The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) by Mark Teppo Read Free Book Online

cloud-strewn sky. “I carried a sword once,” he said. “I wanted to be a chevalier, a French knight. Did you know that?”
    “Brother Leo mentioned something to that effect,” Raphael admitted.
    “Did he tell you about Perugia? The Battle of Collestrada?” Brother Francis grunted when Raphael nodded. “He is an old gossip, Leo. It is a good thing he is also the kindest man I have ever met. Otherwise he would be insufferable.”
    “He is kind,” Raphael agreed. “I...when I arrived, I was a rather undignified guest...”
    Brother Francis offered him a smile. “We all are, at one time or another, here in God’s house.” His hands began to rub one another, his fingers working the dark smears on his skin. “How many of your brothers-in-arms were lost in Egypt?” he asked.
    “All but three of us,” Raphael said.
    “I am truly sorry.”
    “I could have saved them all,” Raphael admitted. “If I had just given the legate what he asked for. I could have saved them.”
    Brother Francis was silent for a moment, his gaze drifting idly across the open sky. “The prophecy,” he said finally, having found the memory he was looking for. “He wanted you and Eptor to give him a prophecy. I remember it now. When I returned from my stay with the Sultan, he was insisting that Eptor’s gift was nothing more than heretical possession, the touch of the Devil among his camp.”
    “I refused to give him what he wanted,” Raphael said. “He wanted a witness, someone who would have given credence to a lie of his devising. If it hadn’t been for your intercession, we would have been branded as heretics and tossed out of the camp.”
    A hard lump of laughter worked its way out of Raphael’s chest. “As it was, he simply waited six months and tried again. This time, you weren’t around to intercede. Nor was Sir John. The legate kept insisting; when I refused, he had me flogged. He took Eptor and tried to make my friend tell him what he wanted to hear. It didn’t work, of course. That was not Eptor’s...gift. All Pelagius succeeded in doing was distressing Eptor to a point that he retreated further into his illusion. And somewhere in that fog in his mind, he saw something he did not like. Something that frightened him. Something he could not look away from.”
    Raphael’s voice grew hoarse. “He screamed all night. I could do nothing to calm him. It was awful to listen to, but I couldn’t leave him. Nor could I bring myself to end his misery. I sat with him; I was the only friend he ever had. I sat with him until his fear burst his heart.”
    Brother Francis stopped rubbing his hands, resting them calmly in his lap. “You cannot carry that blame,” he said. “I would have done the same in your stead.” Raphael opened his mouth to protestotherwise, but the monk stopped him with a sidelong glance. “You should consider that possibility, my son,” the monk said. “Consider that I might be more at fault than you. In some convoluted fashion that only God could truly apprehend, am I not to blame?”
    “What?” Raphael asked. “How?”
    “Did I not abandon you and Eptor to the legate? Did I not fail to convert Al-Kamil to Christianity, to find a peaceful resolution to the enmity between the Church and the Sultan? Have I not spent my entire life preaching nonviolence, calling out each and every day for each of us to fill our hearts with nothing but peace? And has my personal
crusade
lessened the violence that surrounds us?”
    Raphael could not bring himself to vocalize agreement—the idea seemed so enormously reprehensible in its cruelty—but he could not verbalize any cogent argument to the contrary. His throat was too tight for any words to escape.
    Brother Francis offered him a kind smile. “I have been here for many weeks,” he said. “Every day I ask God this question: what have I really accomplished? What have I done that has made any difference?”
    Raphael nodded, hearing an echo of those questions in