"I have found a cure!" Pony yelled at her, and that did cause the lady eyes to open wide. "At the Barbacan, the arm ofAvelyn," Pony began to explain, "the same arm that brought forth the miracle and killed the goblins. The palm bleeds, Lady Dasslerond, and that blood, the blood of Avelyn, confers immunity to the plague."
"Our community has not been touched by the plague," Dasslerond replied. "Why, then, do you come to tell us?"
" Because you must know, for if the plague does find your valley, you can survive," Pony replied.
Lady Dasslerond thought for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps we misjudged your return," she admitted. "You have our gratitude for this information. Should we find that we need it, we will heed your words."
"But I need your help," Pony boldly went on. "The folk will begin their march to the Barbacan, by the dozens, the score, the hundreds. Until King Danube and the Abellican monks get their people in place, that will be a road fraught with danger, I fear. With goblins and starvation."
"What do you expect of the Touel'alrar? " Dasslerond asked, a tightness coming back to her voice.
"I expect nothing," Pony replied, "but I beg of you that you lend aid in this time of our need. A host of elves would greatly aid that necessary journey. Your people could chase away the goblins, even could leave food along the road, and would never have to make contact with the pilgrims. You could-"
"Enough!" Dasslerond interrupted. "Your point is made."
"And is my plea heard? "
The lady made no movement, no shake of the head and no confirming nod.
"Begone from this place, Jilseponie," she ordered after a short while.
Pony started to argue, but she felt a sudden tug as her body separated yet again from her spirit and sped back to her room in Dundalis. She blinked her spirit eyes open to find that Dasslerond had already receded into the misty blanket of fog. She thought to follow, to demand an answer, but Pony understood it all too clearly: if she did go down there, Lady Dasslerond would use her emerald to bring her body back, and then she would be killed.
Bradwarden and Dainsey arrived in Dundalis the next morning, to find the folk already preparing to make a pilgrimage to the north. How they cheered Dainsey, many running over to give the miraculously cured woman a big hug, though it was obvious that Roger didn't want to share her with anyone!
"I'm going to need you to lead them back to the Barbacan," Pony said to Bradwarden when she found her way to him.
"Bradwarden and Roger and me," Dainsey said, her eyes sparkling.
Pony shook her head. "I need you," she explained to the woman. "We must go south, to Palmaris, perhaps farther, to show them the miracle, to begin the pilgrimages."
"South, then," Roger said.
"But north for you," Pony said to Roger. He started to protest, but her simple logic cut him short. "You have not yet entered the covenant of Avelyn," she reminded.
"I do not want to be away from Dainsey," said Roger, and he and his wife stared lovingly at each other.
"You will have your time together," Pony promised, "but not now." She grabbed Dainsey by the arm and pulled her away from the man. "You ride Greystone, and I, Symphony."
"Now?" Roger asked. "This very minute? She has just returned, weary already from the road. And we have not even found the chance to-"
"And every minute we wait means that another person will die," Pony said. "That is the truth, is it not? And measured against that truth, does Roger still believe that we should tarry here in Dundalis? "
The man looked at her plaintively, then turned his loving gaze back to Dainsey. But then he sighed and kissed his wife. "You and Pony go with all speed," he said.
"Not Pony," Jilseponie stated, more out of reflex than any conscious thought. Both Roger and Dainsey looked at her curiously, wondering if she had changed her mind, if she had decided that Dainsey must go south alone while she went back to the Barbacan. Pony looked up at them, her expression as determined as any either of them had ever seen.
"Jilseponie," she declared, "not Pony. Pony was a woman who lived quietly in Dundalis. I go south as Jilseponie."
Roger thought about that for a long moment, then nodded. "A fine road and a fast horse to both Dainsey and Jilseponie, then," he said. "Go with all speed."
They did just that, riding out of Dundalis only a few minutes later.
"I telled ye she'd find her heart," Bradwarden remarked to Roger as they watched the pair gallop away.
"Off to save the world," the dejected man said with more than a little sarcasm.
"She lit her fires." The centaur laughed. "Now she's ready to go and fight, beside Braumin, against the plague. Against the Duke, if he's not hearin' her, and against the King himself, if she has to. Ye remember her walk across Palmaris when she had enough o' the fool Markwart? " Bradwarden said with a laugh.
Roger stared hard at the centaur. He did indeed remember that journey Jilseponie had made across the city. All who witnessed the bared power of the angry woman remembered it well, and would not soon forget.
"Why're ye lookin' so wounded?" Bradwarden asked, clapping Roger hard on the shoulder. "Weren't ye the one complainin' when she came back to us after refusin' both city and Church? Well, boy, ye got what ye wanted!"
"Maybe she can make a difference," Roger admitted.
"To herself, at least," said the centaur, and Roger looked at him curiously. "Ye need yer purpose in life, lad," Bradwarden explained. "Without it, ye got nothin'. She's seein' her power now, and clearly, and knowin' the responsibility that power's bringin' to her. If she doesn't use it, or at least try, then she'll be failin' her very purpose, and that's a wound ye canno' heal."
"You think she'll beat them all?" Roger asked.
"I'm not knowin' if ye ever can, nor is Pony," Bradwarden admitted, "but ye can beat 'em one at a time, beat 'em back and go on as best as ye can. Pony'11 do good for the kingdom, don't ye doubt, and for the little folk who got no hope. A hunnerd, hunnerd will live better, or live at all, because of her workin's, and how can Pony ignore that callin'? "
"Jilseponie," Roger corrected.
They came toward him, toward him, smelling of peat, their lifeless eyes staring at him, envious of his warmth. He tried to run-always before he had been able to escape-but this time, the walking dead had come to him in greater numbers and seemingly in coordinated fashion. Whichever way he turned, they were there, reaching for his throat with stiff arms.
He kicked out at one, spun and punched the face of another zombiethough the horrid creature showed no sign that it had felt the blow.
He dropped and scrambled desperately, pushing through.
But they crowded around him, a wall of rotting, dirty flesh, and he had nowhere to run.
He called out for his companions, but then realized that he had no companions, that he was on his own.
And so he tried to fight, briefly, but then he was down on his back, the walking dead looming over him, coming down at him… down at him.
Duke Tetrafel woke up with a shriek, clawing at his bedsheets so wildly that he wound up on the floor in a tumble of blankets. He continued to scream and thrash for some time, until the haze of dreams flitted away, revealing the dawn, the secure dawn in Chasewind Manor.
He sat there on the floor for some time. The dream was not new to him, had followed him all the way across Honce-the-Bear every night since his expedition had been savaged by the little folk and their host of zombies.
But this time, for the first time in his dreams, he had found no escape. This time, for the first time, the walking dead had caught him. Duke Tetrafel pondered that disturbing notion for some time, until the door of his room banged open and one of his attendants came rushing in.
"My Duke!" the man cried. "Are you murdered? "
Tetrafel chuckled and held up an arm to keep the concerned fool at bay. To his surprise, though, his signal, while stopping the attendant, onh seemed to make the man grow even more concerned. He stood a few strides away, gawking openly,
and then, to Tetrafel's further astonishment, he began shaking his head and backing away.
"What is it?" the Duke asked, but the man did not-seemed as if he could not-respond. He continued backing, almost to the door.
"Speak up, fool," Tetrafel demanded. "What is-"
The man turned and bolted from the room.
Still on the floor amid the tumble of blankets, Tetrafel stared at the open door for a long time, wondering.
And then it hit him, and then the variation of his too-common dream made perfect sense. Slowly, slowly, he brought his arm back in and turned it over.
Rosy spots.
His screams came even more loudly than before.
Abbot Braumin rubbed his hands together nervously as he walked along the quiet corridors of St. Precious. The day had not been good, not at all, with devastating rumors rolling along the unruly streets of Palmaris. And now this news, of a secret visitor that Viscenti had considered important enough to be admitted to the abbey-quietly and after a thorough gemstone inspection.
The abbot came to the door and paused, taking a deep and steadying breath, trying to find his heart. He pushed through, to find Shamus Kilronney waiting for him.
"Brother Viscenti claims that you are packed for the road," the abbot said, trying to keep his tone lighthearted.
"As long a road as I can find, my friend," Shamus said, coming forward and offering a handshake to the abbot. "I have seen too much of all this. I have no heart left for it."
"Palmaris will be a lesser place without you," Braumin remarked.
"Palmaris will be a place of catastrophe whether I remain or not," Shamus corrected. "You have heard the rumors? "
"I hear many rumors every day," said Braumin. "I cannot begin to sort fact from fancy."
Shamus nodded and chuckled, and Braumin knew that the man understood his evasiveness for what it was. He had indeed heard the specific rumor to which Shamus Kilronney must be referring, and his obvious dodge made that truth quite clear.
"It is more than rumor," Shamus said gravely. "Duke Tetrafel has the plague and is even now in a fit of panic at Chasewind Manor."
"As he should be," Braumin said with sincere sympathy.
"He will turn his eyes outward from his insecure sanctuary, will look to St. Precious for aid," said Shamus. "He and I have already discussed-"
"None of that will matter," Shamus interrupted firmly. "His desperation will lead him to your gates, do not doubt." He held his hand up to stop Braumin's forthcoming, expected response. "And you will turn him away. I am leaving, my friend. I cannot suffer this catastrophe any longer."
That last statement, linked with Shamus' insistence that Tetrafel would come for help, explained it all to Braumin. The catastrophe to which Shamus was referring was not the plague itself but the coming storm when Duke Tetrafel realized that St. Precious would not help him. Shamus was foreseeing-and quite logically, it seemed to Braumin-the chaos that would ensue within the city, the all-out riot, even warfare, between Tetrafel and the abbey. To Braumin's thinking, the brothers of St. Precious had already lost the city, a situation made even more dangerous by the arrival of De'Unnero and the Brothers Repentant. If Duke Tetrafel, instead of merely remaining neutral, actually put his muscle behind De'Unnero and the roused populace, then St. Precious would be hard pressed indeed!
"Where will you go? " Braumin asked his friend.
"North, perhaps," Shamus answered, "to Caer Tinella, and maybe farther-maybe all the way to the Timberlands."
"Is there nothing you can do to help us?" Braumin asked somberly.
"Is there nothing you can do to help Duke Tetrafel?" Shamus replied.
Abbot Braumin looked around, then rolled his eyes and shook his head helplessly. "Then pray for us, my friend," he said.
Shamus Kilronney nodded, patted Braumin on the shoulder, and turned to go.
Abbot Braumin could not bring himself to judge the man, for in truth, he wished that he might run away with Shamus.
Chapter 38
A Miracle for Francis
Francis slapped futilely at the green swamp of plague that bubbled up all around his arms. He knew that this woman, too, was near death, but he could hardly bear the thought of watching yet another one die, the third in three days.
And so he fought, if not to buy some time for the poor infected woman, then to buy some time for his own shattered sensibilities.
Francis didn't notice that the plague within this woman did not attack his spiritual presence with any vigor, and so he didn't pause to wonder about this change and its implications.
He came out of his battle soon after, having done little good. He stared down at the poor woman, so close to death; and then, as he turned to leave, he found all the world suddenly spinning. Francis hit the ground facedown.
Huffing and puffing with every running stride, Father Abbot Agronguerre hurried to the front gate tower, where Bou-raiy, Machuso, Glendenhook, and many others had gathered. He pushed through the crowd of brothers to get to the wall, and peering over, beyond the tussie-mussie bed, he saw the spectacle that had so attracted them.
There lay Brother Francis, his head propped up by the one-eyed woman of whom so many demanded beatification.
"The plague has found Brother Francis," Master Machuso softly explained.
"Ring around the rosy," Master Bou-raiy said dryly. "The old songs do not lie."
There came murmurs of assent from all about, with many hands moving through the evergreen gesture.
Father Abbot Agronguerre stared long and hard out over that misty morning field, thoroughly frustrated. He had been living vicariously through Francis, he understood, had been saluting the man's courage and his few triumphs, and also, that greatest triumph of all: that he had been out among the plague victims working tirelessly, yet for all these months, had found miraculous immunity to the dreaded disease.
But now, in the blink of an eye, it seemed, all those notions of miracle had been washed away. There could be no doubt, even looking at him from this distance. Mere exhaustion alone had not felled Brother Francis.
"This is why we follow the precepts and heed the words of the old songs," Fio Bou-raiy went on, turning as he spoke, as if making a speech to the whole gathering. "Our gift from our brothers who came before us lies in the wisdom that they passed down to us, and what greater fools are we if we do not heed their words!"
Again came the murmurs of assent, but it all sounded very wrong to Father Abbot Agronguerre. Not wrong in a practical matter, for he knew he would not run down then and there and throw wide the abbey gates. But wrong in a spiritual sense, in the very tone of Bou-raiy, excited and justified, and in those palpable sighs of relief from all gathered here in the relative safety behind thick stone walls and tussie-mussie aromas.
"Does it please you to see Brother Francis downed?" Agronguerre asked suddenly, the question, as it registered, widening Bou-raiy's eyes with surprise and bringing a gasp of near disbelief from Glendenhook. Even Machuso shifted uncomfortably.
But Agronguerre would not relent so easily. "Every one of you take heed of Brother Francis and the sacrifice that he made," he said forcefully, letting his gaze drift from surprised brother to brother. "If in your hearts, even secretly, you foster some relief, some justification of our course, in seeing Brother Francis stricken ill, if somewhere deep in your heart and soul you believe the man a fool deserving of such a fate, then I expect you at the sacrament of Penitence this very day. We hide because pragmatic Church doctrine demands it of us, but we, every one of us, should wish that we are possessed of such courage as Brother Francis', that we are possessed of such compassion and generosity. We can look out upon him now, knowing that his end is near, and feel justification, or we can look out upon him now and feel sadness in losing a heroic brother."
He finished with a deep breath, then, with a final look at Fio Bou-raiy, stormed out of the gate tower, needing the security of his own chambers.
Inside the gate tower, the mood was m
ore somber and reflective, with many brothers murmuring and shaking their heads.
"So will you go to Penitence?" Master Glendenhook asked Bou-raiy.
The older master scoffed at the notion. "Brother Francis was guided by emotions that I cannot discredit," he said, loudly enough to draw the attention of all the gathering, "but he erred in his thinking."
That seemingly direct contradiction to what the Father Abbot had just said brought murmurs of surprise, even a few gasps.
"Believe not my words, for they are but opinion," Bou-raiy went on, turning and sweeping his arm toward the spectacle beyond the wall. "Believe what you see before you. Brother Francis ignored doctrine because his heart was weak, because he was unable to suffer the wails of the dying. Nay, we cannot argue his emotions, but there before us lies the truth of his course. Perhaps his compassion and generosity, great gifts both, will grant him some measure of mercy in the eyes of God, whom he will soon meet; but he will need that mercy because he refused to accept the greater responsibility that has been thrust upon us-that legacy of constancy, of protecting the Church itself, and not our own fragile selves, against the onslaught of the rosy plague.
"Follow Francis, all of us, to the fields and to the grave? " he asked dramatically. "Aye, and then, in our weakness, do we plunge the future world of Corona into complete and utter darkness!"
His departure was not less forceful or dramatic than Agronguerre's.
Master Glendenhook, along with everyone else, watched Bou-raiy storm away. He had just witnessed the prelude to a titanic struggle, Glendenhook believed, for it seemed obvious to him then that his friend Fio Bou-raiy would not back down, would fight Agronguerre to the very end if the sight of fallen Francis began to weaken the old Father Abbot's resolve.
An image of Agronguerre lying on the field in place of Francis came to Glendenhook's mind then, and with new Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy watching the spectacle from the security of St.-Mere-Abelle.
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