DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

  He was soon in the bushes about the small campsite, the fire clearly in sight. He thought that he had been silent, and was glad to see the two bedrolls bulging with forms. How to wake them, he wondered, without frightening them into action?

  He decided to wait until the dawn, to let them wake up on their own, but even as he started to settle down for perhaps an hour’s wait, he sensed that he was being watched.

  Master Jojonah spun about as the large form crashed in. Though Jojonah, like all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, was a trained fighter, in the blink of an eye he was on his back, the edge of a very fine sword pressed against his throat, the strong man on top of him, pinning him helplessly.

  Jojonah made no move to resist, and the man, upon recognizing him, backed off slightly.

  “No others in the area,” came a melodic voice—the elf, Jojonah presumed.

  “Master Jojonah!” the woman said, coming into view. She rushed over and put a hand on the strong ranger’s shoulder, and with a look and a nod, Elbryan got up from the monk and offered his hand.

  Jojonah took it and was pulled to his feet with such ease that the man’s strength, like his incredible agility, stunned him.

  “Why are you here?” the woman asked.

  Jojonah looked right into her eyes, their beauty and depth not diminished in the least by the dim light. “Why are you?” he asked, and his tone, one that showed such understanding, gave both Pony and Elbryan pause.

  CHAPTER 30

  In Search of Answers

  “Brother Talumus,” Baron Bildeborough went on slowly, calmly, his tone a futile attempt to hide the agitation that bubbled just beneath the surface, “tell me again of Connor’s visit here, of every stop he made, of everything he inspected.”

  The young monk, thoroughly flustered, for it was obvious he wasn’t giving the Baron what he wanted, started talking so fast and in so many different directions that his words came out as a jumble. Prompted by the Baron’s patting hand, the man stopped and took a deep and steadying breath.

  “The abbot’s room first,” Talumus said slowly. “He was not pleased that we had cleaned it up, but what were we to do?” As he finished the sentence, his voice rose up again with excitement. “The abbot must be in public state—tradition demands it! And if we were to have guests at the abbey—oh, and streams of them!— then we could not leave the room all gory and torn up.”

  “Of course not. Of course not,” Baron Bildeborough said repeatedly, trying to keep the monk calm.

  Roger watched his new mentor closely, impressed by the man’s patience, by how he was keeping this blubbering monk somewhat on track. Still, Roger could see the underlying tension on Rochefort’s face, for the man now understood, as did Roger, that they would get few answers and little satisfaction here. St. Precious, with no ranking masters behind Abbot Dobrinion, was in absolute disarray, with monks running every which way, and discussion of this or that rumor taking the place of even the prayer times. One confirmed bit of news had proven especially unnerving to Roger and Rochefort: St. Precious would soon get a new abbot, a master from St.-Mere-Abelle.

  To Roger and to Rochefort, that fact seemed to lend even more credence to Connor’s suspicions that the Father Abbot himself had been behind the murder.

  “We left the powrie, though,” Brother Talumus went on, “at least until after Master Connor had departed.”

  “And then Connor went to the kitchen?” Rochefort inquired gently.

  “To Keleigh Leigh, yes,” replied Talumus. “Poor girl.”

  “And she was not injured other than the drowning?” Roger dared to put in, looking directly at Rochefort as he spoke, though the question was obviously for Talumus. Roger had previously explained to Rochefort that Keleigh Leigh’s lack of cuts—for dipping berets—had been a primary clue to Connor that the powrie had not committed these crimes.

  “No,” replied Talumus.

  “None of her blood was spilled?”

  “No.”

  “Go and find me the person who first discovered her body,” Baron Bildeborough instructed. “And be quick.”

  Brother Talumus scrambled to his feet, saluted and bowed, then ran from the room.

  “The monk who found her will likely have little to tell us,” Roger remarked, surprised by the Baron’s request.

  “Forget the monk,” Rochefort explained. “I only sent Brother Talumus that we might find a few minutes alone. We must decide upon our course, my friend, and quickly.”

  “We should not tell them of Connor’s suspicions, or of his demise,” Roger said after a few seconds’ pause. Baron Bildeborough was nodding as he went on. “They are helpless in the face of this. Not a single monk here, if Talumus is the highest-ranking remaining, could possibly stand against the coming master of St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  “It does seem that Abbot Dobrinion was lax in developing any talents in his lessers,” Rochefort agreed. He gave a snort. “Though I might enjoy the sheer tumult of telling Talumus and all the others that St.-Mere-Abelle murdered their beloved abbot.”

  “Not much of a fight,” Roger put in dryly. “From all that Connor told me of the Church, St.-Mere-Abelle would quickly dismantle the order at St. Precious, and then the Father Abbot would be even more entrenched in Palmaris than he will be when the new abbot arrives.”

  “True enough,” Baron Bildeborough admitted with a sigh. He brightened his expression immediately for the sake of the two jittery monks entering the room, Talumus and the first witness. On with the questioning, he decided, but only for appearances—both he and Roger knew they would learn nothing more from this man or any other at St. Precious.

  The two were back at Chasewind Manor soon after, Rochefort pacing the floor while Roger sat upon the man’s favorite stuffed chair.

  “Ursal is a long ride,” Rochefort was saying. “Of course, I will want you with me.”

  “Will we actually meet the King?” Roger asked, a bit overwhelmed by that possibility.

  “Oh, but King Danube Brock Ursal is a good friend, Roger,” replied the Baron. “A good friend. He will grant me audience and will believe me, do not doubt. Whether or not he will be able to take any overt action given the lack of evidence—”

  “I was a witness!” Roger protested. “I saw the monk kill Connor.”

  “Perhaps you bear false witness.”

  “You do not believe me?”

  “Of course I do!” the Baron replied, again giving that customary pat in the air with his plump hand. “Indeed, boy, else why would I have gone to so much trouble? Why would I have given you Greystone and Defender? If I didn’t trust you, boy, you would be in chains, and tortured until I was convinced that you were speaking truly.”

  The Baron paused and looked at Roger more closely. “Where is that sword?” he asked.

  Roger shifted uncomfortably. Had he just compromised that trust? he wondered. “Both sword and horse have been put to good use,” he explained.

  “By whom?” the Baron demanded.

  “By Jilly,” Roger was quick to reply. “Her road is darker still, and fraught with battle, I fear. I gave them over to her, for I am no rider, nor much of a swordsman.”

  “Both can be taught,” the Baron grumbled.

  “But we’ve not the time,” Roger replied. “And Jilly can put them to good use at once. Do not doubt her prowess …” Roger paused, trying to gauge the great man’s reaction.

  “Again I trust in your judgment,” the Baron said at length. “So we’ll not speak of this again. Now back to our primary business. I believe you—of course I do. But Danube Brock Ursal will be more cautious in his acceptance, do not doubt. Do you realize the implications of our claims? If King Danube accepted them as truth and spoke of them publicly, he might well begin a war between Church and state, a bloodbath that neither side desires.”

  “But one that the Father Abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle began,” Roger reminded.

  A cloud passed over Baron Rochefort Bildeborough’s face then, and he seemed to Roger so v
ery old and tired indeed. “And so we must go south, it would seem,” he said.

  A knock on the door cut short Roger’s response.

  “My Baron,” said an attendant, entering, “word has just come to us that the new abbot of St. Precious has arrived. Master De’Unnero, by name.”

  “Do you know of him?” the Baron asked Roger, who only shook his head.

  “He has already requested your audience,” the attendant went on. “At St. Precious this very afternoon at high tea.”

  Bildeborough nodded and the attendant left the room.

  “I must hurry, it would seem,” the Baron remarked, glancing out the window at the westering sun.

  “I will accompany you,” Roger said, rising from the stuffed chair.

  “No,” Bildeborough replied. “Though I would indeed welcome your impressions of this man. But if the depth of this heinous conspiracy is as far-reaching as we fear, then better that I go alone. Let the name and face of Roger Billingsbury remain unknown to Abbot De’Unnero.”

  Roger wanted to argue, but he knew that the man was right, and knew, too, that Bildeborough’s answer for not taking him was only half of the reason. Roger understood that he was still young and very inexperienced in matters politic, and Bildeborough feared— and Roger could not honestly dismiss those fears as folly—that this new abbot might glean a bit too much information from their high tea.

  So Roger sat and waited at Chasewind Manor for the rest of that afternoon.

  Mid-Calember was not so far away. Not when Father Abbot Markwart considered the preparations he must make for the momentous proclamations he intended. The old and wrinkled man paced his office at St.-Mere-Abelle, pausing every time he passed the window to view the summer foliage. The events of the last few weeks, particularly the discovery at the Barbacan and the trouble in Palmaris, had forced Markwart to change his thinking on many matters, or at least to accelerate his maneuvers toward his long-term goals.

  With Dobrinion gone, the makeup of the College of Abbots had changed dramatically. Though he would be a new abbot, De’Unnero, by the mere fact that he presided over St. Precious, would be granted a strong voice at the College, possibly even third behind only Markwart and Je’howith of St. Honce. That would give Markwart great power to strike hard.

  The old cleric smiled wickedly as he fantasized about that meeting. At the College of Abbots he would forever discredit Avelyn Desbris, would brand the man indelibly as a heretic. Yes, that was important, Markwart realized, for if he did not pass such sanctions against Avelyn, then the man’s actions would remain open for interpretation. As long as the brand of heretic had not been formalized, all of the monks, even first-year brothers, remained free to discuss the events of Avelyn’s departure, and that was a dangerous thing. Would some be sympathetic to the man? Might the word “escape” wriggle into such discussions in place of the commonly described murder and theft?

  Yes, the sooner he made the declaration of heresy and it was approved by the Church leaders, the better. Once the brand was formalized, no discussion of Avelyn Desbris in any positive light would be tolerated at any abbey or chapel. Once Avelyn was declared a heretic, his entry into the annals of Church history would be complete, and ultimately damning.

  Markwart blew a long sigh as he considered the road to that coveted goal. He would be opposed, he suspected, by stubborn Master Jojonah—if the man lived that long.

  Markwart dismissed the possibility of yet another assassination; if all of his known enemies began dying, then probing eyes would likely turn his way. And besides, he knew that Jojonah was not alone in his beliefs. He could not strike out that hard. Not yet.

  But he had to be prepared should the fight come to pass. He had to be able to prove his point about Avelyn’s heresy, for the devastation at the Barbacan was certainly open to interpretation. It was true, and indisputable, that Siherton had been killed on the night of Avelyn’s flight from St.-Mere-Abelle, but in that, too, Jojonah might be able to find some argument. Intent, and not mere action, determined sin, and only true sin could brand a man a heretic.

  Thus Markwart knew he would have to prove more than his interpretation of the events on the night when Avelyn absconded with the stones. To get the complete confirmation of that brand—a brand the Church had never been quick to hand out—he would have to prove that Avelyn subsequently used those stones for ill, that the man’s degeneration to the dark side of human nature was complete. But he would never quiet Jojonah, Markwart realized. The man would fight him concerning Avelyn Desbris, would deny his plans to the last. Yes, he saw that now; Jojonah would return with the College of Abbots and would fight him. They were long overdue for that confrontation. Thus Markwart decided that he would have to destroy the master, and not just the man’s argument.

  Markwart knew exactly where he could find allies to that cause, a preemptive strike against Jojonah. Abbot Je’howith of St. Honce held a position as a close adviser to the King, and could access that power, in the form of the fanatical Allheart Brigade. All that he had to do, Markwart thought, was prep Je’howith properly, have him bring along a few of those merciless warriors…

  Satisfied, the Father Abbot turned his thoughts to the issue of Avelyn. He did have one remaining witness to Avelyn’s actions, Bradwarden, but from his interrogations of the centaur, both verbal and with the soul stone, he had a fair measure of the beast’s considerable willpower and feared that Bradwarden would not break, no matter how brutally they tortured him.

  With that in mind, the Father Abbot moved to his desk and made a note to Brother Francis that he should work ceaselessly with the centaur until the College convened. If they couldn’t trust that Bradwarden had indeed broken and would say whatever they told him to say, then the centaur would be killed before the distinguished guests arrived.

  Markwart realized yet another problem as he penned that note. Francis was a ninth-year brother, yet only immaculates and abbots would be allowed to attend the College. Markwart wanted Francis there; the man had his limitations, but he was loyal enough.

  The Father Abbot ripped a corner of the parchment and noted a reminder, “IBF,” to himself, then tucked it away. As he had broken protocol, due to the emergency of the war, in appointing De’Unnero as abbot of St. Precious and in sending Jojonah to the Palmaris abbey to serve as De’Unnero’s second, so he would promote Brother Francis to the rank of immaculate.

  Immaculate Brother Francis.

  Markwart liked the sound of that, liked the notion of increasing the power of those who obeyed him without question. His explanation for the premature appointment would be simple, and surely accepted: with two masters sent to bolster St. Precious, St.-Mere-Abelle had been left weak at the top echelons. Though the abbey boasted scores of immaculates, few had attained the credentials necessary for promotion to the rank of master, few even continued to strive for such a rank, and Francis, given his vital work with the caravan to the Barbacan, would strengthen that stable considerably.

  Yes, the Father Abbot mused. He would promote Francis before the College, and then again, soon after, to the rank of master, to replace…

  … Jojonah, he decided, instead of De’Unnero. For De’Unnero’s replacement he would look among the scores of immaculates, perhaps even to Braumin Herde, who was deserving even if his choice of mentors had left a great deal to be desired. Still, with Jojonah so far away and unlikely to ever return—except for the three weeks of the College—Markwart figured that he might be able to bring Braumin Herde tighter into the fold by tempting him with the coveted rank.

  The Father Abbot’s step lightened as he waded through these problems, as solutions became all too apparent. This new insight he had found, this new level of inner guidance, seemed nothing short of miraculous. Every layer of intrigue seemed to fall away, leaving him with answers crystal clear.

  Except for the problem of branding Avelyn quickly, he reminded himself, and he slapped his hand against his desk in frustration. No, Bradwarden would not break, would remain d
efiant until the bitter end. Markwart, for the first time, lamented the loss of the Chilichunks, for they, he knew, would have been so much easier to control.

  An image came to him then, of the small library wherein Jojonah had been digging for information about Brother Allabarnet. Markwart saw the room clearly in his mind, and couldn’t understand why—until one area of the back corner, a distant, unused shelf, came clear in the image.

  Markwart followed his instincts, followed the inner guidance, first to his desk to retrieve some gemstones, then down from his office, down the damp and dark stairs that led to the ancient library. No guards were posted now, for Jojonah was supposedly far away, and Markwart, glowing diamond in hand, entered cautiously. He went past the shelves of books to the back corner, to the books which the Church had long ago banned. He knew logically that even he, the Father Abbot, should not be perusing these, but that inner voice promised him answers to his dilemma.

  He studied the shelf for a few minutes, glancing at every tome, at the labels of every rolled parchment, then closed his eyes and replayed those images.

  His eyes stayed closed, but he lifted his hand, trusting that it was being guided to the book he needed. Grasping gently but firmly, Markwart tucked the prize under his arm and shuffled away, and was back in the privacy of his office before he even inspected the work,The Incantations Sorcerous.

  Roger expected that the Baron would be gone late into the evening, and was rather surprised when the man returned long before the sun had even touched the horizon. He went to meet Bildeborough full of hope that all had gone well, but those hopes were deflated as soon as he saw the huge man, huffing and puffing, his face red from explosive rage.

  “In all my years, I have never met a more unpleasant man, let alone a supposed holy man!” Rochefort Bildeborough fumed, storming out of the foyer and into his audience room.

  Roger, following quickly, thought he might have to take a second choice of seat this time, for the Baron plopped into his stuffed chair. But then the huge man was right back to his feet, pacing anxiously, and so Roger slipped in behind him to take what was fast becoming his customary seat.