Rain fell, but it hardly dampened the mood of the Timberlands folk, for the mountains of the Barbacan loomed before them, less than a day's march away. Roger Lockless and Bradwarden knew how to get through those mountains; and from there the trip to Mount Aida, to Avelyn's hand and to salvation, would be an easy one indeed. Roger was up front with Bradwarden that morning, scouting the road carefully, for the centaur had caught a strong scent of goblin and feared that the little wretches were about.
They feared they would encounter a large tribe, an army of the creatures, but the first goblin they actually saw was no threat at all.
It was lying dead on the side of the trail.
Roger went over to inspect the body, prodding it with his foot, then rolling it over. He saw many puncture wounds on the creature's face, neck, and chest-very similar to injuries he had witnessed before.
Immediately his eyes went up to the nearby trees, scouring the boughs.
"What're ye about? " Bradwarden asked. "What killed the little beastie? "
"Arrows," Roger answered, walking about and still looking up. "Little arrows. Elv-"
"Elvish arrows," came the answer from the shadows of one tree, a melodic voice that Roger had heard only once before, but one that he surely recognized.
As did Bradwarden. "Dasslerond?" the centaur asked with a surprised laugh. "Is that yerself, then? "
"Greetings, Bradwarden," Lady Dasslerond answered. "It is good to see you again, though I am surprised to find you in the company of humans in this time of illness."
"Goin' to find an old friend," the centaur answered. "Ye beared o'Avelyn?"
"Jilseponie has told us," Dasslerond answered.
"So ye've been to the arm? "
No answer came back, and Bradwarden understood the elves well enough to let that particular matter drop.
"You will find the road open all the way to Mount Aida," Lady Dasslerond said to the pair.
"Were many o' the goblins about, then? " the centaur asked.
"Not enough," came another, even more familiar elvish voice. "I still have many arrows in my quiver." Belli'mar Juraviel hopped down to the lowest branch on a wide-spreading elm, in clear sight of Roger and Bradwarden. Roger started toward him, but the elf held up his hand and warned the man back.
"We have cleared the road and will remain in place for a short time longer," Lady Dasslerond explained. "But this road is for humans to travel and for humans to guard, and we will be on our way back to Andur'Blough Inninness before the turn of the season."
"Well, ye have our thanks, then," Bradwarden remarked, bowing his human torso respectfully. "And take the goodwill o' Avelyn with ye."
"Straight on to Aida," Lady Dasslerond said, aiming her comment at Roger. "And know that the road will be clear for your return through this region." "There will be many more following us," Roger started to explain.
"They are already on their way," Juraviel put in, "from Caer Tinella and Landsdown-from Palmaris, even, for Jilseponie has passed through the city. Braumin and his brethren will likely find you before you have traveled far out of the Barbacan, and the new Baron of Palmaris, along with a host of soldiers, will be along not far behind."
Roger and Bradwarden beamed at the news.
"Ah, but Pony's a good girl," the centaur remarked.
"And Dainsey," Roger was quick to add. He turned back to tell Juraviel of the new love that had come into his life, but he found that the everelusive elf was already gone, vanished completely into the canopy. He called out several times but was not answered.
The pair went back to the caravan, then, and told them that the way was clear.
That night, they camped on the high ground of the mountainous ring, with Mount Aida in sight. The next day, the first pilgrims found the arm of Avelyn and tasted the blood in the fallen man's palm.
Roger was first to it, following Bradwarden's instructions, and as soon as he entered the covenant with Avelyn, he knew, beyond doubt, that the rosy plague could not touch him.
"It is a fool's journey!" Constance Pemblebury scolded.
King Danube continued to dress in his traveling clothes, strapping his sword belt about his waist.
"What if this is no answer?" Constance continued. "To what dangers do you, in the name of compassion, expose yourself? What price to the kingdom?"
Danube had heard all the arguments before, repeatedly, since he had announced that he and a great force would go out from Ursal, to Palmaris and perhaps, he hinted, even beyond. He fixed Constance with a calm stare and managed a smile. "If this is the answer, then I must be present at the beginning of it," he tried to explain. "What king am I if I hide in Castle Ursal while the potential salvation of all the world comes to fruition in the north? "
"We have hidden in Castle Ursal for all these months," Constance reminded. "Torrence has never been outside these walls."
"And too long it has been!" Danube retorted. He started to leave the room, but Constance rushed around him, blocking the way.
"You are weary of it all, I know," she said, "as are we all. But we must hold strong for the sake of the kingdom."
"Duke Tetrafel has turned his garrison over to Jilseponie," Danube reminded her. "He has emptied Palmaris on her proof that the miracle has been found."
"He is desperate." "That may be true, but I know, as do you, that I cannot sit back and allow this to happen without me. Many soldiers will be needed to secure the road north; and if this is indeed the answer, then that road will become even more traveled."
"The brothers of St. Honce are not even ready to commit to departure yet," Constance argued, and it was true enough. Abbot Hingas had heard of the supposed miracle, even claimed that Jilseponie had visited him spiritually and bade him to join the pilgrimage to the north. Yet he and his brethren would not commit to such a journey at that time.
King Danube paused and took a deep breath, then grabbed Constance by both shoulders, holding her rock steady. "I believe in this," he said. "I have to. And if it is indeed the salvation of Honce-the-Bear, then I must preside over it. For the good of the people and of the Crown."
"You believe in this?" Constance asked somewhat sharply. "Or in her?"
That took Danube a bit by surprise, for it was the first revelation of Constance's jealousy of Jilseponie, a somewhat stunning revelation given the enormity of the consequences beyond personal relationships.
He stared at Constance for a long while, not blinking, not letting her pull free of his somber gaze. "I must do this," he declared, and he firmly but gently moved the woman out of his way and walked out into the hall.
Duke Kalas, looking none too pleased, but dressed for the road, was waiting for him.
"Duke Bretherford's ships are ready to depart," he said. "The roads are secured all the way to the docks."
"Then let us be off at once," Danube replied, and he started down the hall, sweeping Kalas up in his wake.
"My King!" came the call behind them, turning them both.
Constance leaned heavily on the doorjamb. "You walk off into peril," she explained. "You must name your successor."
Danube stared at her curiously, surprised by such a request. He had gone off on many perilous journeys without ever issuing such a formal declaration. His confusion was short-lived, though, for then he understood that, before this time, there had never been any decision that needed to be made.
"I will return," he said to Constance, not wanting to have to speak the obvious aloud, not wanting to wound the woman.
"I demand this, for the good of the kingdom," Constance said loudly.
King Danube felt Kalas' stare boring into him, but he did not take his own gaze off Constance. "In the event of my demise, my brother, Prince Midalis of Vanguard, will assume the throne," Danube stated clearly. "I will have that formally recorded before I depart Castle Ursal."
Constance's look shifted subtly, to show the flush of anger behind her mask.
King Danube turned and walked away. Duke Kalas stood starin
g at Constance for a long while. "Patience," he said when Danube was too far away to hear. "Merwick is not nearly ready."
Constance glowered at him for just a moment, then retreated into the room and slammed the door.
Kalas, who was also against leaving Ursal at that time, but who more readily understood his place and acceded to the wishes of his King, couldn't contain his chuckle as he hurried off to catch Danube.
Chapter 42
Redemption
The sight that loomed before Jilseponie when she and Dainsey came in view of St.-Mere-Abelle made her memory of the suffering in Palmaris pale in comparison. Scores of tents had been erected on the bleak plain before the great abbey; and it seemed to Jilseponie as if there were a score of sick people for every tent.
Hundreds of them, the walking dead, moving listlessly about the dreary landscape.
"So many," Dainsey Aucomb whispered at her side.
Jilseponie nodded, but she knew the truth of this scene. St.-Mere-Abelle was a fairly isolated place, with no real cities anywhere near-the closest was Palmaris, some eighty miles to the northwest. And still, the grounds teemed with the sick, nocking here from all over the region, no doubt, coming to this greatest bastion of the Abellican Church, dying on the field before the walls of the Father Abbot.
How many more had died on the road? Jilseponie wondered. Likely as many as had arrived here.
The mere thought of it nearly overwhelmed her; in that moment of despair she wanted nothing more than to turn Symphony and pound back toward Dundalis and Fellowship Way, toward the hole she had once dug for herself. She had to stop herself, close her eyes, and conjure an image of Avelyn's arm.
"Too many," she whispered back to Dainsey. She kicked her heels into Symphony's flanks and the great stallion leaped away, galloping down across the field.
Many eyes followed the two riders as they wove their way across the wretched encampment, toward the front gates of the abbey. Jilseponie felt like a sailor on a vast sea; the abbey walls seemed a distant island.
But no refuge, that place, she knew.
She meant to tear those walls down.
Brother Francis paced slowly before St.-Mere-Abelle's tussie-mussie bed, feeling his legs weaken with every step.
He wanted them to see this.
He was exhausted now, beyond belief. He had the soul stone in his pocket, and he had considered spirit-walking, having his spirit violate the sanctuary of St.-Mere-Abelle.
Yes, like a ghost, he wanted to haunt them.
He wanted them to see this.
He rolled the stone in his fingers now, knowing that he had missed his chance, for Francis couldn't possibly find the strength to enter its magic now, to separate spirit from body.
He could hardly even find the strength to call out "Bou-raiy!" at the wall.
And his legs were tiring fast and his breath was becoming harder and harder to find.
They had to see this, had to bear witness to the end of Brother Francis, to learn that he faced that end courageously and with the conviction that he was right!
But now he was no longer walking, was, suddenly and without even realizing the movement, not even standing. He managed to roll over a bit, to see the wall, and he took some comfort in the forms he noted up there. He couldn't make them out through his failing eyes, but he sensed that they were watching him, that they were pointing.
They knew, and they would tell Bou-raiy.
Taking comfort in that, Francis turned his attention to the tussie-mussie bed, bathing himself in the aromas, losing himself in the colorful sights and fragrances. He felt as if those very smells might lift him up, up, might separate his soul from his body as surely as would the hematite. He could float on a cloud of aromas to God, to a judgment that he no longer feared.
He hardly heard the horses gallop up to a stop a short distance behind him, hardly heard the gathering crowd-and surely they were gathering, led by Merry Cowsenfed, several hundred people coming to say farewell to Brother Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle.
It would have made Francis happy, if he had known.
Jilseponie knew before she ever moved beside the man that he-like several of those she had encountered in Palmaris, like one she had found on the road here to St.-Mere-Abelle-was beyond her help, that even if she went to him with all of her magical strength, she would buy him only a few minutes or hours, and those he would spend in pain.
She knew by his emaciated form, lying listlessly, that the plague had won this particular fight. She knew by the look in his eyes that he was seeing as much on the other side of death as in the material world.
Jilseponie would never have recognized the man had she not heard his name as she had crossed the field. When last she had seen Francis, he had been strong and stout, even a little portly, clean-shaven and with hair neatly cropped. Now he was a ragged thing! His hair and beard had grown wild, had thickened as his body had thinned.
She went to him and knelt beside him, and took up his hand in her own.
He stared at her for a long while, seeming not to recognize her.
"Greetings, Brother Francis," she whispered. "I have heard of your work here, of your courage and compassion."
Francis continued to stare at her curiously, and then a smile widened on his face, a light of recognition. "Jilseponie? " he asked.
She nodded and reached for her soul stone, though she doubted she could even get into the magical energy in time for Francis.
Francis' smile turned down suddenly. "Can you forgive me?" he asked, his voice a rasping thing, for a discernible rattle came from his chest with every word and every breath.
Jilseponie paused and looked back at him curiously.
"Your brother," Francis remarked, "Grady Chilichunk. I was the one."
Jilseponie moved close to him, trying to suppress a scowl.
"I killed him," Francis admitted, "on the road from Palmaris. It was an accident… I did not mean…"
Jilseponie put her finger against Francis' lips to quiet him. That battle seemed so far removed now, that hatred so irrelevant to the current situation.
"Forgive me," Francis said again. "We were all so confused then, and all so wrong."
"And now you see the truth? " she asked him.
Francis' smile returned, but then he winced and closed his eyes. Jilseponie started to reach for her soul stone again, but, as if he had read her mind, Brother Francis reached over and held her arm. "I go without fear," he whispered, and it seemed to Jilseponie as if he were speaking more to himself than to her.
"I do not fear justice," he finished, never opening his eyes, and those were the last words that Brother Francis Dellacourt of St.-Mere-Abelle would ever utter.
It hurt Jilseponie more than she would ever have believed to watch this man die. She held little fondness for Francis, had once been his avowed enemy; and even in those last days when she had been with him in St. Precious after the fall of Markwart, even when he had declared that she should become the mother abbess of the Abellican Church, she had not been overfond of him.
And he had died peacefully, contentedly, it seemed; and yet, to her surprise, Jilseponie found that his passing had wounded her.
She gently removed his hand from her forearm and placed it over his chest, then slowly rose and turned, first to regard the teary gathering of plague sufferers and the one-eyed woman who led them, then to turn and face the dark and foreboding walls of St.-Mere-Abelle. It took her a while to steady herself, to get over the emotional shock of looking at this place.
The place that had served as prison for Bradwarden. The place where her adoptive parents had died horribly.
She took another steadying breath, reminding herself of her purpose and her need, and she forced her gaze to drift up, up, to the dark, cloaked forms standing along the wall. She took Dainsey's hand and walked toward them.
"Francis is dead? " came a call down, a sharp voice she did not recognize.
"He is," Jilseponie answered.
Th
e snort that she heard next seemed to her one of derision.
"They never was likin' him much for comin' out to us," came a voice from behind. Jilseponie turned to see the one-eyed woman standing there. Behind her, the others were gathering up the body of Francis, wrapping it lovingly in sheets.
"They put him out when he came down with plague? " Jilseponie reasoned.
The woman shook her head. "He came out of his own doin'," she answered, "and not a sign o' the plague in him. And he worked with them," she added, turning back to motion to the crowd of the sick. "All of 'em. And he helped one or two afore the plague caught up to him. Ah, a good man was Brother Francis. A saint, I say! But them on the wall don't know it." She spat on the ground. "Bah, they're not knowin' anythin' but their own scaredness. Won't come out and will shoot us dead, any of us, if we walk across their precious flowers."
Brother Francis, a saint. The incongruous notion rolled around in Jilseponie's mind as she stood there, staring at his body being borne away by the peasants. His last words, the proclamation that he did not fear justice, weighed more heavily on her, then. Had Francis truly found the light and the truth? Was his contentment at his death as real as it had seemed? Could he so understand that he had redeemed himself, and thus, need not fear the judgment of his God?
Jilseponie turned back to look at the monks on the wall, and many more had come up by then, no doubt to watch the last journey of their brother.
"I need to speak to the Father Abbot," she called to them.
"You cannot come in," came the reply from that same, sharp voice, and in a purely condescending tone.
Jilseponie looked at the great doors of the abbey, her hands going reuexively to the gemstones hanging at her belt. "Ah, but I could if I wanted to," she muttered under her breath. She looked back up at the wall, at the harsh speaker, and only then did she note that one of the monk's sleeves was tied off, as if he was missing an arm.
"I will speak to him in the gateway, from across the tussie-mussie bed," she said.
The monk scoffed at her and started to turn away.
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