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

visit.
    Jojonah’s explanation for the tour had been weak, some remark about an area that needed cleaning. After only a few weeks in the abbey, Avelyn knew enough about the routine to understand that students much older and more experienced than he were the normal choice for any tasks, however menial, in the Abbot’s Maze. He also knew that nothing special was going on, that many of the older students would have been available to Master Jojonah.
    His questions were kept private though, for it was not his place to ask anything of the masters. Only to obey, and so he was, walking as quietly as he could beside the plump man, keeping his head bowed but still stealing an occasional glance at the splendor: the gold leaf bordering every side door, the wondrous and intricate carvings on every beam of wood, the mosaic tile patterns on the floors, the tapestries, so rich in detail that Avelyn figured he could spend hours and hours lingering over but one of them. Master Jojonah talked constantly, though he said nothing of interest—slight remarks about the weather, a storm that had hit twenty years before, the passing of his favorite baker in the town of St.-Mere-Abelle, a surprisingly off-color remark about the man’s “lusty” wife. None of it diverted Avelyn’ s attention from the wonders of the place, though he did listen somewhat, fearing to miss any questions directed his way.
    They stopped before a heavy door—and what a door! Avelyn could not help but lift his eyes at the sight of the thing, at the layers and layers of painted carvings, scenes of battles, of Saint Abelle being burned at the stake, of the healing hands of Mother Bastibule. Scenes of angels conquering demons, of the mighty demon dactyl screaming in agony as its own lava poured over it, consuming it. Scenes of the Halo, the heavenly gift, enwrapping all the others, an oval because of the angle at which it was portrayed. It started, if such a complete thing could be said to start, at the bottom left corner of the door, and led the observer’s eye upward across the portal to the top right. And on the way, as Avelyn’s eyes scanned, it seemed to him as if the history of the world, of the faith, unfolded to him, the images packed so that one led to another easily, with enough distinction so that each made an impact, however brief, like the flowing of time.
    He wanted to kneel and pray; he wanted to ask who the artist—or artists, for certainly no one man could have created all of this—might be, but realized before the words left his mouth that any name would be inconsequential for certainly the carvers and illuminators who had done this had done so at the explicit intervention of God. He alone, who called all the men and women of the world His children, might have done this.
    “You know of the Ring Stones?” Master Jojonah asked abruptly, and the words sounded sharp and out of place to Avelyn. He nearly jumped, and turned with a start, surprised that a master would be so foolish as to speak in the presence of such beauty.
    Then the impact of the question hit him fully.
    “You know?” Jojonah asked again.
    Avelyn swallowed hard, trying to discern his best response. Of course he knew of the Ring Stones, the heavenly gifts to St.-Mere-Abelle, the source of all the magic in the world. Avelyn didn’t know much, though, just the common rumors about how the stones would fall from the heavens into the hands of waiting monks, to be blessed by the Father Abbot that their special powers be realized.
    “We are the Keepers of the Stones,” Master Jojonah said after a moment, Avelyn still making no move to respond.
    The young monk nodded slightly.
    “It is our most holy duty,” Jojonah said, moving to the door and lifting the heavy latch that held it. Avelyn blinked; amid the wonders of the door, he hadn’t even noticed the huge latch!
    “The stones are the proof of our faith,” Jojonah remarked, pushing wide the door.
    Avelyn stood as if turned to stone.