Everyone in the room understood that if King Danube tried to insinuate himself into the Abellican Church now, it would be very difficult, given the lack of experienced and charismatic leadership, for the Church to hold him at bay.
“Father Abbot Markwart attempted such a joining,” Master Francis reminded them, referring to the fairly recent appointment of Marcalo De’Unnero as bishop of Palmaris, a title that conveyed the power of both Church leadership and secular control over the city. The city had been without a baron since beloved Rochefort Bildeborough had been murdered on the road to Ursal—and the subsequent evidence had implicated De’Unnero and his preferred use of the tiger’s paw gemstone as the killer—and Markwart had tried to take advantage of the emergency.
But that action had only prompted Danube to come north, with his army and his entourage, to protect his power base within the city.
“A complete disaster,” Francis went on. “And so it will be again if the King asserts his power and influence where they do not belong.”
Brother Braumin looked over at Francis and nodded solemnly. The two were not friends—far from it!—despite Francis’ apparent transformation since Markwart’s death, but Braumin did appreciate his support at this crucial time. All the Church could crumble around them, Braumin understood, if they did not act and choose wisely in the coming months.
Braumin looked back at Je’howith and saw clearly that the man could become a difficult enemy. Je’howith had spent decades securing his comforts and his power, and both owed more to King Danube than to the Abellican Order.
Braumin stared at Je’howith solemnly, then slightly nodded his head, indicating a quiet corner of the room where they might negotiate this disagreement less publicly.
She had a difficult time climbing out of bed that morning, as on almost every morning. By Braumin Herde’s estimation, the events of this day would be more critical than any powrie attack that ended short of the vicious dwarves conquering the whole of the kingdom. But to weary Jilseponie, it was just another in an endless, and futile, stream of meetings. Always they talked and organized, shifting the balances of power, but Pony had come to believe that in the overall scheme of things, in the history and the future of humanity and the world, all their little games would have very little impact.
So many people viewed everything as momentous and important, but was it really?
That question had haunted Pony since the death of Elbryan, had followed her every step, had stilled her tongue during those meetings when she knew the consensus was in error. In the end, what did it matter?
Even the war with the demon dactyl. They had gone to Aida and destroyed its physical manifestation, but that seemingly important and heroic deed, in which Avelyn and Tuntun the elf had given their lives, had only led to more misery. Father Abbot Markwart, who was fearful of his power base, was on the road to declaring Avelyn a heretic and had sent out brothers to murder him. In Markwart’s desperate search to find the new keepers of the stolen gemstones—Elbryan and Pony—he had gone after Pony’s adoptive family, killing her stepbrother, Grady, on the road, and imprisoning Graevis and Pettibwa in his dungeons, where they had died horribly.
That had only spurred more conflict that Pony had hoped would end it all. And so it had—for Markwart and Elbryan—but they were hardly cold in the ground before the bickering had begun anew, before new problems, grave problems according to Brother Braumin, had reared up to threaten the supposed fruits of all their sacrifices.
As she considered it all, Pony put her hand to her belly, to her womb, which the demon Markwart had so violated, taking her child from her, stilling the heartbeat that had found such rhythm with her own.
Now they were fighting again, and in her time of grieving, Pony could not bring herself to believe that it would ever end. Without that optimism, that flicker of hope, how could she leap out of bed with excitement to attend to another of the so-called important meetings?
She did manage to rise, wash, and dress, though, for the sake of brothers Braumin, Dellman, Castinagis, and Viscenti, who had stood strong beside her and Elbryan in their time of need, who had refused to turn against them despite their own imprisonment and the threat of torturous deaths at the hands of Markwart. She had to do it for Brother Romeo Mullahy, who had leaped from the blessed plateau at the Barbacan to his death rather than surrender to Markwart. She had to do it for Avelyn, for the Church he had envisioned—even though she was certain it would never come to fruition.
Her responsibilities enabled her to put one foot in front of the other along the corridors of St. Precious.
When she turned the last corner into the hallway that ran in front of the meeting room, she came upon another whose stride, markedly different from her own, was full of eagerness and strength.
“Greetings, Jilseponie,” Duke Kalas said, edging to walk close to her side. “I would have thought that you would have been inside with the brothers long before this, preparing for the King’s visit.”
“I have spoken with Brother Braumin many times,” Pony casually replied, her reference to Braumin only—and not the higher-ranking monks, particularly Abbot Je’howith—speaking volumes about her stance on the present issues.
Kalas remained quiet; the only sound in the corridor was the soft padding of Pony’s light shoes and the hard clacking of Kalas’ military boots.
Before they reached the door, the Duke strode ahead of her and then turned back so that she had to look at him. “A difficult fight on yesterday’s morn,” he said.
Pony chuckled at his abrupt subject change. “Not so, I would think,” she replied, “since so few were wounded.”
“A testament to the power of the Allheart Brigade,” the proud Kalas quickly added. “The powries were many and were eager for battle, but our precision formations and practiced coordination cut their ranks asunder and sent them running.”
Pony nodded despite her nagging suspicions. She had no hard proof, after all, to dispute the Duke’s words.
Kalas moved in front of her and forced her to stop abruptly. “I was pleased to see you on the wall when I rode back into Palmaris,” he said, staring at her intently. “It is good that you should witness such a spectacle as the Allheart Brigade in these troubled times, that you might gain confidence that we, you and I, are fighting the same enemies.”
It took all of Pony’s considerable composure not to laugh in the man’s face. He was making a play for her—oh, not for the present—for he, like everyone else, understood that she, less than four months widowed, was still grieving for Elbryan. No, Kalas was being far more subtle and polite. He was sowing seeds—she saw it so clearly. In truth, such occasions had become quite common. She was able to easily put aside her vanity and harbor no illusions that her beauty and charm were winning the hearts of the visiting nobles of Danube’s court. She knew she was a beautiful woman, but so were many of those who had followed the King and his court to Palmaris, courtesans well versed in the arts of seduction. Pony understood the truth behind Kalas’ words. She was an important figure now, with more potential for power within Church or State than any other woman in the kingdom, including Delenia, the abbess of St. Gwendolyn, the highest-ranking woman in the Abellican Church. Pony had been tentatively offered the highest position in the Order by several of the monks in Palmaris and certainly would have been given, at least, the Abbey of St. Precious as her own with a mere word. And she had been offered Palmaris by Danube, to serve him as its baroness.
If Pony was at all interested in this game of political intrigue, she could, in a matter of days, step into the thick of the highest levels of power.
Duke Kalas, a political animal if ever Pony had seen one, understood that, of course, and so he thought his charms well placed. Except that, to Pony, those charms themselves were the most lacking.
“If injured upon the field, I would have insisted on Jilseponie for my healer,” the Duke went on; and it was obvious that he thought he was paying her the highest compliment.
/> Again, Pony had to work hard not to laugh. She understood Duke Kalas very clearly. The man could have nearly any woman in the kingdom; he could snap his fingers or run them through his thick black mop of curly hair and bat those pretty dark eyelashes of his and have the ladies of Ursal’s court fainting on the floor. Pony knew that, and didn’t deny that the man was physically handsome, beautiful even.
But how that image faded next to her Elbryan! Kalas was like a magnificently painted landscape of majestic mountains, an image of beauty, but Elbryan’s beauty went far deeper. Elbryan had been those mountains—with the crisp, fresh air, the sounds, the sights, the smells, the exhilarating and real experience. Kalas was mere swagger, but Elbryan had been the substance; and this man, for all of his pride and puff, seemed a pale figure beside the ghost of Nightbird.
She recognized that she wasn’t keeping enough of her true feelings off her face when Duke Kalas stiffened and moved aside suddenly, clearing his throat.
Pony turned her head away from him, chewing her bottom lip, hoping that she had not done too much damage to Brother Braumin’s cause, and hoping that she would not burst out into mocking laughter.
“The King was delayed,” came a voice behind them, and they turned to see Lady Constance Pemblebury moving fast to catch up to them. The woman repeated her message, eyeing Pony directly as she spoke. Neither Pony nor Kalas missed Constance’s point: King Danube had been delayed because of her.
Pony rolled her eyes, fighting the feeling of mocking helplessness in the face of such abject stupidity. Constance—who, by all rumors, had been seducing King Danube for years—saw the attractive Pony, ten years her junior, as a threat and wanted to openly lay her claim to Danube.
How could Pony explain it to her? Could she grab the woman by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled?
“He bids that we wait for him before entering the audience chamber,” Constance went on, shifting her gaze to Duke Kalas. “Of course, you may go,” she said dismissively to Pony, who chuckled, shook her head, and turned back for the door, acutely aware that Duke Kalas’ eyes were following her every step.
She had rebuffed the man, perhaps had even embarrassed and insulted him, but likely, she knew, he would take that as a challenge and would come after her all the more blatantly in the days ahead.
A man like Kalas always had something to prove.
“It was only a year ago since the last College of Abbots was convened,” Brother Braumin said to Abbot Je’howith when the two were alone at the side of the large audience hall. “How much the world has changed since then!”
Je’howith eyed the younger monk with suspicion. That last College of Abbots had been a disaster, of course, considering all that had occurred since then. Markwart had declared Master Jojonah a heretic and had used the King’s own soldiers—for some reason that even Je’howith had not understood and still did not understand—to have the doomed heretic dragged through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle village and then burned at the stake. At that same College, Markwart had issued a formal declaration of Brother Avelyn as a heretic; and now, it seemed as if the Church might begin the process of canonizing the man!
Braumin read Je’howith’s expression correctly, and he gave a helpless chuckle to alleviate the tension. “We have learned much since then,” he said. “Hopefully, the Abellican Church can begin to mend the wounds it has opened.”
“By canonizing Avelyn Desbris?” Je’howith asked skeptically.
Braumin held up his hands. “In time, perhaps that process will find enough support to begin,” he said noncommittally, not wanting to start that fight now. “But before we begin to discuss any such action, before we even begin to determine who was correct—Father Abbot Markwart or Master Jojonah and Brother Avelyn—we must, by the King’s own command, put our present house in order.”
Je’howith’s skeptical glare returned tenfold. “You have long ago decided which of them chose the proper course,” he said accusingly.
“And it is a case I intend to make against you, and strongly, should you decide, after all that we have seen, to side with Markwart,” Brother Braumin admitted. “But, again, we have not the time, nor the folly, to begin such a battle at this hour.”
Je’howith backed off. “Agreed,” he said.
“And we must quickly convene a College of Abbots to elect a new Father Abbot,” Brother Braumin went on, “and to secure the position of abbot of St. Precious.”
“Why, Brother Braumin, you are not yet even a master. As an immaculate, you would likely be invited to a College of Abbots, though you would have no voice there. And yet you speak as if you personally intend to call one.”
“Master Francis will nominate me as abbot of St. Precious before King Danube this very day,” Braumin announced. “Brother Talumus and all from St. Precious will second that nomination.” He paused and looked at the old monk directly. “And Jilseponie, who has refused the post, will act as third.”
“Children leading children!” Je’howith retorted, raising his voice in ire. Braumin knew that the man’s anger was born of frustration, for, in truth, the old abbot would have little leverage in preventing the ascension of Brother Braumin. “And,” he sputtered, “that woman! Jilseponie! She is not of the Order! She will have no say in any of this!”
“She is of the Order, my friend,” Brother Braumin calmly replied. “Can you doubt her prowess with the gemstones, a clear sign that she is in God’s favor? Can you deny Father Abbot Markwart’s last words?”
“He was delirious,” Je’howith insisted. “He was near death. And, besides, he did not nominate Jilseponie—that was foolish Brother Francis’ doing.”
“It was the greatest moment of clarity our Father Abbot experienced since long before the last College of Abbots,” Braumin Herde replied. “Since before he sent Brother Justice to hunt and kill Brother Avelyn. Since before he abducted the poor Chilichunk family and let them rot in the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle. You know that my words are true and that they will ring powerfully to the other abbots and masters, many of whom had come to question Markwart long before the most recent revelations. Master Francis followed Markwart along that dark road, and he has returned to the light to tell the truth of it.”
Je’howith spent a long while digesting Braumin’s argument, seeking some flaw. “I will not oppose your ascension to the position of abbot,” he conceded.
Braumin’s smile was cut short as Je’howith pointed a long, thin finger at him. “But only if Bishop De’Unnero does not return.”
“He is discredited by his own actions even if he does,” Braumin argued. “We know that he stood with Markwart in the final battle.”
“We know little of his role,” Je’howith countered.
“He is implicated in the murder of Baron Bildeborough.”
“Hardly,” Je’howith scoffed. “He is implicated only in the eyes of those who so hated Markwart that they saw his treachery in every event. There has been no formal connection to the murder of the Baron, other than the fact that Bishop De’Unnero is known to be proficient with the tiger’s paw gemstone. Hardly damning evidence.”
“Then why has he run off?” asked Braumin.
“I will support your nomination if he does not return with some plausible reason why he should reassume the leadership of the abbey, as Father Abbot Markwart had determined,” Je’howith said resolutely. Brother Braumin, after a moment, nodded his concession.
From Je’howith’s posture, though, Braumin soon came to realize that there would be a price for that support. “What do you want?” the young monk asked bluntly.
“Two things,” Je’howith replied. “First, we will treat the memory of Father Abbot Markwart gently.”
Braumin’s expression was one of sheer incredulity, fast transforming into disgust.
“He was a great man,” Je’howith insisted.
“Who culminated his life’s work with murder,” Braumin retorted quietly, not wanting to draw anyone else into this partic
ular phase of the discussion.
Je’howith shook his head. “You cannot understand,” he replied. “I’ll not argue concerning the final actions of Dalebert Markwart, but you cannot judge the whole of his life on an errant turn—”
“A wrong choice,” Braumin interjected.
Je’howith nodded, apparently conceding the point—but only for now, Braumin understood.
“By either definition, an errant turn in his life’s work,” Je’howith said. “And we would be in grave error to judge all he accomplished based on the failings of his last days.”
It was more than just “his last days,” Braumin knew, and the whole manner in which Je’howith was framing the discussion left a sour taste in the idealistic young monk’s mouth. “A man might lose sainthood over a single indiscretion,” he reminded him.
“I am not asking you to beatify Dalebert Markwart,” Je’howith replied.
“Then what?”
“Let us honor his memory as we have his predecessors’,” Je’howith explained, “as we have for every father abbot, save the few who led the Church far astray.”
“As did Markwart.”
Je’howith shook his head. “He was a man thrust into a difficult situation, a position complicated by war and by the actions of those two men you so dearly cherish. You may argue that he chose wrongly, but his reign as father abbot was not one marked by controversy and terror. Indeed, under the guidance of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart, the Church attained great heights of power. Had there ever been such a cache of gemstones granted in the most recent stone showers?”
“Avelyn’s work,” Braumin dryly put in; but Je’howith hardly seemed to notice, so caught up was he in his mounting tirade.
“Under his leadership, we achieved the position of bishop of Palmaris. Though that did not end well, the mere fact that King Danube allowed such a maneuver speaks volumes for the Father Abbot’s diplomacy and influence.”
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 4
