Markwart nodded, thinking he had the puzzle figured out.. . and he also had a fairly good idea of who the intruder was.
Back at the Fellowship Way, Belster remarked to Pony and Dainsey, "He had them on their knees. They're needing something to believe in. Our new Bishop knows that."
"And will try to take advantage of the situation," Pony added.
"Pity the Behrenese then," Dainsey said with a snort. "If the Behrenese are deservin' of any pity!" The woman started to laugh, but she saw that her attempt at humor wasn't appreciated.
"That is exactly the attitude Bishop De'Unnero hopes for," Pony said to Belster, "and the attitude we must fear."
"Few of the Behrenese are well regarded in the city," Belster admitted. "They've got their own ways —strange ways, that make folk uncomfortable."
"Easy targets for a tyrant," Pony reasoned.
"What're ye sayin' then?" Dainsey wanted to know. "Now I've never been fond o' churchmen, especially since they been takin' me in for their questions of late, but the man's the Bishop, put there by the King and the Church."
"Two marks against him," Pony said dryly.
"And what're ye thinkin' ye might do?" Dainsey asked. When Pony looked at Belster, it was obvious to her that he was thinking much the same as Dainsey.
"We have to use De'Unnero's own actions against him," Pony explained, improvising as she went along. Her mind was whirling —she knew she had to take some action against the Bishop, had to try something to stop him from securing his hold over Palmaris. But what? "We have to let the people of Palmaris know, Belster," she decided.
"Know what?" the innkeeper asked skeptically. "The Bishop explained everything he means to do."
"We have to make them know the reasons for these acts," Pony declared. "De'Unnero is not concerned for the people —not in this life or in any that might follow. His goal, the goal of his Church, is power, and nothing more."
"Strong words," Belster replied. "And I am not disagreeing with you."
"You have an extensive web of informants already in place," Pony reasoned. "We can use them to keep people together . . . and keep them informed about the actions of Bishop De'Unnero."
"Are you looking for a fight, then?" Belster asked bluntly. "Do you think that you might create a riot in Palmaris that will sweep away De'Unnero and all the Church —and all the soldiers?"
The question set Pony back. That was exactly the thing she was now fantasizing about, but when it was spoken so openly, she realized just how desperate, even ridiculous, it sounded.
"I've a network, indeed," Belster went on, "for protection —hiding folks who have fallen into trouble—for helping to keep your own identity secret. Not one for fighting a war!"
"Ye'll not do that," Dainsey added. "Oh, I've wanted to kick them damned monks all the way across the Masur Delaval, but if ye raise an army o' peasants, ye'll soon enough have an army o' dead peasants."
Belster put his hand on Dainsey's shoulder and nodded grimly. "A tall order, going against St. Precious and Chasewind Manor," he said.
"Not taller than the odds we faced in Caer Tinella," Pony replied, and a grin spread over Belster's face.
"We can at least act as a voice for the common folk," Pony went on. "We can whisper the truth, and if they hear it often enough, and measure our words against De'Unnero's actions, perhaps they will come to understand."
"And then they'll be as miserable as ye make yerself," Dainsey argued, "and with nothin' they can do about it."
Pony looked at her long and hard, then stared at Belster.
"I have some friends," the innkeeper explained, "and they have many more friends. Perhaps we might arrange a meeting or two and voice our concerns."
Pony nodded. She was hoping for a bit more fire from her two closest companions in Palmaris, but she realized she would have to be satisfied with that.
She went back to her own room to rest before the evening crowd began to gather.
Dainsey's words followed her to her bed. The woman's attitude might be more pragmatic than pessimistic, Pony had to admit, and that thought distressed her greatly. She wanted to fight De'Unnero, wanted to expose the Church for the evil institution it had become, but she could not deny the danger to herself and to any who allied themselves with her. Suppose she did raise the common folk, had them shaking their fists in the air defiantly and marching boldly against the abbey and the manor house . . .
That stirring image was erased when she envisioned the trained, well-equipped army that would confront them, an army reinforced by magical gemstones —and St. Precious, no doubt, had a fair supply of those.
How many thousands would die in the streets before the first morning of the insurrection was at its end?
Pony slumped in her bed, overwhelmed, and she reminded herself she had to move slowly. Whatever happened, she decided, she would find a way to do battle against wicked De'Unnero.
Brother Francis knelt on the floor in the corner of his room, facing the wall. His face was in his hands, a sign of humble submission to God —one not often used in the modern-day Abellican Church. But now the brother felt every gesture was important, as if somehow giving himself fully to his prayers would bring an end to the confusion that tore at him.
Of late, Francis had almost managed to forget the death of Grady Chilichunk. Francis believed his helping Braumin Herde and the others escape from St.-Mere-Abelle somehow made up for that —at least in part. Now, though, the image of Grady, lying lifeless in the grave Francis had dug, was haunting him. He remembered Grady. He saw again blasted Mount Aida, Avelyn's arm protruding from the ground. And most vivid of all, he couldn't stop seeing Father Abbot Markwart sitting cross-legged beside a pentagram—a pentagram!—candles burning at every point and a wicked book, The Incantations Sorcerous, lying open on the floor beside him.
But as horrifying as that image was, Francis tried to hold on to it —both to try to make sense of it and to block the more frightening image of Grady, dead in the hole.
But Grady's lifeless face would not go away.
Francis's shoulders shuddered as he sobbed —more from the fear he was losing his mind than from guilt. Everything seemed wrong, upside down. Another image—Jojonah's torso bursting open from the heat of the pyre— flitted through his mind. The memories mixed together into a great jumble of agony.
Soon the image of Markwart sitting cross-legged drifted to one side and the other three to another: Avelyn and his friends against the Father Abbot. Francis now saw there could be no peace, no reconciliation, between the two.
He sighed, then froze. He'd heard a slight rustle behind him. He held still concentrating, listening intently, terrified, for he knew who had entered.
A long moment passed. Francis suddenly feared he would be brutally slain.
"You are not at your appointed duties," came Markwart's voice, calm and pleasant.
Francis dared to turn and lift his face from his hands to regard the man.
"Your duties?" Markwart reminded.
"I ..." Francis started, but he surrendered at once, unable even to remember where he was supposed to be.
"You are troubled obviously," Markwart remarked, walking into the room and closing the door. He sat on Francis' bed and stared at Francis, his face a mask of peace.
"I ... I only felt the need to pray, Father Abbot," Francis lied, pulling himself up from the floor.
Markwart, calm and serene, continued to stare at him, hardly blinking —too much at peace. The hairs on the back of Francis' neck stood up. "My duties are covered by others," Francis assured the Father Abbot and started for the door. "But I will return to them at once."
"Be calm, brother," said Markwart, reaching out to grab his arm as he passed. Francis instinctively started to jerk away, but Markwart's grip was like iron and held him fast.
"Be calm," the Father Abbot said again. "Of course you are fearful, as am I, as should be any good Abellican in these troubling times." Markwart smiled and guided Francis to the bed
, forcing him to sit down. "Troubling, yes," Markwart went on. He stood up, moving between Francis and the door. "But with a promise not seen by our Order in centuries."
"You speak of Palmaris," Francis said, trying to remain calm though he wanted to run out of the room screaming —maybe all the way to the sea wall, maybe over the sea wall!
"Palmaris is but an experiment," Markwart replied, "a beginning. I was just conversing with Abbot Je'howith ..." His tone was leading, as was his gesture —his arm pointing toward the hallways and especially to his room.
Francis thought he had not changed his expression, but he saw from Markwart's eyes that he had betrayed himself. "I did not mean to enter your chambers unbidden," Francis admitted, lowering his gaze. "I knew that you were there, and yet you did not answer my call. I feared for you."
"Your concern is touching, my young friend, my protege," Markwart said. Francis looked up at him curiously.
"Ah, you fear De'Unnero has replaced you as my closest adviser," Markwart said.
Francis knew the Father Abbot was diverting the conversation, knew that the words were ridiculous. Still, he found that he could not ignore them, and he hung on the Father Abbot's every word as Markwart continued.
"De'Unnero —Bishop De'Unnero—is a useful tool," Markwart admitted. "And with his energy and dominating spirit, he is the right man for the experiment in Palmaris. But he is limited by ambition, for all of his goals are personal. You and I think differently, my friend. We see the larger picture of the world and the greater glories in store for our Church."
"It was I who told Brother Braumin and the others to leave," Francis blurted out.
"I know," Markwart replied.
"I only feared ..." Francis began.
"I know," Markwart said again with conviction.
"Another execution would have left a foul taste with many in the Order," Francis tried to explain.
"Brother Francis included," said Markwart, stopping the younger monk cold. Francis slumped, unable to deny the charge.
"And with Father Abbot Markwart as well," the old man said, taking a seat next to Francis. "I do not enjoy that which fate has thrust upon me."
Francis looked up suddenly, surprised.
"Because of the times, the awakening of the demon, the great war, and now the opportunity that has been laid before us, I am forced to explore everything about our Order, the very meaning of the Church. Even the dark side, my young friend," he added, shivering. "I have brought minor demons into my chambers to learn from them, to be certain that Bestesbulzibar is truly banished."
"I —I saw the book," Francis admitted.
"The book Jojonah meant to use for ill," Markwart went on, seemingly unconcerned that Francis had seen him. "Yes, a most wicked tome, and happy I will be on the day that I can once more relegate it to the darkest corner of our lowest library. Better for all if I just destroyed it outright."
"Then why not?"
"You know the precepts of our Order," Markwart reminded him. "All but a single copy of a book may be destroyed, but it is our duty, as protectors of knowledge, to keep one copy. Fear not, for soon enough the wicked tome will be back in its place, to remain unused for centuries to come."
"I do not understand, Father Abbot," Francis dared to say. "Why must you keep it? What might you possibly learn?"
"More than you would believe," Markwart replied with a great sigh. "I have come to suspect that the awakening demon was no accident of fate, but an event brought about by one within St.-Mere-Abelle. Jojonah, possibly with Avelyn, tampered with this tome secretly. He —or they—may have gone places, perhaps accidentally, where they should not have ventured, and may have awakened a creature better left dormant."
The words hit Francis hard, left him gasping. The dactyl demon awakened by the actions of a monk in St.-Mere-Abelle?
"It is possible that Avelyn and Jojonah were not as evil as I believed," Markwart went on. "It is possible that they began with good intentions —as we earlier discussed, the basis of humanism is good intent—but that they were corrupted, or at the very least, horribly fooled, by that which they encountered.
"No matter," the Father Abbot added, patting Francis on the leg and standing. "Whatever the cause, they are responsible for their actions, and both met an appropriate end. Do not misunderstand me. I may feel compassion for our lost brothers, but I do not grieve over their deaths, nor do I forgive their foolish pride."
"And what of Brother Braumin and the others?"
Markwart snorted. "All the kingdom is ours to take," he said. "I care nothing for them. They are lost lambs, wandering until they meet a hungry wolf. Perhaps I will be that wolf, perhaps Bishop De'Unnero, or, more likely, perhaps another unrelated to the Church. I care not. My eyes are toward Palmaris. And so should be yours, Brother Francis. I expect that I will be journeying there, and you will accompany me." He went to the door, but before he left he threw out one last tantalizing tidbit. "My entourage will be small, including but one master, and that man will be you." Markwart left.
Francis spent a long time sitting on the bed, trying to digest all he had heard. He replayed Markwart's words, seeing them as an explanation for the evil tome and the pentagram. Those horrid images swirled about him, but now the one of Markwart did not seem so troubling. It struck Francis that the Father Abbot was incredibly brave and stoic, accepting these burdens for the greater good of the Church, and, thus, of all the world. Yes, this battle was a wretched thing —and put in that context, Francis found it much easier to forgive himself for Grady. The fight was a necessary one, and when theologians and historians looked back at this pivotal time, they would recognize that, for all the painful personal tragedies, the world emerged a better and holier place.
Francis found his perspective again.
"Master Francis?" he asked aloud, hardly daring to speak it openly.
Father Abbot Markwart was pleased with himself when he returned to his room. The truth of real power, he understood, was not a measure of destruction, but of control.
And how easy it had been for him to play on Francis' weakness. On the guilt and the fears, on the flickering speck of compassion and the desperate ambition.
So easy.
CHAPTER 15
The Elven View of the World
The night air was crisp, the sky bore only a few dark clouds, soaring high on the wind. A million stars were sparkling despite the brightness of the full moon rising in the east. It was a night sky suitable for the Halo, Juraviel thought, but alas, that colorful belt was not to be seen.
The elf was farther south now, in the region where dells, clustered thick with trees, were scattered among cultivated fields, divided from one another by drystone walls. He made his way among the shadows, running and dancing, for though he felt he must hurry, he could not resist the pleasure of a leaping twirl that brought him to the side of his intended path. And even though he often saw candles burning in the window of a newly reclaimed farmhouse, Juraviel did sing a quiet, haunting melody that reminded him of Andur'Blough Inninness.
So caught up was he that many moments passed before he noticed other voices singing, their harmony wafting through the quiet air.
The song did not put the elf on his guard, but it did calm him and sent him running straight. He realized his instincts, his sense of star song, had guided him true. His heart soared, for he dearly wanted to see his brethren again. He found them gathered in a grove of oak and scattered pines. Smiles broadened on a dozen elven faces. The presence of some of the Touel'alfar —like Tallareyish Issinshine, who, despite his great age, loved to wander out of the elven valley—didn't surprise Juraviel. But the appearance of one elf in particular stunned him. At first he hardly noticed her, for she wore the hood of her cloak up, only her sparkling eyes showing.
"You have been missed, Belli'mar Juraviel," she said. Her voice —that special voice, powerful and melodic all at once, even by elven standards— halted the dancing Juraviel.
"My lady," he said breathle
ssly, surprised, even stunned, to discover that Lady Dasslerond herself had come forth from the valley. Juraviel rushed to her and fell to his knees, accepting her hand and kissing it gently.
"The song of Caer'alfar is diminished without your voice," Lady Dasslerond replied, one of the highest compliments one elf could pay to another.
"Forgive me, lady, but I do not understand," Juraviel said. "You have come forth, and yet I know that you are needed in Andur'Blough Inninness. The dactyl's scar..."
"Remains," Lady Dasslerond replied. "Deep is the mark of Bestesbulzibar upon our valley, I fear; and so the rot has begun, a rot that may force us from our homes, from the world itself. But that is a matter for decades, perhaps centuries, to come, and now I fear that there may be more pressing needs."
"The war went well. Take heart that Nightbird is back in his place —or shall be soon," Juraviel told her. "The land will know peace once more, though it came at a great cost."
"No," Lady Dasslerond replied. "Not yet, I fear. Ever in the history of humans, it has been the aftermath of war that brings the most unrest. Their hierarchies and institutions are shaken. Inevitably, one will arise to claim leadership, and often it is one undeserving."
"You have heard of the death of the baron of Palmaris?" Tallareyish remarked, "and of Abbot Dobrinion, who led the Church in Palmaris?"
Juraviel nodded. "Word came to us before Nightbird went north to the Timberlands," he explained.
"Both were good, and safe, as humans go," Lady Dasslerond explained. "Palmaris is an important site for us, since it is the primary city and garrison between our home and the more populated human lands."
Juraviel knew Palmaris was an important city to the elves, and yet they could not go into the place openly. Few humans knew of them —in fact, because of Juraviel's efforts in the war beside Nightbird, the number of humans who could honestly claim they had seen an elf had probably at least doubled over the last few months. But the doings of the humans were of concern to the elves, and Lady Dasslerond had sent elves into Palmaris every so often over the last decades.
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