Their role in this human war, by Dasslerond's estimation, was at its end. The lady meant to speak with Nightbird one last time, to inform him of Jilseponie's condition and to scold him for ever teaching the woman bi'nelle dasada. The lady of Caer'alfar would not back down, nor would she relinquish her anger. Nightbird had chosen the wrong person, for Jilseponie's actions against Markwart had been foolhardy, and anyone who would choose such a foolish course was not deserving to know the elven dance.
Belli'mar Juraviel, despondent, lingered behind the group, turning his eyes back toward Palmaris often. "Farewell, my friends," he said to the evening wind.
But they would not fare well, he knew in his heart.
"You are my brother, Nightbird, and I do not judge you harshly," he said. "For Jilseponie is my sister now, and to her, I can only make one silent promise. And to you, Nightbird, I only pray our paths will cross once more, that we will find a time of mirth again, of friendship on a hillock with Jilseponie and Bradwarden, in a place far removed from the foolishness of human political struggles."
How Juraviel wanted that to come true! Tears rolled from his golden eyes, the first time the elf had ever cried for any human. Sadness nearly overwhelmed him when he considered poor Pony, should she survive, would awaken to yet another brutal loss.
And so he could only hope that someday far in the future, he would meet his friends. But Juraviel, who with his kin had learned so much of the true nature of this enemy, understood that his hopes were a distant possibility.
Juraviel knew what Nightbird and Pony would face, and did not believe that they would win, not now that Lady Dasslerond had decided to abandon the humans.
He lingered for a long while behind his kinfolk, staring forlornly back at Palmaris, at the place that had become so dangerous for Pony, and, soon enough, he suspected, for Nightbird, as well.
Up ahead, Lady Dasslerond led the others in tiest-tiel, the star song, the highest pleasure that any elf might know.
But Belli'mar Juraviel did not feel like joining in tonight, for there was no song in his heavy heart.
"Perhaps it is fitting that we die here," the ranger grimly remarked.
"Just wishin' it was a hunnerd years hence," Bradwarden replied.
Marlboro Viscenti started crying; Roger Lockless tried to comfort him, but his shoulders, too, shook with sobs.
"To the legacy of Avelyn Desbris," Brother Braumin began, holding the last syllable melodically, using the half-singing, half-chanting tones of a monk ministering to the flock. "And so we have failed, but have not," he went on. "We were the first, but shall not be the last, to follow our hearts to this place. And so we have found him, our inspiration, our path to God, and so we die blessed."
He bent low as he continued his prayer so that the wounded man, obviously near death, could hear him clearly and take comfort. And the man did stop his thrashing and crying, and Viscenti and Roger stopped crying, too, all listening to the prayer, the last earthly hope, of Brother Braumin Herde.
It went on for a few moments, then was halted by Shamus Kilronney's declaration. "Here they come," he said.
"Pray," cried Brother Braumin.
"Fight," Nightbird grimly corrected, but when he looked at the kneeling monk, he could not hold his edge. "Fight and pray," he conceded with a smile.
And so they prayed, and so they sang, and the goblins, hundreds of goblins, slowly closed. And then their song faded, for they each in turn noticed a humming, a deep resonating sound.
"She's pickin' a fine time to blow up again," Bradwarden remarked, staring down at the dangerous mountain.
All thoughts of anything but the goblins faded at once, for the creatures suddenly howled and charged, barely two running strides away.
Then a low moan, a loud, rolling pulse, emanated from Avelyn's hand, and all —men, centaur and goblins—froze as a purplish ring of energy rolled out through the defenders.
Through the defenders and into the goblins, permeating their bodies. Another pulse came forth, then another, each striking the now-stationary ring of monsters like the waves of an incoming tide.
Goblins opened their mouths as if to scream, but no sound came forth above the low humming of the arm. Goblins tried to turn and run, but could only twist their upper torsos, as if their feet were rooted to the stone.
The men and the centaur winced as they saw the goblin bones, as if their flesh had become translucent.
And then there were just bones, skeletons where the horde of goblins had been.
The humming stopped; the purple glow disappeared.
Hundreds of goblin skeletons crumbled with a great rattling sound.
Brother Braumin prostrated himself before the upraised arm, weeping and crying, "A miracle."
Not even Elbryan the skeptic nor Bradwarden, who had little use for human religions, could find a word to dissuade him, could find any word at all to speak at that moment.
P A R T F I V E
Mirror Image
Even hope can be deceived. I never thought about the seemingly eternal struggle between good and evil in those terms before, Uncle Mather, and quite honestly the notion frightens me. But now I know it to be true, and that, I fear, is the real danger to the world of man.
The demon dactyl was a terrifying creature, horrible almost beyond comprehension. When I faced the beast in the bowels of Mount Aida, it took all of my willpower to struggle forward even a step toward Bestesbulzibar. Overwhelmingly malicious, Uncle Mather, evil personified.
Bui I have said before, and know now, having faced the fiend, that the demon dactyl could never win in the end. Such a force of true, recognizable evil would forever find foes among the men of Corona; someone would always take up the sword and fight. Only by sweeping every man and woman from the world of the living could Bestesbulzibar assure uncontested victory, and what a hollow victory that would be to a creature bent on domination. Its minions, the goblins and giants and powries, might have eradicated the human race, but never could they, never could Bestesbulzibar, capture the real prize: the human soul.
Might subtlety win out where brute force failed?
That is my fear, for far more dangerous than the demons and their monstrous minions are the deceivers, and I believe father Abbot Markwart to be one, perhaps the foremost one in all the world. He and his Church seem to have perfected the art of coercion, and it horrifies me, and saddens me, to think that they might claim the prize that eluded Bestesbulzibar. How cunning and sly! They publicly say just enough of the right things, and draw just enough logical conclusions, to lend credence to other philosophies which, if examined separately and carefully, would not hold up. They mask untruth with a covering web of truth, and excuse immorality by claiming urgency or hiding behind convenient traditions that hold no logical purpose in the present world.
Why not train a ship's crew of monks for the voyage to collect the sacred gemstones? Why not use those stones to better the lives of the common folk?
They have answers, Uncle Mather. Always there are answers.
But when a sickly mother appears at the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, begging for healing that her children would not be orphaned. . .
Then there are no excuses. At that moment, all the justifications called forth by tradition or some supposed "greater good" melt away, revealed for the lies they are.
But they are masters, these deceivers, and they frighten me. They speak enough truths to calm the populace, and offer just enough meager morsels to keep the common folk in line, to make those scrambling daily to find food believe that their world will continue to improve, or at least that their children will find a better life. For that, Uncle Mather, in the end, is the most common desire of humanity.
Father Abbot Markwart knows that.
I alluded, half jokingly, that the spirit of Bestesbulzibar might remain, and in an even more dangerous host. I was speaking metaphorically, of course, or so I thought. For now, as this fight between me, Pony, and all the other followers of Avelyn, has intens
ified against the Abellican Church Father Abbot Markwart's Church I have come to wonder if the spirit of Bestesbulzibar does not actually find the hearts of some men, and root there. Are there those among us tainted by the diabolical fiend? And if that is the case, will goodly men, godly men, win out in the end, or will the tide of humanity follow the current of calming words, thickened with truth, but baked, in essence, with lies?
Perhaps even hope can be deceived.
—ELBRYAN WYNDON
CHAPTER 32
The Blessed Upper Hand
As he approached the northern gate of Palmaris only his anger prevented Marcalo De'Unnero from fearing Father Abbot Markwart's reaction when he learned of the Bishop's failure to capture Nightbird. Stopped at the gate by questioning guardsmen who did not recognize him, the monk glared at them and they faltered. Finally a soldier who knew the Bishop came upon them and, terrified, led the ruffled and angry De'Unnero away. During that fast walk to Chasewind Manor, De'Unnero heard all the news: the attempted assassination of Father Abbot Markwart, the rumors of continuing struggle between King Danube —who was staying at the manor house of Aloysius Crump—and the Father Abbot, who had taken the more luxurious Chasewind Manor as his own, and, not to De'Unnero's liking, of the outpouring of support from the common folk for the new Bishop, Francis Dellacourt.
De'Unnero swept into Chasewind Manor and didn't even wait for a proper announcement to storm into the glass-enclosed garden where Father Abbot Markwart was partaking of his morning meal, Brother —or was it Master, Abbot, or Bishop?—Francis at his side.
"Your expression alone tells me that the one named Nightbird remains ever elusive," the Father Abbot remarked, more than a bit of sarcasm in his tone. The Father Abbot had settled in quite comfortably. He had come to Chasewind Manor the day after his unexpected meeting with King Danube at St. Precious, the morning after he battered Jill on the field outside of Palmaris, realizing that if he did not take the house as his residence, the King surely would.
"I had him," De'Unnero returned angrily, "up in the Wilderlands, far north of the Timberlands and approaching the Barbacan."
"The Barbacan?" Francis echoed incredulously, reflecting Markwart's feelings exactly, though the old Father Abbot kept a calm and impassive expression.
"But for his friends, Nightbird was mine," De'Unnero went on. "I have met him in open combat and am the stronger."
"And yet he remains at large," Markwart said dryly.
De'Unnero calmed a bit and nodded, having no practical reply.
"And what of the woman Jill?" the Father Abbot asked a moment later.
"She may have been among those who drove me away before I could secure my victory," De'Unnero lied.
"Indeed, then she has long arms, my friend, to reach all the way from Palmaris to the Wilderlands," Markwart said.
De'Unnero spent a long moment digesting that statement, then widened his eyes as he figured out the implications. "You have found her?"
The Father Abbot smiled and nodded.
"Where is she?" a frantic De'Unnero went on. "I will extract whatever information you desire, Father Abbot. I promise —"
"We do not have her," Markwart admitted, "but she has been neutralized. Though she holds the gemstones, I do not believe she will be a danger to us anymore. More likely, her attention will be toward self-preservation. Our attention now must be to the city, placating the King, of course, who is at this very moment eating his morning meal in the house of the merchant you executed. But while placating Danube, we must work quickly to strengthen our grip over Palmaris." He motioned for De'Unnero to sit, then waved a hand at the monk waiting on them, that the newcomer might get a morning meal.
"The situation in Palmaris has changed," Markwart went on.
"A guard at the city gate told me that you had been grievously injured," De'Unnero remarked, trying hard to avoid staring at the garish scar that ran along the side of Markwart's withered face. "A magical attack, so said the guard, and thus, I am led to believe that the woman was involved."
"She has been repaid for her deed," Markwart replied. "I found her and left her broken, and as with your enemy in the northland, only her friends managed to keep us from the complete capture. But that situation will soon be remedied, do not doubt. The soldiers and monks are out and about the city. She'll not escape us this time."
"And then we shall have the stones," Francis put in, somewhat sheepishly. He was obviously uncomfortable with De'Unnero, the Bishop he had replaced, sitting right beside him.
"It is good that you have returned to me," the Father Abbot stated, as if the thought had just come to him. "Though I wish that you had the traitor in tow —how powerful a symbol the one called Nightbird might now be."
"That symbol might be interpreted in two different ways," Francis dared to remark.
"Ah, yes, perception is all the truth," Markwart agreed. "But if we had the man, or the man's head, we would control the images for the peasants, and they would come to understand the true threat to their lives, the true evil of Avelyn and his followers. But no matter. King Danube will not oppose us now, not after the manner in which the woman attacked me, and not after your work, Bishop Francis, in placating the masses. I tested him when he came to visit me, declaring that all the gemstones in the kingdom are to be confiscated by the Church, and he did not deny my claim. Palmaris is ours to rule, wisely and with generosity."
De'Unnero's dark eyes widened. Bishop Francis? Placating the masses? De'Unnero's last official act before running out of the city had been the execution of Aloysius Crump!
"The situation has changed," Markwart said again. "The Church has become the generous benefactor under the guidance of Bishop Francis." He held his hand up to silence De'Unnero before the stream of expected complaints could even begin. "The title I bestowed upon our young brother here was intended to be temporary, though now I have come to the conclusion that I will make it permanent. I have already spoken with Abbot Je'howith, who is also in Palmaris, on this matter and he will not oppose me."
The dangerous De'Unnero glared at Francis.
"You believe yourself deserving of the title?" Markwart asked bluntly.
"I performed as I was instructed," De'Unnero replied. Only then did he begin to understand that Markwart's explicit instructions, including the public execution of Crump, had assured that his tenure as bishop would be temporary. Markwart had set him up, had used him in such a dark way that Francis would shine favorably against that shadow.
"Admirably," Markwart agreed with a broad smile. "I do not, in any way, criticize the reign of Bishop De'Unnero. You were exactly what Palmaris needed in that dark and uncertain time, but the situation has changed. It is time for a gentler hand, one that the King cannot slap aside."
"As it was planned all along?" De'Unnero asked.
Francis shifted uncomfortably, sliding back his chair a bit, expecting an explosion.
But Markwart only nodded. "As it had to be."
"And now I am to be punished?" De'Unnero asked, a growl accompanying each word.
"How so?"
The former bishop held up his hands incredulously and looked all around, as if to exclaim that he had lost all of this —this place, this title, this city.
But Markwart remained unshakably calm. "Do you believe that I would not reward your loyalty and diligence?" he asked with a laugh. "My friend, there are many roles left to fill, and I have plans for you, do not doubt, plans that will bring you all that you desire. As the Church makes its way into the world of secular politics, I expect to make many enemies. Powerful men like Targon Bree Kalas, Duke of Wester-Honce, who is not pleased that the largest city of his duchy has fallen under Church rule. I am old and tired; it may well be that I will need a champion. Who better than Marcalo De'Unnero?"
"Master De'Unnero?" the man asked, still on the edge of anger. "Or merely Brother De'Unnero?"
Markwart laughed loudly. "Abbot of St. Precious," he decided then and there. "Bishop Francis has too many i
ssues to be concerned with already. He will be the hand of state, and you the hand of Church in Palmaris, though I shan't limit your influence and duties to this one city, I promise."
"And who answers to whom?" De'Unnero asked, his glare focused on Francis as he spat out every word.
"Hand of state, hand of Church," Markwart reiterated, "both answer to me. Now, enough of this divisive talk. We have a common opponent here: King Danube Brock Ursal. Our attention must remain with him and his secular advisers, particularly Kalas, who, according to Abbot Je'howith, will prove no easy foe. Kalas once led the Allheart Brigade, and earned two great plumes in his helmet. Indeed, a large contingent of that elite fighting unit accompanied the King to Palmaris. So while our hold appears strong at the moment, one mistake could give the upstart Duke all the room he needs to sweep into power."
Markwart looked at each of the men in turn, his cold stare sending shivers through Francis and igniting eager fires in De'Unnero. "We must plan for every possibility," the Father Abbot said grimly.
"He plays you as he would a lute!" Duke Targon Bree Kalas roared, the loudest and angriest tone he had ever used in speaking to his King.
Danube's glare set the excitable man back on his heels, reminded him of his place. "And which string do you intend to pluck?" he replied sarcastically.
"Your pardon, my King," Constance Pemblebury interrupted, moving between the men. "I believe Duke Kalas is concerned about the potential troubles for the Crown." She glared at Kalas as she finished. "Surely he means no insult to the Crown."
Danube chuckled then, alleviating the tension. All of them understood the mood of the city. Father Abbot Markwart had become a sort of hero to the common folk. That, combined with the work of Bishop Francis, who was proving a generous and worthy leader, had weakened the King's position should Danube decide to revoke the title of bishop.
DemonWars Saga Volume 1 Page 180
