DemonWars Saga Volume 1
Page 153
"As long as you loosen your apron strings to make room for the belly," Belster replied slyly.
Pony looked down automatically, a bit confused, for her stomach was just beginning to bulge.
"Well, not yet, perhaps," Belster said.
"You make many assumptions," Pony said, a hint of anger in her voice. She walked to the door and pushed past Belster. He caught her by the shoulder and turned her so that she was facing him squarely.
"Had three of my own," he said.
"You speak in riddles."
"I solve riddles," the innkeeper corrected, a wide smile on his face. "I know that you had time with your lover. I know that the demands of the war had lessened, and I know what young people in love do. And, my secretive friend, I know what morning sickness signals.
"You are with child," Belster said bluntly.
The edge of defiance faded from Pony's bright blue eyes. She gave a slight nod.
Belster's smile nearly took in his ears. "Then why are you apart from Nightbird?" he asked, and then he frowned suddenly. "He is the father, of course."
Now it was Pony's turn to smile and to laugh aloud.
"Then why are you here, girl, while Nightbird's up north?" Belster asked. "He should be beside you, taking care of your every need and desire."
"He does not even know," Pony admitted, but then she told a little lie. "For I did not know when I left him in Caer Tinella."
"Then you must go to him."
"To be caught in a blizzard?" Pony asked skeptically. "And you are assuming that Elbryan is in Caer Tinella. Since the weather has been so mild, he might already be on his way to the Timberlands." She held up her hand to calm Belster, who was growing visibly agitated. "We will meet again soon after the turn of spring, soon enough to tell him," Pony explained. "Fear not, my good friend. Our roads have separated, but not forever, not even for long."
Belster considered the words for a moment, then burst out in laughter and wrapped Pony in a great hug. "Ah, but we should be celebrating!" He roared, lifting her from the ground and spinning her around. "We'll have a great party in the Way tonight!"
For Pony, it was a bittersweet moment, and not just because she knew that a party, or any other open proclamation, was out of the question. Mostly it was Belster's reaction that stung her heart. It should have been Elbryan lifting her and spinning her, Elbryan sharing in her joy. Not for the first time, the woman regretted her decision not to tell her husband.
"No party," Pony said firmly when Belster put her down. "It would only draw unwanted questions. No one knows but you, and that is the way I prefer it."
"Not even Dainsey?" Belster asked. "But you should tell her. She is a good friend and loyal. And though she might not be so quick about some things, in others —and likely this is one of them—she is wise indeed."
"Maybe Dainsey," Pony agreed. "But in my own time and way."
Belster smiled and nodded, satisfied. Then suddenly, he burst out in laughter and wrapped Pony up again, twirling her about.
"Time for going!" came a call from back in the main room.
"Ah, yes," Belster remarked, lowering Pony gently and putting on a serious expression. "In all the excitement of your throwing up, I almost forgot. A crier, a monk from St. Precious, just walked down the street, calling all good Abellicans to gather at the town square before the doors of St. Precious. It seems that our new Bishop has a speech to make."
"I'm not certain that I would be considered a good Abellican," Pony said, "but I would not miss this gathering."
"A chance to learn more about your enemies?" Belster asked sarcastically.
Pony nodded, taking the question seriously. "And to learn more about the disturbing events in Palmaris," she said.
"Leave your gemstones," Belster advised.
Pony agreed wholeheartedly; after all she had witnessed these last few days, a person-to-person search in the town square would not surprise her in the least. The new leader of Palmaris did not seem interested in the rights of his citizens.
"Dainsey will see to your face," Belster remarked, "unless you dare to walk undisguised among the crowds."
Pony considered it for a moment. "A bit of a disguise, perhaps," she decided, for she did not want to go through the ordeal of the full transformation into Belster's older wife, nor did she believe that she would have trouble blending in with the masses.
Pony, Belster, and Dainsey left the Way soon after, joining the hundreds of people moving down the streets toward the great square. As Belster had suggested, Pony carried no gemstones with her —a decision that gave her quite a bit of comfort as she moved into the crowded square and saw the whole place was surrounded by armed soldiers, with monks mixed among them, all studying the crowd intently.
The new bishop stood on a platform erected before the abbey's great doors. Pony had seen the man once before, within a ring of defensively circled merchant caravans that had been assaulted by raiding goblins. Pony and Elbryan had helped the merchants survive. This man and his fellow monks, who had been not that far back down the road when the goblins attacked, showed up only after the battle had ended. Even then, the only monk who had helped tend the wounds of the injured was the kindly Jojonah, and it had been obvious to Elbryan and Pony that Bishop De'Unnero was no friend to Jojonah.
As she worked her way to the front of the crowd in the square, Pony realized that her first impressions of De'Unnero agreed with what she saw now. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, surveying the crowd like some god-empowered conqueror. Pony was a perceptive woman; she could read De'Unnero now, quite easily. His arrogance surrounded him like a shroud; his stern gaze was all the more dangerous because this prideful man held himself above all others and could therefore justify practically anything.
The closer she got to the platform, the more keenly Pony believed her initial perceptions. De'Unnero's physical posture —his taut muscles, crossed arms with robe sleeves pulled back enough to show his powerful forearms, his predatory eyes and closely cropped black hair—screamed at her to beware. As his gaze scanned the area where she was standing, she was certain that he was looking directly at her, only at her.
The moment of panic passed, for Pony soon realized that everyone in the area, indeed everyone who fell for only a brief instant under that penetrating gaze, shared her reaction.
The crowd continued to grow, whispering this or that rumor. "I'm hearin' that he's payin' back the filthy merchants for all the years they robbed us," one old woman said. "And the yatol priests," said another. "Dirty scum from Behren. Put 'em all on a boat and send 'em south, I say!"
Listening, Pony grew concerned. De'Unnero was furthering his ambitions and hunting for Avelyn's followers, and he was creating scapegoats for any dissatisfaction in the general populace. He had treated the merchants horrendously, and the Behrenese even worse, but if he could portray them as enemies of the common people, then might not those people rally behind him? Pony shuddered.
The Bishop stepped forward and held his arms out wide. Then, in a powerful, resonating voice, he called for prayer.
Thousands of heads bowed —Pony's included.
"Praise God that the war is ended," De'Unnero began. "Praise God that Palmaris has survived and has found its way back into the arms of the Church."
He went on from there with the standard speech of all Abellican ministers at large gatherings: calling for good crops and no diseases, for prosperity and fertility. He cued the crowd to chant at appropriate places, timed perfectly to hold and heighten their attention. Then De'Unnero began improvising. He made no mention of Baron Bildeborough, Pony noted, nor of King Danube, though he reverently invoked Father Abbot Markwart's name repeatedly.
When he finished and called for a final arm-uplifting, all hands reached skyward.
And then the crowd began to whisper once more, and many made as if to wander away.
"You are not dismissed!" De'Unnero cried sharply. Every head turned to the man, and every whisper halted.
A murmur of "Yes, my lord," rumbled through the crowd.
"Is this true?" De'Unnero roared, so suddenly, so frightfully, that Pony jumped.
Now the response was tremendous, an agreement yelled in fear.
"Blame naught but yourselves for the rise of Bestesbulzibar!" De'Unnero screamed at them. "For the blackness in your hearts spawned the demon dactyl; the weakness of your flesh gave flesh to the diabolical creature. You cannot avoid the blame! Not you, nor you, nor you!" he yelled, running across the front of the platform, pointing at various terrified individuals. "How great have been your tithes to the Church? And what tolerance have you shown for pagans? Your docks are littered with the unwashed unbelievers.
"And who has been your leader these past years?" he cried. "Abbot Dobrinion? Hardly, for you, like so many others, have heeded the words of a secular leader."
He calmed and stood still. The whispers began again despite the fear, for he had just spoken ill of Baron Bildeborough, who had been so beloved by the folk of Palmaris.
"Do not misunderstand me," De'Unnero went on. "Your Baron Bildeborough was a fine man, a humble man who did not place himself above God. But now, my friends," he said, raising his fist in the air before him, the muscles on his forearm tightening like iron bands, his face brightening with sheer intensity, "now we have the chance before us to lay Bestesbulzibar and all its evil demon kindred to eternal sleep. Now, because of the wisdom of King Danube, Palmaris shall shine as never before. We are the borderland, the sentries of the kingdom. King Danube knows this, and knows, too, that if Palmaris finds its soul, Bestesbulzibar cannot pass through our gates!"
The flourish as he ended the statement brought a great cheer from the crowd. Not from Pony, though. She looked around at the faces of the common folk, many wet with tears. He was good, she had to admit. This new bishop understood his flock. First he took action against the two classes that the Palmaris commoners were more than willing to consider enemies: the merchants and the foreigners. And now he was calling them to spiritual arms. So many of them had lost loved ones in the fighting —and even before the war, so many of them had faced death daily—that De'Unnero's hint now that they might somehow transcend their meager existence was obviously appealing.
"You must come back to God!" De'Unnero cried. "I will look for every one of you —for you and you and you," he said, again pointing and rushing across the platform. "No longer will the monks of St. Precious minister to a paltry few. No, I say, because God has shown me the truth. And God has spoken to your King, has inspired him to give the city into the care of the Abellican Church. Thus, we will be the guardians of the soul. We will defeat the seeds of Bestesbulzibar. I will show you how."
The cheering grew with each proclamation, and Pony studied those around her, looking carefully for signs that this public accord might not be as deeply rooted as she feared. She did see many people holding their hands out to the Bishop, desperate to believe in something; but she saw many others going along with the cheering simply out of fear of the ever-present monks and soldiers.
It wasn't until De'Unnero finished that Pony looked back at the platform and saw him standing with his arms crossed again. He was an inspiring orator, a man who stirred the soul. But Pony knew the truth and knew that his actions in the name of God were designed, in fact, to serve a mortal being.
But the people didn't know it, she reminded herself, scanning the crowd; and their ignorance could allow De'Unnero to exact a brutal toll on anyone who did not agree with the Church. Still, Pony was convinced that there was skepticism here, waiting to embrace the truth.
Now all she had to do was figure out how to get her message to the common folk.
While presiding over the morning prayers of the younger students, Father Abbot Markwart recognized the tingle of spiritual communication. Someone was trying to contact him using a soul stone, but the telepathic intrusion was so slight that Markwart couldn't recognize the soul.
The Father Abbot abruptly excused himself, turning the duties over to Brother Francis, and hurried back to his private quarters. He started for that most private room of all, but hesitated, remembering that a spirit-walking monk could see his physical surroundings. Even if he went out spiritually to intercept the monk, might the man slip past him and view that room?
Markwart laughed aloud. No, this monk, whoever he might be, was a puny thing, a mere child. Holding the calling spirit at bay, Markwart collected his soul stone and, with hardly a thought, he fell into the smooth grayness of the hematite, his spirit walking free of his body.
He saw that Je'howith had come a-calling, and he saw, too, that the spirit of the other man already showed signs of magical weariness. Markwart's spirit waved the abbot away, making clear that they would communicate in St. Honce and not here. Then he went back into his body, moving into the room with the pentagram, where he felt his power most keenly.
In moments, the specter of the Father Abbot appeared in Je'howith's quarters to face the physical man. It was obvious to Markwart that Je'howith's spiritual excursion to St.-Mere-Abelle had exhausted him. After Markwart calmed Je'howith, the Father Abbot ordered him to speak plainly and quickly.
"The King is not pleased with Bishop De'Unnero's actions in Palmaris," Je'howith explained. "He is taking gemstones from merchants —stones they bought from us. It is incredible that De'Unnero would show such nerve, and so soon after taking—"
"Bishop De'Unnero acts with my blessing," Markwart replied bluntly.
"B-but, Father Abbot," Je'howith stuttered, "we cannot anger the entire merchant class. Surely the King will not allow —"
"This is not a matter for King Danube," Markwart explained. "The gemstones are the gifts of God, and thus, the sole domain of the Abellican Order."
"But you yourself have sold them to merchants and nobles," Je'howith dared to reply. A cold feeling washed over him even as the words left his mouth, bringing a sensation of dread beyond anything he had ever before known.
"Perhaps I was not as wise in my younger days," Markwart replied, seeming calm —and that only unnerved the abbot even more. "Or perhaps I was too bound by tradition."
Je'howith looked at him curiously. Markwart had always prided himself on tradition; in fact, whenever the College of Abbots had objected to his decisions, he had nearly always used past practices as justification.
"You have learned a better way now?" the abbot asked cautiously.
"Witness my growing power with the stones and understand that to be a manifestation of a greater insight to God's desires," Markwart replied. "I have come to see that our selling of the sacred stones was wrong." The Father Abbot paused, for his own words had struck him as curious. After all, had not Avelyn Desbris espoused the very same argument? Was not the abbey's selling many of the stones Avelyn had collected on Pimaninicuit one of the primary causes of his desertion?
Markwart was amused at the irony, for, yes, the actions had indeed been the same, but the reasons were very different.
"Father Abbot?" Je'howith asked curiously after several long moments had slipped past.
"Bishop De'Unnero acts in accordance with my new insights," Markwart stated firmly. "He will continue."
"But he angers the King," Je'howith protested. "And do not doubt that King Danube considers the appointment of bishop a trial only, and will revoke the title and place a baron —and likely one not so favorably inclined toward the Church—to oversee Palmaris."
"King Danube will find it is more difficult to revoke a title than to grant one," Markwart replied.
"Many believe the Church and the state are separate entities."
"And they are fools," said Markwart. "We cannot claim rulership all at once," he explained, "for that would surely incite the frightened rabble to ac
t on King Danube's side. No, our domination will be a step-by-step acquisition of Church control over one city, one region at a time."
Je'howith's eyes widened and he looked away, staring at the corner of his room. He had not heard of this plan before and had no idea that Markwart's ambitions ran so high. Nor was he comfortable with the thought. Abbot Je'howith had a secure and comfortable life in the King's court at Ursal, and he wasn't thrilled with the idea of anything disrupting that luxurious existence. And he could not dismiss the thought that he could even end up on the losing side of a titanic battle.
The abbot looked back at Markwart's spirit and tried hard not to show his fears, for he understood there was hope of a compromise with the Father Abbot on this matter.
"King Danube will understand my view," the Father Abbot assured him.
"And what am I to do?" the dutiful abbot asked.
Markwart chuckled. "You will discover that you have less to do than you believe," he said mysteriously. Then he faded from the room.
A moment later Markwart blinked open his physical eyes. His room was as he had left it; even the candles had not burned down noticeably. But before Markwart could ponder the miracle of this spiritual communication, he had the feeling something was out of place. Slowly he scanned the room. Nothing seemed different, but Markwart sensed something had changed, that someone, perhaps, had entered the room.
Yes, that was it. Someone had entered the room, had witnessed him at his work. Markwart leaped to his feet and rushed into his office.
This room, too, seemed unchanged, but Markwart again sensed that another person had recently been here, as if the intruder had left behind some detectable aura.
Markwart went into his bedroom next, and in the doorway he felt it again. Even more astounding, the Father Abbot realized he could trace the intruder's very steps. The man had come through the office and to the bedroom door but then had turned and gone into the summoning room. It all seemed remarkably clear to him. . . . Perhaps his work with the hematite had allowed him to leave behind enough of his awareness that he could register the events about his corporeal form.