The serpentine shield had done nothing at all.
Pony prayed for guidance. She used the hematite, not to go back to Colleen, but to find a deeper level of concentration, to find the spirit of Avelyn, seeking near-divine guidance.
An image flashed in her mind of that upraised hand at Mount Aida, and for a moment she thought the spirit of Avelyn had come to her and would Guide her, would show her the gemstone combination to defeat the rosy plague.
Her spirits sagged a moment later, though, for there was nothing-no answers, no hope.
She fiddled with the stones again, arranging them in various groups and trying to figure out a combination of magical properties that would defeat the plague. She tried serpentine again with hematite and ruby, the stone of fire, wondering if there was some way she could bring up some type of spiritual fire that would burn at the green morass.
Again, she wound up on the floor, desperate and even more exhausted.
And on the bed, Colleen continued to deteriorate.
She went at Colleen a third time an hour later, this time using hematite and a warm and bright diamond.
Nothing.
Colleen Kilronney died later that night, in Pony's arms, though she didn't know that Pony was holding her. Watching that final agony, followed at last by peace, Pony knew in her heart that there was no magical combination ofgemstones.
She knew, too, however, that she would not allow herself to run behind tussie-mussie beds and locked gates, as had Braumin Herde and all the Abellican Church.
She stayed with Colleen all through the morning, until the cart man passed by the house, ringing his bell and calling for the dead.
She found that the doors at St. Precious would not open for her. Abbot Braumin came down to the gates, and in truth, he could not bear to keep her out and offered to let her enter.
But Pony refused, understanding the complications for her friend, not wanting to trade on her friendship with the man to force him against Church edict, no matter how mistaken she believed that edict to be.
"Fare you well, my friend," she said sincerely to Braumin. "Perhaps we will meet again in this life, in happier times, that I might argue your present course."
Braumin managed a smile at her generous words, for her disappointment was not hard to see on her fair face. "We will meet again, if not here, then in heaven, with Avelyn and Jojonah and Elbryan. Go with my blessings and my love, Jilseponie."
Pony nodded and walked away, having no idea where she might next turn. She wanted to go back to Dundalis, but worried that such a journey might prove too difficult at that time even for mighty Symphony.
She found herself wandering near familiar places, avenues she had known through her teenage years, and then again after her return to Palmaris. It all seemed strangely quiet to her, as if the people were hiding in their homes, afraid of the rosy plague. One place in particular caught her attention: the Giant's Bones, a tavern built on the location of her longtime home. Fearing her own emotions but unable to resist, she entered the place, to find it, like the streets, nearly empty, with the notable exceptions of two very familiar and very welcome faces.
Roger and Dainsey nearly knocked her over in their joy at seeing her, Dainsey crying out her name repeatedly and hugging her so tightly that she could hardly draw breath.
"You decided to follow me here," Roger remarked, a smug smile on his face. "And now, with winter settling in, you're stuck here for months!"
That made Dainsey grin excitedly, as well, but Pony's reply erased their smiles.
"I brought Colleen into the city because I could not help her," Pony explained. "She died this morning."
"The rosy plague," Dainsey reasoned.
"The city has the smell of death," Roger added, shaking his head. He moved over to Pony then, offering her another hug, but she held him back and took a deep and steadying breath.
"Come with me to the north," she bade Roger, "back home, where we belong. Both Symphony and Greystone came south with me." She paused as she noted Roger's look over at Dainsey, and then it hit her. It became quite clear to Pony that these two-Roger and Dainsey! — were more than just friends.
"How long? " she started to ask. "How…" But she stopped and moved closer to Roger, granting him that hug then, truly glad to find that her friend had found such a worthwhile companion as wonderful Dainsey Aucomb.
But her happiness for Roger lasted only the few seconds it took for her to remember the circumstances that had left her walking the empty streets of Palmaris.
Chapter 28
What Miserable Wretches We Mortals Be
It was spring in Honce-the-Bear, but hardly did it seem like a time of life renewing.
Francis leaned heavily on the stone wall of St.-Mere-Abelle, needing the support. Beyond his shadow, beyond the window-which was no more than a rectangular opening in the stone-he saw them.
Dozens of them, scores of them, hundreds of them. Ghostly figures walking slowly through the morning mist that blanketed the field west of the abbey, huddled under blankets and rags against the chill that still bit hard in the springtime night. So beaten and battered were they, so emaciated, that they seemed like skeletons, this collection of pitiful souls outside the abbey seemed like a gathering of the walking dead.
And the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle could do nothing for them. Oh, the monks threw some coins, clothing, blankets, and food, mostly as payment for work performed by the plague-ridden sufferers. On Master Bou-raiy's suggestion, Master Machuso had hired the gathered plague victims to plant this year's huge tussie-mussie, a massive flower bed that would continue on and on as far as the victims could plant, that might span the mile of ground fronting St.-Mere-Abelle's western wall.
Francis watched some of them, those with the strength remaining, laboring along the base of the wall, digging in the ground with rotting fingers, The monk bumped his head against the unyielding stone, not hard, but repeatedly, as if trying to thump the frustrations out of his skull.
"What miserable wretches we mortals be," he recited gravely, the opening line to an old verse written by a poet deemed a heretic in the fifth century.
"Calvin of Bri'Onnaire," came the voice of Fio Bou-raiy behind him, and Francis turned, startled. "Strong words, brother."
Francis noted the one-armed master, flanked by Father Abbot Agronguerre. "Fitting words," he replied to Bou-raiy, "for who in this time is not considering his own mortality? "
"Calm, brother," Father Abbot Agronguerre bade Francis. "He who believes in God does not fear death," Bou-raiy promptly and sternly replied. "Calvin of Bri'Onnaire's words were wrought of fear, not contemplation. He knew that he was a sinner, who faced excommunication by the Church for the lies he spread, and thus grew his fear of death and his bitterness toward all things Abellican. It is well documented."
Master Francis chuckled and shook his head, then closed his eyes and in a voice thick with gravity and sincere emotion recited Calvin's "Mortalis," the verse that had sealed the poet's fate at the stake.
What miserable wretches we mortals be To build our homes in sheltered lea, To build our hopes in sheltered womb Weaving fancies of the tomb.
What wretched souls we mortals be To bask in false epiphany, To see a light so clear, so true, To save us from the fate we rue. Deny the truth before our sight That worms invade eternal night, That maggots feed within the skin Of faithful pure, devoid of sin.
Oh what hopeful children mortals be!
Castles in air, grand barges at sea,
Bed of clouds and angels' song,
Heavenly feasting eternity long.
What mockery made of endless night!
That prayer transcends truth and hope denies sight!
That all that we know and all that we see
Is washed away by what we pray must be.
So tell me not of eternal soul
That flees my coil through worm-bit hole.
For when I die what is left of me?
A whisper lost to eter
nity.
"I know the tale, brother," Francis finished, opening his eyes to stare solemnly at Bou-raiy, "and I know, too, that 'Mortalis' was considered a work of great introspection when Calvin presented it to the brothers of St. Honce in the time of plague." "The time of contemplation," Master Bou-raiy corrected.
"It was only when Calvin went out among the people, reciting his dark works, that the Church took exception," Francis remarked.
"Because some things should not be spoken openly," said Bou-raiy.
Francis gave another helpless chuckle.
"Brother, you must admit that we are the caretakers of the souls of Corona," Father Abbot Agronguerre put in.
"While the bodies rot," Francis said sarcastically.
Master Bou-raiy started to jump in, but the Father Abbot held him back with an upraised hand. "We do what we can," Agronguerre admitted. It was obvious to Francis that the man was agonizing over the dark happenings in the world about him. "Calvin of Bri'Onnaire was condemned not for his words but for rousing the common folk against the Church, for preying upon their fears of mortality. That is the challenge before us: to hold the faith of the populace."
A smile grew upon Master Francis' face as he considered those wordsand the irony behind them. "There is a woman out there among them," he said, "one-eyed and horribly scarred on her face and neck, with the rings of plague scars all over her arms. They say she tends the sick tirelessly; I have heard that many of the victims have called out for her beatification on their deathbeds."
"I have heard of the woman, and expect that she will be investigated when the time for such tasks arrives," Father Abbot Agronguerre replied.
"Even your canonization of Brother Avelyn has been put off," Bou-raiy had to add.
Francis didn't even bother to spout the retort that came immediately to his lips: that he would hardly consider himself a supporter of Avelyn Desbris, let alone a sponsor for the wayward brother's canonization!
"It is also whispered that this peasant woman is no friend of the Abellican Church," Francis went on. "According to her, we have deserted her and all the other victims of the rosy plague. And there is the other rumor that says it was an Abellican brother who wounded her face outside St. Gwendolyn, a brother with a hand that resembled a cat's paw. Would you wager a guess about his identity? "
He ended with heavy sarcasm, but it was lost on the other two, neither of whom were overfond of Marcalo De'Unnero. De'Unnero and his Brothers Repentant, by all reports, were laying waste southern Honce-the-Bear, inciting riots, even murdering some unfortunates who did not fit their particular description of a proper Abellican. Even more disconcerting to all the leaders at St.-Mere-Abelle was that when Father Abbot Agronguerre had sent a messenger by ship to Entel to warn Abbot Olin about the Brothers Repentant and to offer Olin the full backing of the Church if he chose to confront them openly, Agronguerre had received a reply that seemed to condone Brother Truth more than condemn him. The other abbey in Entel, the much smaller St. Rontlemore, had been faithful to the spirit of Agronguerre's warning, but Olin of Bondabruce had seemed ambivalent at best.
"We cannot end their suffering," Fio Bou-raiy stated flatly, moving to stand right before Francis, "and all that we might accomplish in trying would be to destroy the last bastions of security against the rosy plague. In this time, God alone will choose who is to live and who is to die. Our duty, brother, is to ensure that those who die do not do so without hope; to ensure that those unfortunate victims understand the truth of what awaits them beyond this life; for in that hope, they can come to accept their mortality."
" 'So tell me not of eternal soul that flees my coil through worm-bit hole,' " Francis replied.
"Master Francis," said Agronguerre, having heard enough. He, too, walked over, pushing past Bou-raiy. "I warn you in all sincerity and in all generosity, as your father abbot and as your friend, to guard well your words. Master Bou-raiy speaks realistically of our role against the rosy plague. We are the caretakers of souls more than of bodies."
"And the caretakers of hope, perhaps?" Francis asked.
"Yes."
"And when do we stop asking the question of what the populace might believe and begin asking the question of what we, honestly, believe?" Francis asked.
The two brothers looked at him curiously.
"I know when, and so do you," Francis went on. "It will happen to each of us in turn, as we contract the plague, perhaps, or come to sense, what- ever the cause, that our personal end is near. Only then will we, each of us, honestly confront that greatest of mysteries. Only then will we hear the words of Calvin of Bri'Onnaire, or like words."
"You seem to be confronting them right now," Master Bou-raiy observed.
"Because I look out at them," said Francis, turning back to the small window, "and I wonder at my place in all this. I wonder at the morality of hiding behind our walls and flower beds. We, the possessors of the sacred stones-of hematite, the soul stone of healing. There lies an incongruity, brother, of which I cannot make sense."
Father Abbot Agronguerre patted Francis' shoulder comfortingly, but Fio Bou-raiy's face screwed up with a jumble of emotions, disgust mostly, and he turned away with a snort.
Pony, Roger, and Dainsey arrived in Caer Tinella amid a melange of latespring scents, with mountain laurel and other flowers blooming bright and thick. A cruel irony, Pony thought, for in Palmaris, in all the cities of Honce-the-Bear to the south, the plague grew thicker by the day, the vibrancy of life dulling under the dark pall, the springtime scents overcome by the smell of rot. All three had been invited by Abbot Braumin to stay within St. Precious, and Pony most of all had understood the generosity of that gesture. St. Precious was a veritable fortress now, and not even the new baron of Palmaris, an arrogant duke named Tetrafel, had been allowed entrance when he had gone to speak with Abbot Braumin. But Braumin did not forget his friends.
Pony believed that Roger and Dainsey would accept the offer-certainly Dainsey had shown great excitement when Braumin had called it out to them through the newly constructed portcullis backing St. Precious' main gate. And, in fact, Pony had hoped that her friends would accept: that they, at least, would become insulated, somewhat, against the darkness. For her, it was never a question. Something within her recoiled against the thought; she could not run and hide in the abbey while so many suffered and died.
And yet, there was nothing she could do to help them, she had come to painfully realize over the few months she had spent in Palmaris. First Colleen and then a succession of others had died in her arms; and so many times Pony knew that she had barely escaped her encounters with the plague with her health intact. After one devastating defeat after another, she wanted only to go back home, to Dundalis.
She felt a combination of pleasant surprise and trepidation when Roger and Dainsey had opted to go north, though only as far as Caer Tinella, rather than retreating into the abbey.
They found that the plague had not come strong into Caer Tinella, though one man had contracted it and had died out in the forest somewhere, for he'd understood his responsibility to the community when the rosy spots appeared and had walked away into the wilderness to die alone.
Colleen's house was still deserted, and so Roger and Dainsey, with the blessing of Janine of the Lake and the other town leaders, claimed it as their own.
"You are certain you will not come to Dundalis with me?" Pony asked them soon after they had settled into the place, with Pony getting restless for the road home.
"Dainsey has friends here and so do I," Roger answered, and he wrapped Pony in a great hug. "This was my home, and I feel the need to be home, as do you."
She pushed him back to arm's length and looked him over. "But promise that you will return and visit me and Bradwarden," she said.
Roger smiled. "We'll both go north," he answered, "perhaps before the end of the season, and in the fall, surely, if not before!"
They shared another hug and Pony kissed him on the cheek. That very nigh
t, under the cover of darkness, she rode out of Caer Tinella on Greystone, with Symphony trotting along beside them.
She made Dundalis in five days, on Greystone, for Symphony had run off into the forest to, rejoin his herd. His departure reminded Pony of how extraordinary the stallion's arrival beside her on the road south had been. What had brought him to her? How could a horse so perfectly understand the needs of a human being?
Perhaps it had something to do with the turquoise gemstone Avelyn had put into the horse's breast as a gift to both Elbryan and Symphony, she mused, or perhaps there had been something special and extraordinary about Symphony even before that. Whatever the case, Pony knew well that had it not been for the stallion, she and Colleen and likely Greystone, as well, would have died on the road between Caer Tinella and Palmaris in the snowstorm.
Word had reached Dundalis of the rosy plague, Pony discovered as soon as she rode in, for she found herself assaulted by anxious questions from every corner, a group of men rushing out to meet her.
"Yes," she told them all. "The plague is thick in Palmaris."
They all backed away from her at that answer, and Pony merely shrugged and rode to Fellowship Way and Belster O'Comely. Other than the growing fear of the plague, Pony found that things had not changed much in Dundalis. She found Belster busily wiping the bar, and how his smile widened when he saw her!
He rushed around the edge of the bar and wrapped her in a great hug and bade her to tell him of all her adventures.
His smile disappeared, of course, when Pony told him of Colleen, but he managed another smile at the thought of Roger and Dainsey together, for Belster loved both of them dearly.
"I thought ye dead, girl," the innkeeper admitted, "when the season turned and ye did not return." He shook his head, a tear growing in his eye. "I feared the weather or the plague."
"Fear the plague," Pony admitted, "for it grows thicker with each passing day, and none of us, even up here in the Timberlands, is safe from it. And once it has you…" Now it was Pony's turn to shake her head helplessly. "I could do nothing for Colleen but hold her while she died."
Mortalis dw-4 Page 44
