Free The Demon Awakens by R.A. Salvatore Page A

hardly sleep. Images of his mother flooded his thoughts; he wondered if he might see a vision of her now, a visitation of her spirit before it went to its place in heaven. Would Annalisa come to say good-bye to her youngest child, or had she already said her farewells to Avelyn in the courtyard outside of St.-Mere-Abelle?
    Avelyn rolled off the cot and fumbled with his flint and steel, finally getting the candle lit. He glanced around in the shadowy light, as if expecting Annalisa to be standing in a corner waiting for him.
    She wasn’t, to Avelyn’s ultimate disappointment.
    The young man settled on the edge of his cot, head bowed, hands resting on his sore thighs. He felt the first tears leaking from his eyes and tried to deny them. To cry would be a weakness, Avelyn reasoned, a lack of faith. If what he believed, what he truly held in his heart, could not sustain him in a time of death, then of what value was it? The Abellican Church, the ancient scriptures, promised heaven to those deserving, and who could be more deserving than gentle and generous Annalisa Desbris?
    A tear rolled down Avelyn’s cheek, then another. He dropped his head lower, brought his hands up to cover his eyes, his wet eyes.
    A sob lifted Avelyn’s bowed shoulders. He tried to deny it, tried to fight back. He recited the Prayer of the Dead, the Prayer of the Faithful, the Prayer of Eternal Promise, all in a row, forcing his voice to hold steady.
    Still the tears came; every so often his even tone was broken by a sniffle or a sob.
    He went through the recitals again, and again. He prayed with all his heart, wrapping the words around images of his mother, often intoning her name between lines of verse. He was on the floor then, but did not know how he had gotten there. On the floor and curled up like a baby, wanting his mother, praying for his mother.
    Finally, after more than an hour, Avelyn composed himself and sat back on the cot, taking several deep breaths to fight away the last of the sobs. He thought long and hard then, considering his grief, searching his soul for the weakness that had come into his faith.
    Soon enough, he had his answer, and Avelyn was glad. He was not crying, he realized, for Annalisa, for he did indeed hold faith that she had passed on to a deserved better existence. He was crying for himself, for his brothers and sisters, for his father, for all who knew Annalisa Desbris and would not be graced by her presence in this life again.
    Avelyn could accept that. His faith was intact and solid, and so he was not desecrating the memory of his mother. He moved to blow out the candle, then changed his mind and settled back on the cot. Still his eyes searched the corners of the shadowy room for his mother’s spirit.
    Perhaps he would find her in his dreams.
     
    Two men walked quietly away from Brother Avelyn’s closed door. “Are you satisfied?” Master Jojonah asked Master Siherton when they were far away.
    Indeed Siherton had been pleased to hear Avelyn crying, to know that the too-dedicated young man was possessed of human emotions, but the sound of Avelyn’s sobs had not changed the stern master’s general attitude toward Avelyn. He gave a slight nod to Jojonah and started away.
    “I have been given the blessings of Father Abbot Markwart to show young Brother Avelyn the stones,” Jojonah called after him.
    Siherton stopped dead in his tracks, fought down the angry protest that rose in his throat, and then nodded again, only slightly, and continued on his way.
    It was settled then. Brother Avelyn Desbris would be one of the Preparers.
     
    Avelyn tried to keep his head bowed, his eyes to the floor, as befitted his lowly station, but he couldn’t help notice some of the splendors that surrounded him as he followed Master Jojonah through the winding corridors of the Abbot’s Maze, the most private and revered place in all of St.-Mere-Abelle, and one that a first-year novice would certainly not expect to