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

his own heart. “Has He offered you an answer?” he asked.
    Brother Francis idly rubbed the back of his hand again, and Raphael noticed that, even in the gloom of the shack, the shadows on the backs of the monk’s hands remained. “He has,” Brother Francis said. “Rather, He will. Soon.” He smiled again, and this time his smile was free of any sorrow. “I have faith.”
    Raphael wanted to touch the other man’s face, to trace his fingers along the curve of that smile in a vain effort to understand how it was formed.
After everything he had seen, how could he still cling to his faith?
    After everything I have done, how can I be worthy of such faith?
    Brother Francis twisted around and grabbed the edge of the chest. He pulled it closer to him and fumbled with the lid. He took out a ragged scrap of parchment, and rooting around inside the box, he located several shards of charcoal. “Do you know much about the Muslim faith?” he asked as he smoothed the piece of parchment flat. “Their holy book is called the
Qur’an
, and it contains a list of the names of God. Ninety-nine of them, in fact. The Sultan, Al-Kamil, told me about this when he and I met in Egypt. He is an incredible man, and to this day, I wish the mean and petty differences of our cultures did not prevent us from being better friends.” He sighed.
    “I was born in Acre,” Raphael said. “As was my mother and her mother.”
    Brother Francis eyed him. “And yet you are a Christian man?”
    Raphael struggled with his answer. “The only vows I have ever sworn—the only ones I will ever keep—are those I swore to Athena Promachos.”
    “‘She who fights in the front line,’” Brother Francis said. “Those are hard vows to keep.” He laughed. Not from a place of pity or arrogance, but from simple clarity. “You may be a stronger man than I, Raphael of Acre,” he admitted.
    He showed Raphael the sheet. It was covered with a number of skewed lines of Latin, and Raphael read a few: “
You are Good, all Good, supreme Good...
”
    “It is but a pittance,” Brother Francis explained. “A distraction, perhaps, from what I am meant to be doing, but for some time, it has been something I have been yearning to write. In fact, it is only now, meeting you again, that I understand the source of this desire.” He turned the page over and, peering at Raphael’s face for reference, quickly sketched a figure at the base of the page. The man seemed to be lying on his back, looking up at the lines of text over his head. He squinted at Raphael’s hat and shook his head, drawing instead a peaked cap reminiscent of the style worn by Muslims. Witha practiced twist of his hand, he inscribed a letter rising from the figure’s mouth.
    “Do you know what this is?” he asked Raphael, pointing at the letter.
    “The
tau
,” Raphael said.
    “Do you know what it means?”
    “I have heard it is used to represent the Cross upon which Jesus died.”
    “The Cross upon which he was
resurrected
,” Brother Francis corrected him. “Our lives are not spent waiting for death, but waiting for life.”
    Raphael acceded this interpretation could be equally valid, though the subtle distinction was one that he would have to consider more fully. “I have brought death to many,” he said quietly.
    “And have you not given others life?” Brother Francis asked.
    Raphael shrugged. “How can one ever atone for the other?”
    “Only God can answer that question for you, Raphael of Acre,” Brother Francis said. “But you have to let Him. You have to have faith that He will.”
    Raphael nodded, hearing the monk’s words. His mind struggled to accept them, to let them sink into his heart where they might take root.
    “Give this to Brother Leo,” Brother Francis said, offering the page to Raphael. “Tell him it is more important than any other legacy of mine.” His face tightened, a brief spasm of pain that seemed to rise from nowhere and flee just as quickly.
    “I