Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad (The Foreworld Saga) by Mark Teppo Page A

followers.
    The
sharp-eyed lay brothers — Cotsa and Nestor — had already determined that both
pilgrims carried satchels.
    Brother
Leo listened to the prattle of the others with detached amusement. He had grown
accustomed to the serenity afforded by the seclusion of the hermitage; he did
not yearn as readily as these youngsters for these passing dalliances with the
decadences of civilization. Most of the lay brothers had only been following
the letter of Brother Francis’s Rule for less than a season. The mystery of an
unexpected visitor — and the possibility of extra rations! — made them
unbecomingly giddy. He could not fault them, however; he remembered the first
few years in the order — back before it had been officially recognized by the
Pope — and how any respite from strict piety was eagerly embraced.
    “There,”
said Brother Cotsa. The tall monk pointed over the heads of the others, and all
chatter ceased as the Fraticelli turned their collective attention to
the path.
    Piro
emerged from the cleft first, and he smiled and waved at the sight of the
clustered monks. “Ho, Piro,” Cotsa called down to him, and Brother Leo frowned
at his lay brother’s casual disregard for the order’s traditional greeting.
Some of the others shouted down to the pair as well, asking questions that
could not be readily answered before the two men arrived at the hermitage.
    The
stranger paused as he emerged from the rocky passage, taking a moment to stare
up at the monks. A large hat, floppy from age and the heat, covered his head,
and his tunic and pants were equally simple and unadorned. His boots were worn
but solid — well-formed to his feet and legs. The man carried a sword on a
baldric, and he stood with the practiced ease of a man used to the presence of
a scabbard against his hip. His skin was darker than Brother Leo's, and his
face was adorned with a neatly trimmed beard. Brother Leo estimated he had not
seen more than two dozen winters, but there was a cant to his carriage that
suggested he carried both wisdom and pain beyond his years.
    “May
the Lord give you peace,” Brother Leo called out to the stranger in Latin. He
glared at the Fraticelli next to him, silently admonishing them for
their failed courtesy.
    The
stranger looked up, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “And may
peace be upon you as well,” he replied.
    Brother
Leo scratched the side of his neck. The man had replied quickly and surely — his
Latin graceful, yet touched with an accent Brother Leo could not place. He
spoke as if the greeting of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum was familiar, but
his response was not quite in keeping with tradition.
    Piro
reached the plateau and dumped his satchel on the dusty ground. “Ho, holy men,”
the young goatherd called out. “I bring one of your brothers.”
    “One
of us?” Brother Mante asked. He was the tallest of the group, and oftentimes
his height made him the spokesperson. “How can that be, Piro? None of us carry
a sword.”
    “He
has” — Piro offered a steadying hand to his companion who was struggling with
the last few steps up the steep path — “what do you call it?”
    The
young man seized the offered hand and hauled himself up. “An Ordo ,” he
explained. He fumbled with his satchel for a moment as if he wasn’t quite sure
what to do with his hands. “I am Raphael of Acre. Forgive my unexpected arrival.
Piro here said he would show me the way, and it would appear that he did so.
Quite successfully.” The young man was slightly out of breath, but he hid it
well.
    “Which
order might you be a member of?” Brother Cotsa inquired, still brusque with an
indelicacy born of excitement.
    “Perhaps
we might wait to interrogate our visitor until after he has rested from his
climb,” Brother Leo pointed out, mortified by the lack of decorum on the part
of his fellow Fraticelli .
    “No,
no. It’s fine,” the young man said. “You are the Ordo Fratrum Minorum ,
are you not?