"Have I lost the desire?" he asked honestly. "Was my training by the Touel'alfar longer lived than my calling to the duty of that training? In the fights, when the goblins ambushed us and those soldiers were slain ... I did not want to be there. I was not afraid, and certainly had no reluctance to kill goblins, but that edge, that eager spirit, was not with me, Uncle Mather, nor has it followed my trail to the north. I understand that the journey to the Barbacan is important to Brother Braumin and his fellows, and that they pay great tribute to my friend by going to his grave, and yet..."
The ranger paused and lowered his head with a great sigh. For so long, the entire time since he had left the elves, Elbryan had known a purpose, a clear sense of duty. He had spent the months of the war seeking battles, not avoiding them. Then, when the monsters had been driven off, the ranger had found a new purpose and direction and a new enemy —the jailors of Bradwarden—to defeat. He could tell himself that this journey was just an extension of that battle, a furthering of Avelyn's war against his wicked brethren.
But somehow the ranger didn't feel that sense of purpose and urgency. Somehow, something was missing.
"Pony," he whispered, hardly even aware that he had spoken her name. He looked up and stared back into the mirror, the source of his anguish coming painfully clear.
"It is Pony, Uncle Mather," he stated more firmly. But what was it about Pony? Surely he missed her, had missed her ever since she had left him in Caer Tinella, from the very moment she had gone out of sight down the southern road. But he always missed Pony when she was not with him, even if it was only for a day of scouting in the forest. Elbryan didn't understand it, but neither did he fight against these feelings. He loved her, with all his heart and soul, and couldn't imagine his life without her. She made him better; certainly she had helped him take bi'nelle dasada to a higher level of mastery. But it was more than physical. Pony elevated Elbryan emotionally, gave him a more honest perspective on the world around and his place in it, and brought joy to him, every day. She completed him, and certainly he was not surprised to discover that he missed her now.
But it was more than that, he knew.
"I am afraid, Uncle Mather," he said quietly. "Pony is in a dangerous place, more dangerous than my own, though I have walked into the Wilderlands, on a course toward the home of the creature that darkened the whole world. I cannot help her if she needs me; I cannot hear her if she calls my name."
He finished with another sigh and sat staring at the specter, the impassive figure, as if waiting for Uncle Mather to confirm his distress, to show him a sign that he was wrong, perhaps, or to tell him to turn and rush to Pony's side in the south.
The image in the mirror did not move.
Elbryan searched deeper into his mind, and then, when that failed, into his heart. "I am afraid for her because of the way we parted," he heard himself say, and then he considered the words honestly. Then he admitted to himself that he was angry at Pony for leaving him, and that he didn't really understand why she had to go, what good it would accomplish for her to run back to Palmaris. He wasn't really afraid for Pony —she could take care of herself, and any around her, better than almost anyone else in the entire world! No, he was afraid that if something did happen to keep them apart, he had left her on terrible terms, with anger in his heart where there should have been only love and trust.
The ranger sat back against the wall and chuckled at his own stupidity. "I should have listened to her more carefully," he explained to the specter, but more to himself. "Perhaps my road, too, should have been to the south. Perhaps I should have gone with her." He gave another self-deprecating chuckle. "Or at least, I should have learned better why she had to go, and should have come to a point of acceptance before we parted.
"And now even more miles separate us, Uncle Mather," he lamented. "Pony is in Palmaris, where she said she had to be, and I am walking further from that place."
As he finished, the specter began to fade away, a fog filling the glass. At first, Elbryan thought that Oracle was at its end, that the meditation spell had slipped away. Perhaps he had found his resolution. Before he began to rise, the fog cleared in the center of the mirror, replaced by a glow that could not be a reflection.
Out rolled the fog, leaving an image for a startled Elbryan, a crystal-clear image, though the rocky alcove had darkened almost to black. An image he knew.
There was the flat top of Mount Aida; there was Avelyn's up-reaching arm, protruding from the stone.
A sense of warmth rushed over Elbryan, a sense of love and magic as intense as anything he had ever felt.
And then it was gone, but it took the ranger a long while to emerge from the alcove. He nearly slipped on a thin patch of ice when he came out.
That ice had been but a slick of water when he had entered the alcove. Ice —and they were not even in the mountains yet.
The ranger shook the warnings away. Oracle had shown him the way, and he knew now that he had to go to Avelyn as surely as Braumin and the others needed to make the pilgrimage: knew now that he, too, would find some answers in that special place.
The deepest snow would not deter him.
He wrapped his blanket tightly about him, and only then did he realize that the song of Bradwarden, the piping music of the Forest Ghost, drifted on the evening breeze. He didn't follow that tune, though, but went to the fire, to check on the monks and Roger, who was supposed to be on watch but who had succumbed to the haunting melody of Bradwarden's distant piping.
No matter, the ranger decided, for he knew that there were no goblins or other monsters in the area. He traded his blanket for his traveling cloak, checked on Symphony to ensure that the horse was comfortable for the night, then went out from the camp, following the tune as only one trained by the Touel'alfar could.
He found the centaur on a bare-topped hillock —ever Bradwarden's favorite stage—and approached quietly, not wanting to disturb the centaur's magical, musical trance. Indeed, Bradwarden played on for a long, long while.
When at last the centaur stopped and opened his eyes, he was not surprised to find Nightbird sitting beside him.
"Been talkin' to ghosts?" the centaur asked.
"To myself, mostly," the ranger corrected.
"And just what did ye tell yerself?" asked Bradwarden.
"That I did not want to be here, on this road, moving away from Pony," Elbryan replied. "I agreed to accompany the monks because I was angry. Did I tell you that? I was mad at Pony."
"Good a reason as any," Bradwarden said sarcastically.
"She came to me in a dream, back in Dundalis," Elbryan explained. "She told me that we could not meet, as we had agreed, soon after the turn of spring. And so I decided to accompany Brother Braumin, though I had no desire to go back to Aida."
"Dundalis is no further from us than Aida, boy," the centaur remarked. "And ye trust me when I'm tellin' ye that I've got less o' love for the dactyl-smellin' place than yerself!"
Elbryan shook his head. "I said that I had no desire." He explained, emphasizing the past tense. " I have seen better now, and know that I must go to Mount Aida, with or without Brother Braumin. Bad intentions put me on this road, but good fortune alone made it the correct road for Elbryan."
"Seems ye're gettin' all yer thoughts from dreams and ghosts," the centaur said with a snort. "I'm worryin' for ye, boy, and worryin' for meself for followin' ye!"
That brought a smile to Elbryan's face, and so did Bradwarden's following notes, these coming not from his booming voice but from his melodic bagpipes. The music started abruptly, but melted quickly into a sweet, graceful melody, the music of the night, the music of the Forest Ghost.
CHAPTER 26
The Assassin
"Brother Pantelemone," announced Headmaster Francis' attendant, one of the five who had accompanied him from St.-Mere-Abelle.
Francis nodded; this visit was not unexpected. Brother Pantelemone had recently come from St.-Mere-Abelle to announce the impending
arrival of Father Abbot Markwart.
The monk entered and went straight to the headmaster, handing him a rolled parchment tied with a blue ribbon bearing the insignia of the Father Abbot. Francis unrolled it quickly, just scanning it, not too surprised by the instructions penned there. The Father Abbot wanted a huge welcome, all the city out and cheering his arrival.
"The celebration must be monumental," Francis explained to the two. "The Father Abbot will arrive in three days. By that time, we must have all the city prepared for his visit."
A fourth monk joined the group then, Brother Talumus, hustling to Francis' quarters upon hearing the news that a monk from St.-Mere-Abelle had arrived.
"Go to the merchants we have ..." Francis started to say, but he stopped and chuckled. What exactly had they done to the merchants? Repaid them for their lost stones? No, in truth, Francis knew, the merchants had been bribed, plain and simple. But most of them had accepted the gold with a smile, a hopeful smile, for they knew that they could not afford to have the Church as an enemy. Not now.
Of course, Francis had to be more politic when speaking openly. "Go to the merchants whom we have compensated," he explained. "Tell them that the source of their new wealth, the Father Abbot himself, is coming to Palmaris and that we require their assistance to properly welcome him."
"Is not King Danube also nearing our city?" Brother Talumus asked.
"He is a week away, at least, by all reports," Francis replied. "The Father Abbot will arrive first."
"And so we will likely organize this celebration all over again within the week," Talumus reasoned. "For it is to be as grand a parade for King Danube as for the Father Abbot, is it not?"
Francis didn't like his almost accusing tone. It had become increasingly evident to Francis over the last couple of weeks that there might be a problem growing with Talumus. The monk was out often and, according to the whispers Francis had overheard, he had even lent a soul stone to a street whore.
"Surely the King has spies within the city who will report to him immediately if his entry parade is not as grand as that of the Father Abbot," Talumus said.
"That will be for the Father Abbot to decide, and to organize," Francis replied. "Our duty is to prepare the celebration for the Father Abbot alone."
Talumus started to protest, despite the grimaces on the faces of the two monks flanking him, but Francis would hear no more.
"Father Abbot Markwart is better suited for such a task," the headmaster explained. "No one in all the world is better versed in protocol, I assure you. Or more experienced. Father Abbot Markwart has hosted royalty on many occasions, and organized a successful College of Abbots just a few short months ago."
"But ..." Talumus started to say, but, glancing around, noting that he had absolutely no support, he threw up his hands. "What else would you have us do, headmaster?" he asked.
"Start with the merchants, then send the soldiers out to the streets to the open markets and the taverns," Francis explained. "We will prepare a greeting at the ferry, then rouse all the folk of Palmaris along the route that will bring the Father Abbot to St. Precious."
Francis waved them away then, figuring they had enough to do. Two of the monks scurried out of the room, though Brother Talumus walked more slowly, looking back several times at the new headmaster.
Francis was relieved, for his time of trial, this most urgent trial, was nearing its end. And he had done well, he believed. Most of the merchants were satisfied, and even those who had left his office grumbling would not speak ill of him to the Father Abbot —they were certainly more enamored of Headmaster Francis than of Bishop De'Unnero. As were the common folk, Francis knew. The sermons had been gentler of late, and the taxes less demanding.
Markwart had given Francis explicit instructions for the handling of Palmaris, and there could be no doubt that the headmaster had performed to perfection. All that remained was the celebration, the welcoming parade, and that, Francis believed, would prove to be the easiest task of all.
The Fellowship Way bustled that night with news of the coming visit, and of the role the people were being told they would play in welcoming the Father Abbot. More and more people kept filtering in, and those who arrived did not quickly leave, getting caught up in the exciting and somewhat confusing talk of the events of the last few weeks. When De'Unnero had been in command of the city, there was a general consensus that the strict Bishop —and thus, by extension, the Abellican Church—might not prove well suited over the long term to lead Palmaris, but now . . .
Now, the people did not know what to think.
The confusion proved troubling for Pony, waiting tables and listening in on practically every conversation. She winced as if she had been hit every time someone spoke favorably about this man Francis, for she remembered Francis —indeed she did!—from her journey to St.-Mere-Abelle. The lackey of Markwart, Bradwarden had labeled him. And indeed, when Elbryan had encountered the man, he was in the process of beating the chained centaur.
And now here he was, all smiles and give-away gold, the interim bishop, fast becoming a hero to the beleaguered folk of Palmaris. De'Unnero had clearly shown the power of the Church, had played the tyrant's role. Now Francis could build on that, showing the merciful, beneficent side of the Church. As the many conversations wound along, the threads began to shift favorably toward Francis, and in a hopeful direction at the mention of the Father Abbot's impending visit. "Mayhaps the Church'll come showin' us the true way, with the war done and all," one man remarked. That prompted a series of toasts to the Abellican Church, the new Bishop —may he remain in place even if De'Unnero returned!—and the Father Abbot—may he hear the calls of the peasant folk!
By the time they got around to that last toast, Pony had already left the tavern, walking out into the night air and the chill breeze blowing from the north. When several deep breaths did not calm her, she started around the building, moving to the rainspout that would lead her to the roof and her private place.
"You are not to be climbing in your condition, now are you?" came a voice behind her, Belster's voice.
"And aren't you leaving Dainsey alone with quite a crowd?" Pony remarked, though she could not easily dismiss Belster's words, not with her belly sticking out so far now, the child within hardly ever still.
"Mallory will help her," Belster replied with a dismissive wave. "And Prim O'Bryen has come in. And most have had too much already and will not be drinking much more."
"If only I could blame their stupid words on drink," said Pony.
Belster gave a great sigh. "Still you have that anger, girl," he said.
Pony stared at him incredulously; did he believe that her anger was misplaced?
"Even you, so full of hate for the Church, recognize that this Bishop is better than the last," said Belster. "For some of the folk, that's enough."
Pony shook her head and leaned heavily against the pipe.
"You have got your own anger," Belster said calmly, approaching and putting a comforting hand about her shoulders. "No one will deny you that, or even that it is justified. But most of the folk are trying hard to look ahead, not back. They just want to be left in peace to go about their work and their fun, and they ask no more from a leader than to keep them safe should the goblins return."
"And the Church is that leader?" Pony asked skeptically. "Bishop Francis is that leader?"
Belster shrugged, and Pony almost —almost—slapped him.
"And will Belster go out and cheer at the arrival of the Father Abbot?" Pony asked, her voice dripping venom.
"That is what we have been told to do, and so we should," the innkeeper declared. "If that will make the Father Abbot happy, and him being happy will make our lives a bit easier, then it seems a small price —"
"Prettyface!" Pony yelled, a common name used by children to describe someone who says one thing but then does something completely different. She pulled away from him, and saw that she had wounded him with her insult. But she didn'
t stop. "You know what they are! You know what they have done!"
"Indeed, my friend," Belster said somberly, quietly, "I know. I hold no foolish ideas or hopes that these men —the new Bishop and the Father Abbot—are good men. But they might just be doing good for the folk of Palmaris if doing good for us suits their purposes. What more might common folk ask for?"
Pony's anger changed to confusion. "Are you speaking of a fight between the Church and state?" she asked. "Are you thinking that the Father Abbot is trying to use the city against the King?"
"It might be that it is not so much a fight," Belster explained, "but it does seem, from what I have heard from my friends who know the merchants well, as if both sides plan to make a claim for Palmaris, though I expect that the Church wants the city more."
"Wants the city enough to murder Abbot Dobrinion and Baron Bildeborough," Pony pointedly reminded.
Belster patted the air now, trying to keep her calm. "And are you planning to stop them?" he asked quietly, though the incredulity was clear in his voice. "We have been going around on this talk for weeks now, and surely you have come to see that you cannot fight them. Perhaps, if luck is with us, you will not have to, and that will be a good thing, girl. Good for Palmaris and good for yourself —and good, most of all, for the baby you are carrying in your belly."
Pony's hand went to her bulging belly. Always it came down to that for Belster; every time Pony started talking of action, he would gently remind her of the baby.
And she did calm down somewhat; she always did when feeling that life inside her. She recognized Belster's stand for what it was —not cowardice but pragmatism. The innkeeper had already carved out a comfortable existence in the city, as had most folk; and he, like the others, preferred simply not to care about what their leaders might have done in the past as long as their present actions were helpful, or at least benign.
Pony could accept that from Belster and the others. Rationally, she tried hard not to judge them. But at the same time, Pony could not accept such an attitude from herself. Not at all. This was Francis, who had beaten Bradwarden; and the Father Abbot was responsible for the murder of her adoptive parents and brother. No, Pony could not forgive, and could not forget; the talk in the Way, from men and women she had come to think of as friends, hurt her. But there was little point in arguing it with Belster, here in the alley in the cold of a late winter's night.
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 171
