They would not wait their turn to war with Pony but came at her all at once, attacked the spiritual hematite link without regard. She knew she was killing them with her healing hands—by the score, by the hundred, by the thousand—but only then, to her horror, did she realize the truth: they were multiplying as fast as she was destroying them! She moved frantically, desperately, intently focused, for she had to be. To let up for one moment was to allow the rosy plague into her own body. If even one of these tiny plague creatures got into her, it would begin the frantic reproduction process within its new host.
She knew that, and gave everything she could possibly offer into the gemstone. Her hands glowed even brighter, a burning, healing light.
But the plague was too thick and too hungry, and soon Pony realized that she was slapping at her own arms, desperate to keep the vicious little creatures out of her. Before she could even register the change, the connection with Colleen was severed; and a moment later, Pony found herself sitting on the floor beside the bed, instinctively slapping at her arms.
A few moments later, she slumped back against the wall, exhausted and overwhelmed and unsure of whether or not any of the vicious little creatures had found their way into her body.
She crawled back to Colleen and pulled herself up by the woman’s side.
Her efforts had done nothing at all to alleviate the woman’s suffering.
“She’s flagging us, but not coming any closer,” the watchman explained to Warder Presso. The two stood on the rampart of Pireth Vanguard, overlooking the wide Gulf of Corona, observing a curious ship that had sailed in just a few minutes before. The ship had come close to Vanguard’s long wharf, but then, when a group of soldiers had gone down to help her tie in, she had put back out fifty yards.
The distant crew had then called something about delivering a message to the new abbot of St. Belfour, but when the soldiers had inquired of the message, the sailors had insisted on seeing the warder of the fort.
“She’s not carrying any standard of Honce-the-Bear,” Presso remarked, studying the vessel, obviously a trader. “But she’s got the evergreen flying,” he added, pointing to the lower pennant on the aft line of the mizzen mast, the white flag with the evergreen symbol of the Abellican Church. “Agronguerre, likely, sending word to Abbot Haney.”
“But why aren’t they just saying it, then?” the nervous soldier asked. “And why won’t they come in? We’ve asked them over and over.”
Presso, more skilled in ways politic, merely smiled at the ignorant remark. Knowledge was power, to the Church and the Crown, and so messages were often secret. Still, this visit to Vanguard seemed especially strange this late in the season, with the cold winter wind already blowing down from Alpinador. And for the crew of this ship to be apparently intent on turning about seemed preposterous. Even if they meant to cross the gulf only halfway and dock at Dancard, the journey could take several days, and one of the gulf’s many winter storms could easily put them under the waves.
Strange as it seemed, Presso could not deny the sight before him, and so he hurried down the long winding stairway outside the fortress, making his way to the low docks and his men.
“They want to send it in on an arrow,” one explained.
Presso looked around, spotting an earthen embankment not so far away. “Go and tell them who I am,” he bade the soldier. “Have them put their message there, and on my word as a warder in the Coastpoint Guards, assure them that it will be delivered, unread, to Abbot Haney at St. Belfour posthaste.”
“They should just come in and deliver it themselves,” the soldier grumbled, but he saluted his warder and ran down the length of the long dock, calling to the ship.
A moment later, an arrow soared off the boat, thudding into the earthen embankment, and the soldiers retrieved it as the ship bade them farewell and turned fast for the south.
Constantine Presso then surprised his men by announcing that he would deliver the message personally. An hour later, he arrived at St. Belfour and was announced in the audience chamber of the new abbot, who sat comfortably behind his modest desk, with Brother Dellman sitting off to the side.
“From Father Abbot Agronguerre, I would assume,” the warder explained after the informal greetings. “I believe that is his seal.” He tossed the rolled parchment on the desk before Haney.
“Unopened?” Haney remarked.
“As we were bid by the ship that delivered it,” Presso explained. “By arrow, I must add, for they would not dock.”
That made Haney turn a curious, somewhat nervous glance over Brother Dellman.
“I thank you for delivering it, Warder Presso,” he then said, “and for holding the confidence, as you were requested.”
“But I ask that you open it now, in my presence,” the warder surprised the abbot by saying.
Haney glanced at Dellman again, and both turned curious gazes over Presso.
“The manner of delivery brings me as much worry as it does you, my friends,” Presso said, trying not to be mysterious. “Open it, I pray. I’ll stand back, on my word, but if the news is grave, and if it concerns Pireth Vanguard or Prince Midalis, then you must inform me immediately.”
That seemed fair enough, and so Abbot Haney, with Brother Dellman coming up right beside him, broke the seal. “Promotion to master for you?” Haney wondered aloud, smiling at his friend and close adviser.
Dellman smiled, too, but both of the men turned their lips down quickly into most profound frowns when Haney unrolled the parchment.
“Grave news,” Warder Presso said, seeing it clearly from their expressions.
Abbot Haney was trembling as he handed the parchment to Presso, who took it, thinking that perhaps their dear friend Agronguerre had died.
When he read the words, a warning about the rosy plague, the warder—who was a friend of Agronguerre’s and admired the man greatly—wished that his initial fears had been correct.
“I trust that you will be discreet with this information,” Brother Dellman remarked. It struck Presso from the look that Dellman gave Haney that he wasn’t pleased that his abbot had so readily turned over the letter. “If we are too quick to spread this grave news, it could cause panic.”
“And of course, only King’s men and Church members should be so privileged,” Warder Presso said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“That is not what I said.”
“But is it not what you meant?”
“Enough,” Haney demanded of them both. “Deliver that at once to Prince Midalis, I pray you, Warder Presso,” he instructed. “If he wishes to meet with us that we can coordinate our efforts to spread such dire news, then, of course, I—we,” he added, glancing up at Dellman, “will be available.”
Presso nodded, gave a slight bow, then started to turn, but paused and looked back at Dellman. “Forgive me, brother,” he said sincerely. “Blame my surly words on my surprise at reading such unexpected and tragic news.”
“And my own for so responding,” said Dellman with a polite bow.
Prince Midalis met with Abbot Haney that same evening, but not before issuing a general blockade of Pireth Vanguard. No ships were to be allowed in, not even to the long dock, and no goods unloaded.
Abbot Haney agreed, and the next morning, the two leaders broke the devastating news to the general population of Vanguard. Also, that same day, Midalis sent runners north to alert the Alpinadorans of the pending disaster. And thus was the northeastern quarter of Honce-the-Bear shut down.
Visitors were no longer welcome in the land that prided itself on camaraderie and friendship.
The cart slogged along trails that were mud where the sun hit them and ice where it did not. Greystone tugged at the harness without protest, eager to please the driver, Pony.
And she urged the horse on with all speed, though she tried to pick as smooth a path as she could find. Behind her, wrapped in blankets but cold and miserable nonetheless, Colleen Kilronney groaned and coughed.
Pony tried to block out those pitiful sounds and focus on the road ahead, the road south to Palmaris, to St. Precious, to somewhere Pony might find someone and some way to help her mortally ill friend.
She glanced west, to the dark clouds that had risen over the horizon as the afternoon had drawn on, and second-guessed her decision to set out from Caer Tinella. She little feared weather this early in the season if it was just herself and Greystone, but how would she keep Colleen warm if the snows forced them off the road? And surely her friend would not survive a cold, wet night.
And so she rode on, after the sun went down, and wishing that she had a magical diamond that she might light the path before her!
Later on snow began to fall and a cold, cold wind rushed down; and Pony wished even more for that magical diamond, that she could call a warming glow to comfort her poor friend.
She set a torch blazing and drove on, trying to outrun the storm, to get far enough south so that it would be a more gentle event, rain, perhaps.
But the snow kept falling, wet snow, clumping on the wagon and wheels, weighing down Greystone’s load. It settled over the trail, making the ice even more slippery and more treacherous in the dark.
Pony knew that she could not stop. She had seventy miles of road before her to get to Palmaris, Colleen’s only chance. Gently but firmly she bade Greystone continue, and the valiant horse trudged along.
The night deepened and the snow continued, accumulating on the road, making progress more difficult, bringing a bright sheen to poor Greystone’s blond coat. Pony knew that she had to press on, but knew, too, that if she did, Greystone would likely fall over and die. She and her horse could not make it alone.
She pulled up at the side of the trail and brought her torch back, tucking the blankets tightly about Colleen, trying to keep her as warm as possible. Then she ran to Greystone and unhitched him and walked him, trying to cool him down slowly and safely.
And all the while, she wondered what she could do next. How could she save Colleen?
Her soul stone seemed the only answer. Perhaps she could reach out and find some nearby help. Of course, if she was honest with any nearby farmers or woodsmen, they wouldn’t likely come anywhere near her or Colleen. Perhaps she could swap a horse with them, though she’d hate to part with wonderful Greystone.
She came back to the wagon then, deciding that the soul stone was her only option. She reached into her pouch and produced the hematite, and fell into it immediately, using its magic to free her of her corporeal form. For a moment, she thought of going at Colleen’s tiny disease demons again, but the memory of the previous encounter left her weak. So she went out, searching, searching.
And she found her answer—her wonderful, amazing answer—in but a few moments, as she encountered another spirit, strong and natural: the thoughts of magnificent Symphony, nearby and running hard toward her. Pony felt the horse keenly, understood so clearly that it was indeed Symphony, and recognized clearly Symphony’s intent to come to her aid. She suspected that she had touched the turquoise bond with her hematite reach, and a miraculous bond it was!
She rushed back into her corporeal form, then over to Colleen, lighting a fire, tucking in her blankets, kissing her on the forehead and telling her that it would be all right.
Symphony arrived soon after, snorting and pawing the ground. Pony wondered if she could manipulate the harness and rope so that both horses could pull the wagon, but she gave up on the idea quickly, mostly because she sensed Symphony’s impatience, almost as if the horse understood her needs and was assuring her that he could fulfill them.
She harnessed him up and tied Greystone to the back. Though the snow continued, even intensified, the wagon was rolling again, and swiftly, with Symphony plowing forward.
A dull sunrise came and went, and still they rolled on. Soon they came to muddier ground, and the snow became cold rain, and still they rolled on.
Symphony pulled tirelessly, through the morning and into the afternoon, and then, amazingly to Pony, she saw the farmhouses increasing in number along the rolling hills, and knew that she would see Palmaris over the very next rise.
Down they went, gaining speed with the goal in sight. The guards at the city’s northern gate motioned for the wagon to stop, and Pony called out to them to let her pass. “Without delay!” she cried. “I am Jilseponie Wyndon—you know me—and you know the person I carry to the healing doors of St. Precious. Colleen Kilronney, she is: a friend to any soldier of Palmaris!”
The soldiers bustled about and seemed unsure what to do, until one of them took careful note of the black, white-booted stallion pulling her wagon, and cried out, “Symphony!” They knew then that it was indeed Pony returned to them, and they threw the gates wide. Several mounted their own horses and led Pony’s wagon through the winding streets of Palmaris, clearing the road all the way to the doors of St. Precious.
The brothers who met the unexpected caravan reacted with equal fervor, bringing Abbot Braumin and the other leaders, Viscenti, Talumus, and Castinagis, in short order.
Pony saw the bed of flowers laid out in front of the abbey, half buried by wet snow, most of them dead. Shaking her head, she came down from the wagon and fell into Braumin’s arms. “Help her,” she pleaded, and then, overcome with exhaustion, Pony collapsed.
She awoke in a plain but comfortable cot, dressed only in a long white shirt, but covered by many thick blankets. She was in the abbey, she recognized by the narrow, rectangular window and the plain, gray stone walls. A shaft of sunlight streaming in through that narrow window told her that the storm had ended.
Pony pulled herself out of bed and went over to the window, looking out to the Masur Delaval and the rising sun. Only then did she realize that she had slept for the better part of an entire day, and only then did she remember the harrowing journey through the dark night and the snow.
She searched for her clothes, but, finding none, wrapped a blanket about her and charged out of the room. She knew the layout of St. Precious well from her days there after the fight at Chasewind Manor, and so she ran straight off for Abbot Braumin’s office.
He was there, along with Viscenti and Talumus, arguing over some philosophical point concerning the origin of Man and how the Original Man had become diversified into the various races: Alpinadoran, Bearman, Behrenese, and To-gai-ru.
That conversation ended abruptly when Pony came crashing through the door.
“Jilseponie,” Abbot Braumin said. “How good it does my heart to see you awake and well. Ah, yes, your clothing—”
“Where is she?” Pony asked.
Abbot Braumin looked at her curiously for just a moment, and then a cloud passed over his face. He looked at his two companions, nodding for them to leave the room.
They both did so without question, Viscenti pausing only long enough to drop a comforting pat on Pony’s shoulder.
Then the door shut hard behind her, and Pony nearly jumped off the floor. Hardly able to draw breath, she asked again, more somberly, “Where is she?”
“She is very ill,” Abbot Braumin replied, standing up and coming around the desk. He moved near Pony, but she visibly stiffened and so he sat instead on the edge of his desk.
“Is?” Pony echoed. “Then she is still alive.”
Abbot Braumin nodded. “But not for long, I fear.”
Pony started to respond, but nearly choked as Braumin’s blunt response registered fully.
“She is afflicted with the rosy plague,” Braumin said quietly. “The red spots, the fever … there can be no doubt.”
Pony was nodding with each word. “I was told as much already,” she said.
“But you do not understand what that means, I fear,” Braumin replied, “else you would not have driven so hard to bring her here.”
Pony stared at him incredulously. “Where, then?” she asked. “Where am I to bring one so ill if not to St. Precious Abbey? Who am I to turn to for help if not Abbot Braumin Herde, my friend?”
&
nbsp; Braumin put his hand up in the air as she spoke the words—words obviously painful for him to hear. “The rosy plague,” he said again. “Do you not know the song?”
Pony stared at him curiously, and Braumin began to sing the children’s rhyme.
Ring around the rosy,
Gather bowls of posies
Burn the clothes
And dig the holes
And cover us with dirt.
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!
Pony continued to stare, but the words began to sink in, began to ring in her heart the truth about her doomed friend. “Where, then?” she asked weakly.
Braumin came forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. “You make her comfortable, as much as possible, and you say good-bye,” he whispered.
Pony let that hug linger for a long, long while, needing the support. Finally she pushed Braumin back far enough so that she could look into his compassionate face. “Where is she?” she asked quietly.
“There is a house not so far from here that already knows the plague,” Braumin started to explain.
“She is not within St. Precious?” Pony asked, her voice rising with her surprise.
“I could not,” Braumin answered. “I should not have let you in so soon after you spent such intimate time with her.”
Pony’s eyes widened.
“But I could not refuse you,” Braumin went on. “Never that! And yet you must understand that I had to send several brothers to you with soul stones, to search your body for signs of the plague. Still, I should not have let you in, in accordance with Abellican canon.”
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 44
