"Your sister?" the ranger asked.
"Cousin," replied Shamus, somewhat distastefully.
"From the better part o' the family," Colleen was quick to put in, and Elbryan couldn't tell if her tone was serious or not. "Oh, me cousin's learned to speak so proper and pretty for courtin' ladies in Ursal. He's even been to the King's dinner table."
Shamus glowered at her, but she just gave a derisive laugh and turned to the ranger.
"Well, Master Nightbird —" she began.
"Just Nightbird," the ranger explained.
"Well, Master Nightbird," Colleen went on without missing a beat, "seems ye've got yer fight with the bloody caps. Me and me soldiers'll go along for the fun. We're all a bit troubled by the happenin's in Palmaris, and it might be good for us to take out our worrys on the powries."
The other two Palmaris soldiers, grim-faced, nodded.
Shamus Kilronney said, "We have not much time. The battlefield must be chosen and prepared."
"Ye make yer own battlefield when ye draw yer sword," stubborn Colleen put in.
Elbryan eyed the captain and then his cousin. There was an intense rivalry here, obviously, and the ranger understood that such feelings could lead to disaster in a fight. "I will learn where the powries have gone and choose the appropriate ground for our attack," he said, and he walked from the tent.
"Ye're a bit trustin'," he heard Colleen complain.
"None can prepare a battlefield better than Nightbird," Shamus was saying as Elbryan, shaking his head and smiling, mounted Symphony and started away. His amusement over Colleen Kilronney was short-lived, though, lasting only as long as it took him to consider again the grim news the woman had delivered.
He found Pony nearing the encampment even as he was leaving it, and he trotted Symphony over to her.
She eyed him suspiciously, and she knew even before he began to speak that something was wrong.
"Baron Bildeborough was murdered on the road, before he ever got near Ursal," Elbryan said, sliding down to stand beside his wife, "along with all his guard —though no sign of Roger was discovered among the dead."
"Powries again?" came Juraviel's voice from the trees, dripping with sarcasm. "Same clan that killed Abbot Dobrinion, no doubt."
"That thought may hold more truth than you believe," the ranger replied. "Those who found the Baron say he was killed by a great cat, but while the wounds might prove consistent with such a creature, I doubt the motive will."
"Tiger's paw," Pony spat, referring to the gemstone the monks could use to transform their limbs into those of a great cat. She closed her eyes and put her head down, sighing deeply, and Elbryan draped his arm around her shoulders, sensing that she needed the support. Every new encounter or word about the Abellican Church weighed heavily on Pony; every action these monks engaged in that was so unholy, so against the principles that had guided dear Avelyn, only reinforced her grief for her lost parents.
"Palmaris is in turmoil," Elbryan said, speaking more to Juraviel. "Our time with Captain Kilronney and his soldiers grows short. We should dispatch that powrie band before we depart."
"And what of Roger?" Pony was quick to ask. "Are we to continue our duties here, even go further away, while he might be in terrible peril? "
Elbryan held his hands out helplessly. "There was no sign of Roger, among the dead or anywhere on the road," he explained.
"He may have been taken," Juraviel offered.
"If he has been sent to St.-Mere-Abelle, I will go back," Pony declared, her tone so cold that it sent a shiver through Elbryan. He suspected that she meant to go in through the front doors this time, and leave little standing in her wake.
"And if he has been taken, then of course we will go for him," Elbryan assured her. "But we do not know that, and in the absence of evidence, we must hold our trust in Roger and continue our planned course."
"But if we continue to the north, or go against the powries, how will we discern Roger's fate?" Pony protested.
It was a dilemma, but the ranger remained unconvinced that they should drop everything and go in search of Roger Lockless. The man was a survivor. When Elbryan and Juraviel had gone into Powrie-occupied Caer Tinella to rescue him, they had found him already free. "I have no answers," the ranger admitted. "I know that I must trust Roger. If he was killed on the road, then there is nothing I can do about it."
"You would not avenge a friend?" Pony's words cut deep.
Elbryan stared at her as if she were a stranger, some different person than the one he had come to love so dearly.
Pony couldn't match that stare. She lowered her head and sighed again. "Of course you would," she admitted. "I am afraid for Roger, that is all."
"We can send word to Belster O'Comely in Palmaris," Juraviel offered. "The city is too large for us to go wandering about in an attempt to locate Roger. But Belster, so centered in the town, might be able to glean some information."
"All gossip flows through Fellowship Way," Pony added hopefully.
"I will go to Tomas Gingerwart," Elbryan offered, "and secure a trusted courier."
"None would prove more trustworthy than I," Pony said as the ranger took a step away.
Elbryan stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes; it took a long while for him to secure control of his anger. Then he turned to her slowly, astonished that she would take such a step.
"I must go and meet with Bradwarden," Juraviel remarked. "We will scout out the powries and report this evening." And the elf was gone, leaving the two, who had hardly heard his words, to their conversation.
CHAPTER 2
Jojonah's Legacy
"There are several promising brothers soon to attain the rank of immaculate," Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart said to Brother Braumin Herde when he joined the younger monk on the seawall of the great monastery of St.-Mere-Abelle, high above the cold waters of All Saints Bay.
Braumin turned to face the old man, then jumped back, startled. Markwart's hair had been thinning, but now it was gone, his head shaven clean. And that bald pate had changed Markwart's appearance considerably. His ears seemed longer and narrower, almost pointed, and his face seemed like chalky cloth laid over a skull. Braumin considered the tilt of Markwart's withered face, the hint of a sparkle —an evil glimmer?—in the man's otherwise dead eyes. And how much older the Father Abbot looked!
And yet, there was an undeniable aura of strength about the Father Abbot. He appeared taller to Braumin Herde, standing straighter than the younger monk remembered. Also, there was energy in the man's movements, and Brother Braumin knew that any thoughts he might have that the old wretch would soon die were false hopes. The shock of the Father Abbot's appearance soon wore off, but Braumin continued to study the old man closely, surprised that Markwart had ventured out in the chill wind, for Brother Braumin Herde, known as a friend of the executed heretic Jojonah, was obviously not among the Father Abbot's favorites.
"Promising," Markwart said again when his first words failed to bring any response from the younger monk. "Perhaps there are now immaculate brothers at St.-Mere-Abelle who should fear that these new peers might step ahead of them into the positions of master left vacant by the departure of Marcalo De'Unnero and the death of the heretic Jojonah."
The murder, you mean! Brother Braumin silently retorted. It had happened just three weeks before, in mid-Calember, the eleventh month, with winter beginning its icy assault on the land. A College of Abbots had been convened at St.-Mere-Abelle, and Father Abbot Markwart, as expected, had used the occasion to ask for a formal declaration that Avelyn Desbris be branded a heretic and an outlaw. Master Jojonah, Braumin's mentor and friend, had taken his stand against Markwart, arguing that Avelyn, though he defied the Church and absconded with some sacred gemstones, was a holy man and no heretic, and that Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart was in fact the true heretic, who twisted Church doctrine for evil gain.
Jojonah had been burned at the stake that same morning.
And Brother Bra
umin, because of his vow to his dear mentor, had watched helplessly as his beloved friend had been tortured and murdered.
"Have you seen to the preparation for the ceremony welcoming the new class?" Markwart asked. "It may seem like a long time away, but if winter comes on with a vengeance this year, you will not be able to get out into the courtyard to measure for the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering and other such necessities."
"Yes, Father Abbot," Brother Braumin mechanically replied.
"Good, my son, good," Markwart replied, his tone condescending. The old man reached up and patted Braumin's shoulder, and it took every ounce of self-control Braumin could muster not to recoil from that cold, heartless touch. "You have great potential, my son," the Father Abbot went on. "With proper guidance, you may yet replace Master De'Unnero, as Brother Francis will likely replace damned Jojonah."
Braumin Herde gritted his teeth, biting back a vicious response. The mere thought of Brother Francis Dellacourt, the spineless, plotting lackey, replacing his beloved Jojonah disgusted him.
Markwart, trying futilely to hide his grin, walked off then, leaving Braumin alone with a throat full of bile and silent screams. The monk did not doubt the Father Abbot's sincerity in hinting that Braumin might be elevated to the position of master. That coveted title would carry little practical weight under Markwart's rule, and Braumin would only be awarded the honor, if it ever happened, so that Markwart could dispel any rumbling of discontent within the Abellican Church. Master Jojonah had been highly regarded by many abbots and fellow masters, and the suddenness and brutality with which Markwart and Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce had accused, convicted, and executed him had taken all by surprise, leaving more than a few upset. Of course, any who might have protested was kept silent by terror —Markwart and Je'howith had used soldiers of the Allheart Brigade, the elite guard of the King himself, as their tools of murder, and few would dare argue against the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order in his home abbey of St.-Mere-Abelle, perhaps the greatest fortress in the world.
Now, Markwart was working to control any budding arguments based on hindsight. He had his declaration against Avelyn —that seemed secure enough—but the further declaration that had condemned Jojonah seemed open to interpretation and argument. By promoting Brother Braumin Herde, widely known as the protege of Jojonah, to the rank of master, Markwart would quiet such talk.
Still, even knowing that his appointment might strengthen Markwart, Braumin would have to accept, by the same vow that had kept him silent as his dearest friend had been burned alive.
The monk stared out over the seawall at the choppy water some three hundred feet below him. Small indeed did he feel physically in the face of the scope of Nature's majesty spread before him, and in every other way in the face of the plotting and power of Dalebert Markwart.
The Father Abbot rubbed his arms briskly when he entered the abbey, but even here the seawall corridor was full of open windows and offered only meager protection from the cold wind. The old man wasn't really bothered by it. He was in a generous mood this day; his words to Brother Braumin Herde were not without merit, and were not even based solely on Markwart's own conniving. For all the world seemed brighter to Markwart since the College of Abbots had rid him of troublesome Jojonah and had declared Avelyn a heretic. That declaration, along with the formal wording which hinted Avelyn and Jojonah had conspired from before Avelyn had gone to Pimaninicuit to gather the gemstones, had all but restored the Father Abbot's reputation concerning those stolen jewels. If Markwart could retrieve the stones, he would find a place of great respect in the annals of the Abellican Church; and even if he could not, the bulk of the blame had been diverted.
No, his reputation had been secured. Between the defeat of the conspiracy within the Church and the defeat of the demon dactyl, Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart's name would surely be spoken in reverence by the future generations of Abellican monks.
With a bounce in his step, the old man hurried along and pushed through a door —and nearly ran into Brother Francis Dellacourt, who was hastening the other way. The younger monk was out of breath and seemed relieved to have found the Father Abbot.
"You have news," Markwart reasoned, noting the rolled parchment Brother Francis clutched in his hand.
Francis had to catch his breath. And he, too, was startled by the change in Markwart's appearance. Francis tried to hide his discomfort, but he blinked repeatedly, his mouth partly open.
"I consider it rather becoming," Markwart said calmly, running a hand over his bald pate.
Francis stuttered through an incomprehensible reply, then merely nodded his head and began fumbling with the ribbon securing the parchment.
"Is that the list I asked you to compile? " an impatient Markwart asked.
"No, Father Abbot. It is from Abbot De'Unnero," Francis replied, regaining some composure as he handed it over. "The courier said it was of utmost importance. I suspect it might have something to do with the missing gemstones."
Markwart snatched up the parchment, flipped the ribbon from it, and unrolled it, devouring the words. At first his expression showed confusion, but it quickly began to brighten, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wicked grin.
"The gemstones?" Brother Francis asked.
"No, my son," Markwart purred. "No mention of the stones. It seems that the great city of Palmaris has fallen into a state of complete confusion, for Baron Rochefort Bildeborough has chosen a most inopportune time to leave this life."
"Pardon?" Brother Francis asked, for Markwart's words did not fit the old man's smug expression. They both knew about Rochefort's death, of course, for news had reached St.-Mere-Abelle long before the College of Abbots had been convened.
"The Baron of Palmaris died at a very inopportune time for his family, it seems," the Father Abbot said plainly. "They have concluded the search of Palmaris records, and Abbot De'Unnero's suspicions have been proven true. The Baron left no heirs. A pity, for Rochefort Bildeborough, despite his oft-misguided bravado, was, by all accounts, a fine man and wise governor, as has been the tradition of the Bildeborough family for generations."
Francis sought a reply, but found none. They had received word only a few days before learning of Baron Bildeborough's demise that Connor Bildeborough, nephew of Rochefort and, it seemed, sole heir to the barony, had been killed north of the city.
"Dispatch Abbot De'Unnero's messenger with the reply that his note was received and understood," Markwart instructed, moving past Francis and motioning for him to follow. "And what of that list? "
"It is nearly complete, Father Abbot," Francis said sheepishly. "But the workers at the abbey are in a state of almost constant flux, with some leaving and others being hired every week."
"You offer excuses?"
"N-no, Father Abbot," Francis stuttered. "But it is a difficult —"
"Focus on any who might have come in after my journey to Palmaris," Markwart instructed, "including those who were hired during that time and who have already left our employ."
The Father Abbot started on his way then, with Francis falling into step behind him. "We each have work to do," Markwart said rather sternly, turning to Francis.
"I only thought that we were to speak," Francis apologized.
"And so we have." Markwart turned and walked off.
Brother Francis stood in the empty hall for a long while, wounded by the abrupt treatment and stunned by the Father Abbot's change in appearance, his harsh, almost sinister look. The Father Abbot had been in good spirits of late, but apparently that did not prevent him from cutting hard and deep. Francis considered his own failings, tried to put Markwart's ire in perspective considering that he had not completed the task. But in truth he knew he had worked diligently and without pause —except for answering Abbot De'Unnero's messenger—since Markwart had assigned him the list.
Brother Francis could accept the harsh words. What bothered him more was the news from Palmaris and the Father Abbot's reaction to it. Baron
Bildeborough, the next in a growing line of adversaries to Father Abbot Markwart, was now, like all of those previous adversaries, dead. Coincidence? And how convenient it seemed that there were no other Bildeboroughs left alive to inherit the barony.
Brother Francis pushed away the thoughts, forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He had to go to the larders next, to speak with Brother Machuso, who handled all the servants for kitchen and cleaning duties. It would be a long day.
Brothers Braumin Herde, Marlboro Viscenti, Holan Dellman, Anders Castinagis, and Romeo Mullahy each made his separate way to the secret oratory prepared far below the common rooms of St.-Mere-Abelle, to a small chamber beside the old library wherein Master Jojonah had found his answers to the philosophical conflict between Father Abbot Markwart and Brother Avelyn Desbris. Since the week after the execution of Master Jojonah, the five monks had met every other night, soon after vespers, for these private prayers.
The five sat on the floor in a circle about a single tall candle and joined hands. Brother Braumin, as the ranking monk and the oldest of the group by several years, began the prayers, as usual invoking the names of Jojonah and Avelyn Desbris, asking for guidance and strength for the group from their departed mentors. Braumin noted that both Castinagis and Mullahy shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Avelyn: merely speaking the man's name in a positive manner was now considered a heinous crime by the Abellican Church —and by the state, since Avelyn had been formally declared a heretic. The same was true of Jojonah, but all five of these men had known Jojonah for a long time and not one of them accepted the verdict that had doomed the gentle master.
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