It was the Feast of Saint Malo, to be certain, but Amarel’s breathless attention to the Mass was exaggerated even for a devout boy on his name day. As far as Araphel knew, his brother had never even met the man.
Araphel bounced his leg impatiently. He had tried a delicate cough, he had tried a less delicate cough, and he had even awkwardly bumped into Amarel a few times when they kneeled and rose, but Sebastien was already fidgety enough that this behavior did not attract his brother’s attention.
Araphel was beginning to wonder what he had said or done wrong. He had, at least, stayed well away from Flann.
Amid the rustling of robes as they were seated after the Gospel reading, he finally dared lean close and whisper, “Malo!”
His brother did not seem to hear.
He did not have anything to say to him: he would have been content to have one look into those murky eyes. How many times that evening had he thought to himself that Amarel had been oddly silent all day? only to remember that his brother was silent at all times?
He was growing desperate enough to try his voice when some still vaguely attentive part of him remarked that the Abbot’s manner of speaking did not correspond to an ordinary Homily.
The vaguely attentive part of his attention immediately applied itself to listening, while the better part dove after the most recent words to have slipped by, dragging up a few of them before they were lost to the current. Something about gladsome news from the Continent…
And then he heard the words that captured all of his attention:
“We have a Pope.”
The monks were already smiling all around at one another in mutual congratulations, but Amarel still gazed straight ahead.
Araphel hardly noticed it, however, for he was occupied staring at the Abbot in disbelief. It had to be a mistake – and if he stared hard enough, surely Aelfden would realize it.
But he had the man: Desiderius of Monte Cassino. He had the name: Victor III. The only thing Aelfden did not have was the date – or else he had had gladsome news from half a year in the future.
“Let us pray,” he said. “O Lord, who built your Church on the rock of Saint Peter…”
As soon as the monks bowed their heads, Araphel hid his mouth behind his hand and whispered, “Malo!”
Amarel still ignored him.
Sebastien’s knees were bouncing together, and his heart was beginning to buck out of control. His body seemed on the verge of shaking apart – like everything.
“Malo!” he pleaded.
This was not a matter on the scale of one strange valley, with its unexpected births and miraculously avoided deaths, and with its last refugees from doomed races living a few years longer than anticipated.
If Desiderius had consented to be made Pope six or eight months early, who could say when or where he would die? Perhaps Otto of Lagery would die in obscurity. Perhaps the pleas of the Emperor of Byzantium would go unheeded. Perhaps there would be no Crusade.
And perhaps Araphel and Amarel and all their brothers would spend the rest of their time on earth seeking out men and women who were never supposed to have been born. How many would be found? Amarel still had not found the one he sought.
Araphel pressed his knees together between his hands and held them still, but there was nothing he could do about his heart. He recalled Dantalion’s mocking words: “You don’t like that, do you?”
Any letter from the Continent must have taken weeks to arrive, and yet none of their brothers had come to give them new orders, or even to warn them. They were alone.
“Malo!” he hissed as the prayer seemed to be coming to a close. “Did you hear – ”
But Amarel had heard.
The sorrow and silence of his murky eyes gave way to a hidden grimness, like sharp rocks revealed by a sinking tide.
They were alone – with each other – with their secrets – with Flann and her sisters – with Aelfden – and with Dantalion, who found it all “interesting.”
Chapters
Oh I'm kind of confused