their ways.”
P ART 3: T HE B ATTLEFIELD P HILOSOPHER
P agonel returns,” Master Viscenti announced one dreary Decambria morning in God’s Year 847, nearly four months after the Jhesta Tu mystic had left the monastery for the town of the same name some three miles away.
Bishop Braumin had expected the news; the winter weather had broken for a bit in that last month of the year, and for the previous week, young brothers and sisters from the convent of St.-Mere-Abelle, and even from some other convents of nearby towns, had begun pouring into the monastery, bearing word from Pagonel that they should be considered for immediate ordainment into the Order.
“We are well ahead of the College of Abbots,” Viscenti ominously warned, for the formal meeting of the remaining Masters and Abbots of the Abellican Order wasn’t set until the fourth month of 848, or perhaps even longer if the Gulf of Corona was still impassable and the brothers from Vanguard could not safely make the trip south. “These dramatic changes you are instituting are hardly approved.”
“Necessity drives our decisions,” Braumin replied.
“You rely wholly on the counsel of one who is not of the Church.”
“Brother, who is left among the Church to counsel us?” Braumin countered.
Similar Books
