"But we are not to stand with them," Pony finished for him, her hands clenched at her side, her voice trembling with mounting rage. "Which group, then, shows the stronger character, Belster O'Comely? Which shows itself worthy of alliance and friendship, and which shows cowardice?"
"Not going to fight you on this, girl," Belster said again. "I feel as I feel, and you are not about to change that. Do not for a moment think that you can."
Pony winced and grimaced repeatedly, chewed her bottom lip, and finally just headed for some privacy in her room. Anger burned in her —indeed it did—but more profoundly came the feeling of disappointment. With more the weakness of resignation than the fiery posture of rage, she fell to the edge of her bed, sitting, her shoulders slumped.
It was a side of Belster that she had suspected since her first mention of the Behrenese and Captain Al'u'met, but one that she had chosen not to probe more deeply. For she liked this man honestly, and he had treated her as a daughter —and indeed, he did remind her of her adoptive parents, though his temperament leaned more toward Pettibwa's than toward Graevis'. Yes, she liked him, indeed she loved him, but how could she see past this obvious flaw?
Pony looked up to find Dainsey standing in her doorway. Dainsey always seemed to be standing in her doorway!
"Don't ye judge him too harsh," the woman said quietly. "Belster's a good man —just a bit blind on the black-skins. He's not knowin' many, and none well."
"And that excuses his attitude?" Pony shot back, throwing up a wall of anger in self-defense.
"Not meanin' to," Dainsey replied. "But it's just words, and words from a scared man. He's not thinkin' that we can win, with the black-skins or not. Don't ye judge him till the fightin' starts, if it starts. Belster O'Comely's not to stand and watch while an innocent man gets his neck stretched, whatever the color o' that man's skin."
Pony's wall of anger tumbled down. She believed Dainsey; she had to believe that about a man she so loved. Though she still feared that Belster's warning about the others would prove true, Dainsey's words had at least brought a temporary comfort.
"Would ye really fight with the black-skins?" Dainsey asked. "I mean, if ye knew ye'd be standin' alone?"
Pony nodded, and started to explain that she'd get her fight with De'Unnero, at least, and then, even if the rest of the Palmaris army and clergy fell over her, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that she took the evil Bishop down with her. She wanted to say all that, wanted to proclaim that principle would guide her more than any odds or hopes of ultimate victory, but she stopped short, a puzzled expression on her face, her hand going to her belly.
Dainsey was beside her in an instant. "What is it, Miss Pony?" she asked in alarm, but that faded as Pony turned to her, a smile, a contented glow, spreading across her face.
"He moved," Pony explained.
Dainsey clapped her hands together, then slipped one to Pony's belly. Sure enough, there came another kick of a little foot —or a brush of a little hand.
Pony didn't even try to hold back the tears, though she knew that their source was much more than the simple joy at the first obvious movement of her unborn child.
How could she, in good conscience, go to war with a life growing in her belly?
CHAPTER 23
Unleashed
"From Captain Kilronney," the soldier explained, handing the parchment over to the Bishop. De'Unnero took it with a look of surprise etched upon his face. "The man can write?" he asked incredulously. "A mere soldier?"
The other man bristled, but that only made the Bishop snort all the louder. De'Unnero had made no secret of his feelings that the soldiers, city's and King's, were inferior when measured against the Abellican brothers. Whenever his patrols went out onto the streets, whether their mission was to find gemstones or simply to enforce the laws of the Bishop, the accompanying monks, whatever their rank and experience, always held jurisdiction over the highest ranking soldiers. Obviously, the soldiers weren't enamored of this fact, but De'Unnero, so entrenched in power, with both King and Father Abbot standing behind him, hardly cared. In fact, he made it a point to enjoy the situation. He did now, with his messenger.
"And did you read it?" he asked the man.
"Of course not, me lord."
"Could you have read it?" De'Unnero asked slyly.
"I was told to deliver it to yerself with all speed," the soldier replied, and he shuffled his feet uncomfortably, a motion De'Unnero noticed and enjoyed. "And so I rode hard to Caer Tinella, so hard that me poor horse had to be put down. They give me another, and just as hard, I rode to yer court. Three hunnerd miles, me lord, though I left the side o' Captain Kilronney barely a week ago."
"And you are to be commended," the Bishop assured the soldier, then held up the rolled parchment before the man's eyes and said more forcefully, "but did you read it?"
"No, me lord."
"Could you have read it?"
The soldier did not immediately answer, and so the Bishop, smiling wickedly, pulled the ribbon from the parchment and unrolled it so that the penned side was exposed to the soldier's eyes.
The man winced, but dutifully held his ground.
"What does it say? " the Bishop demanded.
The soldier gnashed his teeth, but did not answer.
"Tell me!"
"I canno', me lord!"
De'Unnero backed off at once, walked over to his desk, and slid comfortably to sit on the edge, turning the parchment around carefully. "Your captain writes well," he started to say, noting the smooth and steady sweep of Kilronney's lettering, but he stopped short, his eyes widening as the meaning of the words began to come clear to him, as he began to realize that the outlaw Nightbird was apparently slipping through his fingers again.
With a growl, the Bishop tossed the parchment across the desk, his angry gaze falling over the messenger, who, he noted, had backed a couple of steps closer to the door.
"Leave me!" the Bishop barked. The man was more than ready to comply, turning quickly and, without consciously considering the act, stepping before he could even reach for the door, and banging into it, hard, before finally managing to stagger around it and out of the room.
De'Unnero grabbed the tiger's paw from his pocket and nearly fell into its magic, running out full for the northland. He put the stone back, though, reminding himself of his duties —duties the Father Abbot would view as more important, even if De'Unnero disagreed with that estimate—and produced instead his soul stone.
Markwart should hear of this, he decided. He would make the Father Abbot see things his way.
Markwart tried to concentrate on his prayers, but every other line came to him, in that strengthening voice within his mind, as "Let him go."
I pray thee, Lord, that the sacred stones forever hold thy power.
Let him go.
I pray thee, Lord, that you guide my hand through thine eternal plan.
Let him go.
Show to me wickedness, that I might dispatch.
Let him go.
Show to me goodness, that I might revel in thy glory.
Let him go!
And so it went throughout those evening prayers immediately following Markwart's latest talk with Bishop De'Unnero, the talk in which De'Unnero had begged to be sent after the man called Nightbird, in which the Bishop's spirit had screamed at Markwart that not only Nightbird but also the five conspirator heretics might slip away, beyond their grasp forever.
Let him go!
The Father Abbot leaned back from the kneeling stool, giving up all attempts at prayer. "Why the Barbacan?" he asked aloud. Whatever could Nightbird and the five rogue monks want in that forlorn and blasted place? Markwart had seen the Barbacan, had gone there spiritually, inhabiting the body of Brother Francis when the expedition had reached its destination, and he saw nothing practical to gain from a journey to a place that had been utterly destroyed in the collision between Avelyn and the demon dactyl.
"Do they plan to build a
shrine?" the Father Abbot asked, and he chuckled at the thought, for how long could such a structure, could any human-built structure, survive in the wilds of the monster-infested northland? But perhaps that was their plan, he mused. To build a shrine and organize pilgrimages, as had been done in the past for other saintly heroes. The mere thought of that brought another smile to the Father Abbot's withered old lips. He pictured hundreds of eager, misguided fools, on the road to pay homage to a murdering heretic, only to be slaughtered on their way by marauding monsters.
What perfect justice.
But the voice in his head did not agree, and showed him a different scene, one where the outpouring for Avelyn —or at least, against the present incarnation of the Abellican Church—proved so great that the road was tamed, and pilgrimages common and successful.
And then came another teaser: Perhaps they do not have all the stones.
Markwart was nodding his head before the refrain began again. Let him go.
Indeed, it was time, the Father Abbot realized, to unleash De'Unnero, to give the Bishop his greatest reward and let him settle this issue of Nightbird.
And time to alter the course of Palmaris, to show a gentler side of the Abellican Church before the King's visit, before his own visit.
A few moments later, the Father Abbot knocked on the door of Brother Francis Dellacourt's room.
The man, who had obviously been asleep, opened the door a crack, then threw it wide when he recognized the caller. Markwart swept into the room, motioning for Francis to close the door.
Francis complied, and then rushed back to stand before Markwart.
"Bishop De'Unnero has found a road he must travel," the Father Abbot explained, "a real one, and not a spiritual path," he added, seeing the confusion on Francis' sleepy face.
"But the city —" Francis began, but Markwart cut him short.
"Go quickly to Palmaris," he ordered. "Use whatever magics might help you, take a solid supply of gemstones —whatever you deem necessary."
"Necessary?" Francis echoed, but his question was, in truth, more a reflection of his general confusion, and that Markwart would allow him to take any gemstones at all.
"You are to serve as headmaster of St. Precious and as interim bishop of Palmaris while Bishop De'Unnero is away," Markwart explained.
Francis swayed and seemed as if he was about to faint.
"I will soon journey to your side, to meet with King Danube as he, too, comes to the critical city," Markwart went on. "You are not to change any of Bishop De'Unnero's policies, but do loosen the grip. By comparison to Marcalo De'Unnero, the folk of the city should speak favorably of Brother Francis Dellacourt." Markwart paused to listen to the voice in his head, then repeated, "They should speak favorably of Master Francis Dellacourt."
Again the sway, and this time, Francis had to sit on the edge of his bed or fall over onto the floor. "But the procedures to elevate me to master are lengthy," he reasoned.
"We have discussed this before," Markwart said sternly. "Why are you so surprised?"
"To master and then to interim bishop?" Francis asked incredulously. "It is so fast, and at a time of such crisis."
"A crisis is the only time such a thing could be done," Markwart explained. "The other abbots will not question me, not when they understand you are simply a pawn for the betterment of our grasp of Palmaris."
Francis blinked repeatedly, trying to digest the words.
"Of course, I will portray you as such," Markwart said with a laugh, and he dropped a comforting hand on Francis' shoulder. "A mere pawn, though we two both know the truth of it."
Francis nodded numbly. "I fear that I am not worthy of your expectations," he admitted, lowering his head.
Markwart laughed at him. "I have no expectations," he said, his voice changing, growing suddenly grave, bordering on ominous. "Little will be required from you in this matter. You are to go to Palmaris and allow things to play out as Bishop De'Unnero has begun them. The less the people —even your fellows at St. Precious—see of you and hear of you, the better. Just loosen the grip. Cut back the patrols and tax demands and instruct the preachers to temper their rhetoric."
"Am I to lead in any rituals?" Francis asked.
"No!" came the sharp retort. "To do so could only invite criticism, and that you cannot afford if I am to further solidify your position —as master or as bishop."
Francis let his gaze fall to the floor.
"Fear not, for you will have your day, and sooner than you believe," Markwart promised him. "Headmaster will lead, very swiftly, to abbot of St. Precious, do not doubt; and it might be that the time will soon come for Bishop De'Unnero to be replaced permanently. The King might well demand that of me, at least. How convenient for me to have Headmaster Francis already in place as logical successor."
The overwhelmed Francis nodded and asked nothing more, and so Markwart left him alone with his thoughts. The last statement, along with Markwart's pointedly telling him that he should compare favorably to De'Unnero, led him to believe that the Bishop had fallen far from Markwart's graces, or would be on the road out of Palmaris for a very long time. In any case, the other thing that Brother —soon-to-be-Master—Francis understood was that Markwart's description to the other abbots of him as a pawn would prove to be a lot closer to the truth than the Father Abbot wanted him to believe.
But Francis was soon able to dismiss all of those unsettling notions. The important thing was that he, despite his helping the five renegade monks, was still playing a vital role in the direction of the Order, even if that role would be only as Markwart's pawn. Jojonah and Braumin had forgiven him his crime against Grady Chilichunk, that was true, but Father Abbot Markwart had never blamed him in the first place. To Francis now that lack of guilt to absolve was preferable.
"I have considered your information most carefully," the spirit of the Father Abbot said to De'Unnero in the Bishop's private quarters at Chasewind Manor later that same night. "You are certain that Nightbird means to go north?"
"By the words of Shamus Kilronney," De'Unnero replied. "I see no reason for the soldier to lie to me."
"There are resentments in Palmaris," Markwart warned.
"Shamus Kilronney is a man of the King, and never the Baron," De'Unnero was quick to answer. "I chose him as my spy because I trust his loyalty to King and Crown, and therefore, to me, as bishop and King's voice in Palmaris."
"That is good," said Markwart. "And what of these other men, the six you spoke of? Can we be certain that they are our missing brethren?"
"It is likely that Brother Braumin and the other four heretics are among them," De'Unnero said. "As to the identity of the sixth man, I cannot attest."
"You will find out," Markwart instructed.
"I have spies —"
"No spies!" the Father Abbot roared. "De'Unnero alone will find out."
A look of anger and confusion came over the startled Bishop's face, but then his eyes widened as the meaning of the Father Abbot's words came clear to him. "Am I to go?" he dared to ask.
"For years you have asked for the chance to fight the one named Nightbird," Markwart explained. "Your arguments have at last convinced me that Marcalo De'Unnero alone might bring this one to justice. Do not fail me in this! The return of the stolen gemstones and the death of Avelyn's proteges will strengthen our position within the Church, and thus, the position of the Church will be strengthened within the state."
"And what am I to do with Braumin and the heretics, if it is indeed them?" De'Unnero asked breathlessly, practically panting at the possibilities looming before him.
"It would be preferable if we have one or more of them," Markwart reasoned, "that we might extract a confession before putting them all to the stake. When you slay Nightbird, his woman companion, and that filthy centaur beast, use Kilronney to help capture the rogues. If they resist, then kill them as well. All I charge you with is the return of the heads of the two closest to Avelyn and the gemstones. We can always go b
ack for Braumin and his stooges.
"What a glorious victory lies before us, my friend," Markwart continued, "one that will play the King's hand for him. He will not dare speak against us when we walk down the streets of Palmaris with our gruesome trophies, proclaiming that the evil is purged to the cheers of thousands!"
"I have told you all along that the one called Nightbird is mine for the taking," De'Unnero replied with confidence. "I understand my role now, the calling that God brought to me when he led me to St.-Mere-Abelle and drove my body through hours of training. This hunt is the task for which Marcalo De'Unnero was born, and in it I shall not fail!"
Markwart didn't doubt him for a minute, as was reflected by the wicked laughter of his spirit. De'Unnero, so intense, rubbing his fingers together eagerly, did not join in.
"When may I go?"
"As soon as you are prepared for the road," Markwart replied.
"Prepared?" De'Unnero scoffed. "What preparations must I make?"
"A little matter of food and transport," the spirit of the Father Abbot replied sarcastically. "Are you to ride horseback or in a wagon?"
"Ride?" the Bishop echoed. "I will run, will find my food as I go."
"Pray tell me," Markwart prompted.
The Bishop grew more animated. He moved around the edge of his bed, extending his hand toward the Father Abbot, showing the spirit his tiger's paw gemstone. "It is incredible," he admitted. "Like you with the soul stone, I have found a new level with the tiger's paw. When I fell into the magic in pursuit of Baron Bildeborough, it affected more than my limb. I was the tiger, Father Abbot, in body and in heart; surely such a creature will have little trouble with the winter terrain."
Markwart, caught by surprise, paused to digest the startling information. He wondered if De'Unnero, too, had found this inner voice, the voice of God; his pride made him hope that the man had not!
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