“Then who?” Bou-raiy asked, holding his hand up. “Tell us, Master Francis, was this matter discussed among the brethren in Palmaris? With Abbot Je’howith? Yes, perhaps Je’howith will try for the position, but I warn you that any intentions you might be holding in that matter will not bring the Church together. Je’howith is far too—”
“Tied to King Danube, and to the troubled days of Father Abbot Markwart’s end, to be acceptable,” Francis interrupted. “But, yes, we did indeed discuss the matter at length, to find a candidate who would prove acceptable to all in the Church, one who would heal us and bring us back together, of one mind and one purpose.”
“And that choice?”
“Agronguerre of St. Belfour, it would seem,” Francis replied.
“An excellent man, of fine reputation,” Master Machuso said enthusiastically.
“Indeed,” Master Timminey agreed.
“Why do you say, ‘it would seem,’ brother?” Bou-raiy asked Francis.
“I do not know that Abbot Braumin Herde knows the man well enough to agree to the choice,” Francis admitted.
“And Abbot Je’howith?”
“It was Je’howith who suggested Abbot Agronguerre,” Francis explained.
Bou-raiy settled back in his chair, again in that pensive pose, again rubbing his hairless chin. Francis saw the disappointment, even anger, flash across his face—particularly in his gray eyes—more than once, but he was clearly a man in control of his emotions, and the dark cloud was but a temporary thing.
To the left of Bou-raiy, Glendenhook seemed even more agitated, rubbing his thumbs across his fingers, even chewing his lip. They had hoped that all the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle, particularly all the masters, would rally behind Bou-raiy, but Machuso’s grounded response had thrown those hopes out in short order.
Francis looked back to Bou-raiy, could already see the man coming to terms with the developments. Likely, he was thinking that Abbot Agronguerre was an old man, probably with less than a decade of life left, compared to Olin, who was barely into his fifties and in fine health. Yes, Francis came to recognize, Bou-raiy was thinking that it might be wise to throw his weight behind Agronguerre, virtually assuring the man of election. He could then make himself indispensable to the new Father Abbot, working himself into the position of heir apparent.
Yes, Bou-raiy was going to agree with this, Francis realized, and the cause for Abbot Agronguerre was not hurt at all by the fact that Masters Bou-raiy and Olin had never been friendly.
“We will take the issue under advisement,” Bou-raiy decided, “with each of us, and the other masters of St.-Mere-Abelle, coming to his own decision on the matter.”
“Agronguerre of St. Belfour is a fine choice,” Machuso said, offering a wink to Francis.
“Indeed,” Master Timminey said again, with even more enthusiasm.
Francis glanced over at Baldmir to see if he might even get a third supporter, but the old master’s head was drooping, his rhythmic breathing showing that he was fast asleep.
“Now, to the last matter we must herein discuss,” Bou-raiy said, his voice growing grave and dark. “We suffer greatly at the loss of so many promising brothers.”
“As do I,” Francis replied.
“Yet you chose to pursue the goblin band and attack,” Bou-raiy maintained, “when you obviously could have avoided the conflict.”
“At the price of a village,” Francis reminded.
“You have explained as much,” Bou-raiy replied, holding his palm toward Francis, ending the debate. “This, too, we must take under advisement. We will appoint a brother inquisitor to study the matter.”
Francis nodded: this was not unexpected, and he was confident that he would be exonerated.
“Vespers will begin within the hour,” Bou-raiy said before Francis could continue with the only remaining part of his tale—that concerning the rosy plague. Baldmir stirred, and, as one, the gathered masters looked out the western window at the setting sun. “Let us go now and prepare.”
As soon as he finished the sentence, the other brothers, except for Francis and Bou-raiy, began sliding back their chairs, and that unquestioning obedience confirmed to Francis that Fio Bou-raiy had strengthened his position considerably at St.-Mere-Abelle in the days since Markwart’s departure for Palmaris.
Francis, too, then started to rise, but Bou-raiy subtly motioned to him to hold back. In a matter of moments, the two were alone.
“I have secured all of those brothers who returned with you,” Bou-raiy explained.
“Secured?”
“Separated them from their peers,” Bou-raiy explained, and Francis’ face grew tight. “That we might ensure their understanding of what they have seen.”
“Concerning the plague,” Francis reasoned.
“Concerning a sick woman and a scarred goblin,” Bou-raiy corrected.
“I am not unversed in matters of the rosy plague,” Francis curtly replied.
“Nor do I doubt your claims,” Bou-raiy was quick to respond. “But, dear brother, do you understand the implications of your discovery? Do you realize the problems, the panic, the ostracism, the stonings, perhaps, that such information could propagate if it became generally known throughout the land?”
“That is why I only quietly relayed my beliefs to Laird Dinnishire,” Francis replied.
“Yet you would have those fears spoken openly at St.-Mere-Abelle.”
“We are the chosen of God,” Francis reasoned, “the shepherds of the common folk, the protectors.…”
Bou-raiy snorted, shaking his head. “Protectors?” he echoed skeptically. “Protectors? There are no protectors against the rosy plague, Master Francis. Are we to protect the people by alarming them?”
“Warning them,” Francis corrected.
“To what end? That they might see death coming? That they might live in fear of their neighbors or of their own children?”
“We are to sit quietly, then, and take no action?” Francis asked.
“I do not doubt your observations, though I caution you that many other diseases resemble the rosy plague,” Bou-raiy explained. “And perhaps this is some other sickness, since the goblins apparently escaped the disease alive. Yes, we shall take precautions here at St.-Mere-Abelle, and perhaps we will send word to the other abbots that they, too, might open their gates only to a select few.”
Francis, full of frustration, rose quickly, his chair sliding out behind him. “What about them?” he demanded, swinging his arm wide, as if to encompass the whole world.
Bou-raiy, too, rose from his chair, slowly and deliberately, hand planted firmly on the table and leaning forward, so that even though he was nearly ten feet away from Francis, the younger man felt his presence. “We do not know that it was the rosy plague,” he said. “And if it is indeed, then we do not know how widespread it is, or will become. You are versed in the history of the plague, you say. Then you know that there have been instances when it has scoured the world and other times when it struck in select places, then disappeared of its own accord.”
“And how are we to know which this will be, if we lock ourselves inside our abbeys and open our gates only to a select few?”
“By the passage of months, of years,” Bou-raiy answered solemnly. “Knowledge is not power in this matter, my friend, for our knowledge of the spreading plague, if it comes to that, will give us no power to slow it or to stop it.”
“The plague can be slowed,” Francis argued. “If those who are diseased remain apart from others—”
“This is something the people know already,” Bou-raiy reminded him. “And, in truth, it is a matter more for the King’s soldiers than the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle. You know the old song, I presume, rhyme and verse. You know what it says about the efficiency of gemstone magic against the rosy plague.”
Indeed, Master Francis Dellacourt knew the old words well, the old words of gloom and of complete disaster.
Help to one in twenty
Dying people plenty
Stupid priest
Ate the Beast
And now can’t help himself.
Praying people follow
Into graves so hollow
Take their gems
Away from them
And cover them with dirt!
“One in twenty,” Francis admitted, for in all those times past, the best efforts of those brothers strongest in the gemstone magic had produced healing in one in twenty of those afflicted whom they treated. And the number of brothers who were then themselves infected because of their healing attempts actually outweighed the number of those healed!
“So what are we to do?” Master Bou-raiy said, and for the first time since his return, Francis noted some true empathy in the man’s strong voice. “But you fear too much, I believe,” he went on, patting Francis’ shoulder. “You have been through such trials, brother, that I fear you are overwhelmed and in need of rest. Perhaps what you witnessed were signs of the plague, and perhaps not. And even if it is so, it may be no more than a minor outbreak, afflicting a village or two, and nothing more.”
“You did not see the faces of the dead woman’s children,” Francis remarked.
“Death is a common visitor to Honce-the-Bear,” Bou-raiy replied, “in one form or another. Perhaps it has been much too common a visitor these last years—certainly our own Order has buried far too many brothers.”
The way he finished that sentence reminded Francis none too gently that, because of Francis’ choice, they were about to bury seven more.
“We will wait, and we will watch, and we will hope for the best,” Bou-raiy went on. “Because that is all we can do, and because we have other pressing business, duties to the Order and to the people, that we can perform.”
“Behind closed gates,” Francis remarked with sarcasm.
“Yes,” Bou-raiy answered simply, and to Francis, that matter-of-fact, callous attitude hit hard right in the heart, a poignant echo of another prominent brother he had recently buried.
Chapter 14
Trappings of Reputation
PONY RODE HER WONDERFUL GREYSTONE ALONG BESIDE THE WAGON, CHATTING with Belster as he rolled and bounced along. The back of the rig was full of supplies—food and drinks, some extra clothing, and the kegs and other implements they’d need to rebuild Belster’s tavern in Dundalis, which they had just agreed would be named Fellowship Way.
The pair were in a fine mood this sunny day, approaching Caer Tinella after a leisurely two-week journey from Palmaris, one marked by long visits with one grateful farming family after another or quiet nights beside a fire under the starry sky.
For Pony, the weight on her shoulders had lessened as soon as she had left the turmoil of Palmaris behind her. Now she didn’t have to worry about politics and secret alliances, didn’t have to consider the implications of her every move. Up here, she was not Jilseponie, hero of the demon war, slayer of evil Markwart. Up here, she was Pony, just Pony, the same little girl who had grown strong and happy in Dundalis with Elbryan before the coming of the goblins; the same warrior who had stood beside the ranger to protect the folk and the lands from the demon hordes.
Here, she was not moving her horse carefully through the throngs of people crowding the markets, but rather was riding him freely, feeling his muscles beneath her as he thundered along. Often, she would take him out across a field beside the road, for no better reason than to let him gallop, to feel the freedom and the wind. She had brought a saddle with her, but more often than not, she rode Greystone bareback.
She went off on yet another such jaunt, heading across a long, narrow field. She spotted a downed tree lying in a tangle of brush, its trunk suspended more than half a man’s height from the ground.
“Ho, what are ye thinking?” Belster called, seeing her smile spreading wide, even from twenty feet away.
Pony didn’t answer other than to urge Greystone into a canter and put him in line.
She heard Belster’s complaints that she was a “crazy child,” but they seemed to come from far away as the wind roared past her ears. And then she heard nothing as she took the horse in, so intense became her focus, picking her spot.
Up Greystone went, rounding his muscled neck and shoulders, and Pony rose to a half seat, her hands resting on his neck, her legs clamped tight about Greystone’s flanks, her body in perfect balance. As soon as they landed, she turned her horse back toward the road, where she spotted Belster, the portly innkeeper shaking his head and giving one great resigned sigh after another.
“Ye’re to get yerself killed, girl,” he said as she trotted past.
Pony just laughed and asked Greystone for a canter, aiming at the fallen tree again.
And then a third time and a fourth, while Belster simply kept the wagon rolling.
Pony caught up to him a few minutes later where the road wound around a small hillock.
“Caer Tinella,” the innkeeper announced, pointing north to where a feather of smoke drifted into the air.
Pony slowed Greystone to a walk, cooling him down. Soon after, she dismounted, tying Greystone to the back of the wagon and taking a seat beside Belster.
“Done yer fun, then?” the innkeeper asked.
“Just beginning,” Pony replied, “especially if my guess about that town is right.”
“Ah, the woman Kilronney,” Belster replied, referring to a dear friend of Pony’s, a soldier from the Palmaris garrison who had helped her when she had been separated from Elbryan.
Pony had seen the woman only once since the last battle. Imprisoned in Chasewind Manor, under the kinder hand of King Danube, Colleen Kilronney had been well on her way to recovering from the wounds she had received during her battles beside Pony. But still, when Pony had at last found her after the deaths of Elbryan and Markwart, Colleen was scarred, physically and within her heart. She had resigned her position with the Palmaris garrison, despite a plea from her cousin Shamus—another friend of Pony’s—and from Duke Kalas himself.
In that brief meeting, all that Pony had gleaned from Colleen was that she was tired and heading north to Caer Tinella.
It didn’t take Pony and Belster long to find Colleen; the first villagers they encountered directed them to a small cottage on the northeastern side of town. Pony left Belster behind, riding Greystone quickly to the place, then jumping down and running to the door.
Her eagerness and excitement diminished considerably when Colleen Kilronney answered, for she seemed now a mere shell of her former self. Once she had been square-shouldered and strong, but now her shoulders sagged. Once her eyes had flashed with eagerness for battle, but now they seemed almost glazed. Even Colleen’s red hair seemed duller, as if the whole woman had faded.
Pony held her hand out, and Colleen, a wide smile growing on her face, reached for it, with her left hand, holding her right arm noticeably tight to her side.
“What have you done?” Pony asked, hugging her friend, but taking care not to pain her obviously injured right arm.
“Bad place for catching a sword,” Colleen replied, still managing to smile. She led Pony into her modest cottage, offering her a seat at a small round table, then sitting beside her friend. “Ye’re looking well,” she said. “Are ye gettin’ past the pain?”
Pony sighed. “Will I ever?” she asked. Colleen put a hand on Pony’s shoulder—again, her left hand—and rubbed her.
“Let me see that wound,” Pony said, reaching into her pouch and bringing forth the soul stone.
“Oh, but they’re lettin’ ye keep one now?” Colleen asked. “Or did ye just take the thing?”
Pony helped her to slip her tunic off, and she winced in sympathetic pain when she saw Colleen’s wound, scabbed now but a vicious slash across the top of her biceps.
“Two weeks old,” Colleen explained. “Thought I was to lose the arm.”
Pony put a finger over the woman’s lips, then dropped her hand down onto the cut, rubbing the tender flesh. At the s
ame time, she peered into the soul stone, deeper and deeper into the swirling gray of the hematite, letting herself fall into its magic. She made a connection to Colleen’s wound, sent her consciousness into the woman’s torn muscles.
And then Pony took the injury back to herself, absorbed it with her being. She felt a moment of excruciating pain, but held to her purpose, enveloping, absorbing the wound, and then using her own strength and the soul stone to heal the tears and make the scars into healthy flesh once more.
Then Pony withdrew her spirit, but not before lingering a bit to try to get a sense of the woman’s general health. She wasn’t thrilled with what she sensed there, for it seemed to her as if Colleen’s physical being was somehow depleted, worn out.
A moment later, Pony opened her eyes to see Colleen already flexing her arm, working it in small circles, apparently without pain.
“I was thinkin’ o’ comin’ to ye for just that medicine,” the woman remarked, flashing her smile, “but I expected that ye’d be too busy for helpin’ the likes o’ meself.”
“Never that!” Pony assured her. She wrapped the woman in a hug again, and this time, Colleen returned it with both arms.
“You have not been feeling well,” Pony remarked when they sat back again.
“I took more of a beatin’ than I knew,” Colleen confirmed. “I’m just needin’ the rest, is all.”
“And the new wound?” Pony asked. “It does not seem that you are finding much rest.”
“A bigmouthed son of a drunken powrie,” Colleen replied, “a man named Seano Bellick. Used to be with the Palmaris garrison, same as meself, and we never did like each other much. He’s living in Caer Tinella now, and nothing but trouble, I tell ye. We had a bit of a disagreement in Callicky’s pub.”
“A bit of a disagreement?” Pony echoed. “He nearly cut your arm off!”
“Got me good,” Colleen admitted.
“Where can I find him?” Pony asked.
“Just provin’ himself the better,” Colleen said, waving the notion away. “And so he was, but if I’d’a catched him in me better days—”
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 24
