"But might be only our town," Merry tried to reason.
Thedo scoffed. "How many boats've come in since we learned o' the plague? And how many just before that? And where'd it come to us from, if all who got it stayed home? No, good Merry, it's out and was so before it found Falidean town. The rosy's out and runnin', don't ye doubt, and them monks've got to do somethin' about it. We're goin' to St. Gwendolyn, with ye or without ye. We'll get our Abbess Delenia and her sisters and brothers to heal us."
"Brother Avelyn kilt the demon, so they're sayin'," Dinny added, "and if them monks're killin' the dactyl demon, then they're strong enough to kill the rosies!"
Another cheer went up, and the group started down the long muddy road, with Dinny Crayle holding fast to her friend Merry, guiding the woman along. Merry looked back repeatedly at Brennilee's little grave marker, her instincts screaming in protest at the thought of leaving her little girl behind. What would happen to Brennilee if Merry died in some distant land? Who would they put in the ground beside her little girl, or would they even bother to bury Brennilee again if her little coffin churned up? Truly, Merry's heart broke. She didn't believe that the Abellican monks could, or would, help them, but she went along anyway.
Mostly it was sheer weakness, the inability to resist Dinny's pull, the inability to break away from the only comforting hands that had found her stooped shoulders these last days, since she had begun to show signs of the rosy plague.
The group took up a song soon after, a chanting prayer that spoke of the hope and redemption offered by the Abellican Church, that spoke of St. Abelle, the healer of souls, the healer of bodies. I had to get out of there.
I knew beyond anything else that I had to get out ofPalmaris, away from that place of pain and turmoil. It was overwhelming me-all of it. It was paralyzing me with pain and most of all with doubt.
I had to get back on the road to the north, to my home: a simpler place by far. In Dundalis, in all the Timberlands, the pressures of survival overrule many of the trappings of civilization. In the wild Timberlands, where the domain of nature dominates that of mankind, the often-too-confusing concepts of right and wrong are replaced by the simpler concept of consequences. In the wilds of the Timberlands, you choose your course, you act upon that trail, and you accept-for what else might you do? — the consequences of those choices and actions. Had I lost Elbryan to a mistaken handhold while scaling a cliff face rather than in battling a demon spirit, then, I believe, I could have more easily accepted his death. The pain, the sense of loss, would have been no less profound, of course, but it would have been outside the realm of the more personal questions the actual conditions fostered. It would have been a simple reality based upon simple reality, and not a reality of loss based upon some philosophical questions of morality and. justice. Would such an accidental loss of my love have been more senseless?
Of that I am not sure, and, thus, I had to get out of there.
My decision to go disappointed many. I have weakened my allies, I fear, and bolstered my enemies. To those looking upon me from afar, it seems as if I chose the easier road.
They think that I am running away. friends and enemies believe that I have retreated from my fight, have fled from the peril. I cannot completely disagree, for my stance on the larger battle within Honcethe-Bear now seems to me as intangible as the battlefield itself. Are we fighting a demon spirit or the very nature of mankind? Was Markwart an aberration or an inevitability? How many revolutions have been fought by people espousing a more enlightened, way, a greater truth, a greater justice, only to see the victors fall into the same human failings as their predecessors?
Yes, I fear I have come to question the value of the war itself.
Perhaps I am running away from the confusion, from the noise of aftermath, that unsettling scrambling to fill the power vacancies. But in the final measure, I am not running away from the greater battle; of this, I am certain. Nor will my road truly be easier. I have come to recognize now that I am charging headlong into the most personal and potentially devastating battle I have ever fought. I am running to confront the most basic questions of my existence, of any existence: the meaning of my life itself and of what may come after this life. I am choosing a course of faith and of hope, and not with any illusions that those necessary ingredients for contentment and joy will be waiting for me in Dundalis. Far from it-for I understand that those questions may be beyond me. And if that is the case, then how can I even begin to fathom the answers?
But this is a battle I cannot avoid or delay. I must come to terms with these basic questions of humanity, of who we are and why we are and where we're going, if I ever hope to solidify the ground beneath my feet. I have come to the point in my life where I must learn the truth or be destroyed by the doubts.
Brother-Abbot-Braumin wants me to stand beside him now and fight the legacy ofMarkwart. King Danube wants me to stand with him now in restoring order to a kingdom shattered by war and the corruption of its very soul. They see my refusal as cowardice, I am sure; but in truth, it is mere pragmatism. I cannot fight their battles until my own personal turmoil is settled, until I am grounded in a place of solid conviction-until I am convinced that we go, not in endlessly overlapping circles of false progress, but in the direction of justice and truth, that we evolve and not just revolve. That we, in the end, pursue paradise.
And so I go to Dundalis, to Elbryan's grave site, in the hope that there I will find the truth, in the hope that the place where I learned the truth about living will also teach me the truth about dying.
— Jilseponie Wyndon
PART 2
Chapter 9
The Enduring Gift of Bestesbulzibar
The day was hot, brutally so, but at least the incessant rains that had so filled the spring and early summer now seemed to be burned away by the brilliant sunshine. Master Francis, his robes flung as wide as he could get them, would have welcomed rain this day, anything to wash the stickiness from his weary body. He had made the seventy-or-so-mile journey from St.-Mere-Abelle to St. Precious in a couple of days, with magical assistance, but the return trip had been marked by one problem after another. With his escorts, Francis had stopped in Amvoy on the Masur Delaval to gather supplies; but in that small sister city of Palmaris, they had encountered too much misery to ignore, including a group of people wounded in a skirmish with a band of goblins still running wild in the eastern reaches, as well as a little boy who had been kicked by a horse. At Francis' insistence, and over the protests of a couple of the older brothers, the group had spent nearly two weeks in Amvoy, working with their few hematite soul stones to aid anyone in need-and it seemed as if the entire town had come to them!
Now, finally, they were on the road again, but not on a direct route toward St.-Mere-Abelle but rather heading southeast, toward a small hamlet named Davon Dinnishire-a settlement of hardy people who had come south from Vanguard. The remnants of a goblin band had been spotted lurking in the forests near the place, and, though word had gone out to those soldiers hunting the monsters, Francis had learned that none were available to go to the support of Davon Dinnishire.
"It is not our affair," one young brother, Julius, argued. "We have been entrusted with coordinating the College of Abbots at St.-Mere-Abelle, yet we tarry with the business of the military." Master Francis fixed Brother Julius with a sympathetic expression, and a helpless smile. "Once I walked as you now walk," he said to the young brother, loudly enough for all of those near to him to hear. "Once I walked with the pride that I-that the Church and thus anyone associated with itwas somehow above the common man."
Julius seemed perplexed by the statement and completely off his guard.
" It took the death of Father Abbot Markwart, the destruction of the evil that the man had become-"
"Master Francis!" another of the group interrupted.
Francis smiled again and held up his hand to silence the murmuring of the astonished brothers.
"To go now straight to St.
-Mere-Abelle, though we know Davon Dinnishire is in dire need, would be an act of sin, plain and without argument," Francis stated. "It would be a course that the younger and less wise Francis Dellacourt, betrayed by the edicts of Father Abbot Markwart, would surely have followed.
"I am wiser now, my young friend," Francis finished. "I do not speak with God, but I believe now that I better understand the path our faith asks us to walk. And that path now is to Davon Dinnishire." Another of the group started to question that, but Francis cut him short. "I am the only master in the group," he reminded them. "I have served as bishop ofPalmaris and as abbot of St. Precious. I walked beside the Father Abbot for many months. This is not an issue I plan to debate with you, Brother Julius, or with any of you," he said, glancing around at all the monks.
There was only a bit of grumbling behind him as he started down the southeastern road once more.
Master Francis walked with honest convictions and a purposeful stride, He did wince once, though, when he heard Brother Julius whisper to another brother that Francis was only delaying because he feared to return to St.-Mere-Abelle and face stern Master Bou-raiy, who would not be pleased at all about the events in Palmaris from the fall of Father Abbot Markwart to the present. There was a grain of truth in that statement, Francis had to admit.
Soon enough, the monks came to the walled village of Davon Dinnishire, running the last mile, using a rising plume of black smoke to guide them. They were somewhat relieved to find that the village had not been completely destroyed. The villagers were forming bucket lines to try to put out the flames.
"Who leads here? " Francis demanded of the first woman he could stop,
The old peasant pointed to a young, strong man of about thirty winters, with reddish brown hair and a full beard, thick arms and a barrel chest, and intense gray eyes that flashed like embers flaring to life every time he barked an order at one of the nearby villagers. Francis hurried over to him. The villager's gray eyes widened when he recognized the approaching man as an Abellican monk. "I am Master Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle," he introduced himself. "We will help where we may."
"A pity ye wasn't here this morn," the man replied. "If ye'd helped our fight with them goblins, we'd not have so many squirming with pain, and not so many fires to douse. Laird Dinnishire, I am-Maladance Dinnishire o' the Davon Dinnishire clan." He held out his hand, and Francis took it and shook it firmly, but turned back as he did and ordered his monks to get to work.
"The wounded first," Francis instructed, "then go and help with the fires."
"Did ye see the goblins?" Maladance Dinnishire asked. "Somewhere between two and three score run off, by last count." "And how many came against you? " asked Francis. "Not many more than that," the laird admitted. "We weren't to run out after them, and they stayed back, throwing fiery arrows and running up to launch their spears. We killed a few, and hurt a few more, but they were just testing our mettle, so to speak." "They will return," Francis reasoned.
"Likely this same night," Maladance agreed. "Goblins're likin' the dark. But don't ye worry, Master Francis. If they're tryin' to get over our wall, they're dyin' tryin'!"
Francis didn't doubt the town's resolve or strength, for he understood that many of the towns in this region had been badly set upon during the months of the demon war. Many enemy forces had landed along the gulf coast, part of an assault force that had set its eyes upon the greatest prize in all the kingdom: St.-Mere-Abelle. But then the demon dactyl had been destroyed and the monstrous army had lost its coordination. The attack upon St.-Mere-Abelle had utterly failed and, since the powrie fleet had been mostly destroyed and the rest had sailed off, those goblins and powries already on the land had been left with no escape from the region, running off in small marauding bands.
So these townsfolk, farmers mostly, had seen some fighting, he knew. But he knew, too, that even if they fought valiantly, they would suffer further losses, perhaps heavy losses, against so many goblin warriors.
Francis went to work, helping the wounded and fighting the fires. When he was done, some three hours later, the sun was beginning its western descent. He called together those of his brethren he could find, all but a couple still tending the wounded and the ill. All of the monks were drenched in sweat and covered in soot, eyes red from smoke and hands blistered from running with heavy, water-filled buckets. "Gather your strength, both physical and magical," Master Francis bade them. "The goblins mean to return this night, but we will go out and find them where they camp."
That widened some eyes!
"We are eighteen brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle, trained in fighting and in magic," Francis said.
"We've one offensive gemstone," Brother Julius, who had become somewhat of a spokesman for the rest of the group, interjected, "a single graphite."
"Enough to blind and confuse our enemies that we might spring upon them," Francis remarked with a sly grin.
"You are beginning to sound much like Master De'Unnero," Brother Julius remarked, and his tone showed that he spoke somewhat in jest. But Francis didn't take the comparison that way at all and scowled fiercely at the younger man.
"We have a responsibility to these people," he declared, "to all people who are in need."
As he finished, there came a tumult from down the lane. The brothers turned and saw a monk crashing out of the door of a peasant hovel, stripping off his robes as he ran full speed for the group. "Master Francis!" he called repeatedly. By the time he reached the group, he was wearing only his short cotton underclothing, and to the amazement of the other monks, he grabbed up one bucket of water and doused himself.
"Brother Cranston!" Francis scolded. "We are all uncomfortable in the heat-"
"Rosy plague!" Cranston replied desperately. "In that house… a woman… already dead."
Francis rushed over and grabbed the man, shaking him. "Rosy plague?" he asked breathlessly. "Are you sure, brother?"
"Red spots with white rings all about her body," Brother Cranston replied. "Her eyes were sunken and bruised, and she had bled from her gums and her eyes, I could see. Oh, but she rotted away!"
Brother Julius came up to Francis and dropped a heavy hand on the master's shoulder. "We must be far from this place at once," he said gravely. Behind him, Francis heard another mutter, "Better that the goblins come back and burn the whole town to the ground."
Francis wanted to shout at the brother, to shove Julius and his words far aside. But he could not dismiss any of the remarks. The rosy plague! The scourge of Honce-the-Bear. Francis' primary duties at St.-Mere-Abelle for years had been as a historian, and so he knew, better than any, the truth of the rosy plague. It had first occurred in God's Year 412, devastating the southern reaches of the kingdom. One in seven had died, according to the records. One in seven. And in Yorkey that number had been closer to one in four. And yet the plague that had occurred the following century, from 517 to 529, had been even more virulent, devastating the Mantis Arm and spreading across the Gulf of Corona to Vanguard. Ursal had been particularly hard hit. Afterward the record keepers of the day, Abellican monks mostly, had put the death toll at one in three-some had even claimed that half the population of Honce-the-Bear had fallen.
The rosy plague!
How vulnerable Honce-the-Bear would have been then to invasion by Behren, to the south, except that Behren had not been spared either. Francis, of course, had no records of the death toll in that southern kingdom, but many of the accounts he had read had claimed that the Behrenese had suffered even more than the folk of Honce-the-Bear. Now the kingdom was even more thickly populated than it had been before the 517 plague, Francis knew. And now, given the war, the kingdom was even less prepared to handle such a disaster.
So even though Master Francis Dellacourt-the enlightened monk who had learned the truth of Father Abbot Markwart and of the heroes he had once considered enemies, had turned his life down a different road, a road of compassion and of service-wanted to yell against the callous remarks of his brethren, h
e could not find the strength to do so. Not in that terribly shocking moment, not in the face of the threat of the rosy plague!
But first he had to go and see. He had read the descriptions of the disease, had seen artists' renderings of the victims. Several times since 529, there had been reports of the plague, but they had proven either to be minor outbreaks or simply the mistaken claims of desperate people. He bade his brethren to stay there, except for a pair he sent in search of the three stillmissing brethren, and then Master Francis gathered up his strength and strode determinedly toward the hovel at the end of the lane.
He heard weeping and found a pair of children within, looking haggard and afraid. He brushed past them and through a curtain, and there she lay.
Ring around the rosy, Gather bowls of posies
Burn the clothes
And dig the holes And cover us with dirt.
It was the first verse of an old children's song, a poem that had been penned sometime around God's Year 412, a song of the attempts to ward off the killer plague by diminishing the rotting stench of its victims with flowers, a song that told the honest truth for those who contracted the illness. " 'And cover us with dirt,' " Francis whispered. "Get out! Get out!" he yelled at the children. "Out and far away from here. You can do nothing for your mother now. Get out!" He chased the weeping children out before him into the lane; and several townsfolk, Laird Dinnishire among them, came over.
"My brethren and I will go out after the goblins," Francis explained to him. "With luck, they will not return to your town."
"What's wrong in the house?" the concerned laird asked.
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