DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga)

by R. A. Salvatore

  Belli’mar Juraviel was waiting for Lady Dasslerond just beneath the opaque veil of mist. He nodded his approval and his thanks, for in truth, he had little idea of how sternly Dasslerond would treat their uninvited guest.

  “You wanted to tell her,” he remarked slyly.

  Dasslerond fixed him with a puzzled expression.

  “About her child,” Juraviel said with a hopeful smile.

  But that grin could not survive Dasslerond’s ensuing glower. “Not at all,” the lady said determinedly, and Juraviel knew that his hopes and his guess were misplaced.

  “She has no child,” Lady Dasslerond added; and she walked past, back down to the world of the Touel’alfar.

  Belli’mar Juraviel stood on the mountain slope for a long, long while, wounded by the unyielding coldness of his lady. He had thought that he had found a chink in her armor, a weak link in her great coat woven of duty; but he knew now that he was wrong.

  He thought of the young ranger in training, Aydrian, and wondered if the boy would ever know the truth of his mother or that she was still very much alive.

  “Aydrian,” Juraviel said aloud, an elvish title that meant “lord of the skies,” or “eagle.” Lady Dasslerond had allowed Juraviel finally to name the boy, and had approved of his lofty choice wholeheartedly—yet another signal to Juraviel that Lady Dasslerond thought this young lad could aspire to the epitome of the profession, could become the perfect ranger. Only one other ranger in the history of the training had been given the title Aydrian, the very first ranger ever trained in Andur’Blough Inninness.

  That ranger had gone on to live a long, though fairly uneventful, life; and since that time, no one had ever presumed to give the name to another young trainee.

  But this one was different. Very different and very special.

  Juraviel just wished that Dasslerond would involve Jilseponie with the lad, for her sake and, more important, for the sake of the child.

  When Pony awoke, she found, to her relief, that it had not all been a dream; for in her hand she held the parchment given her by Lady Dasslerond. She didn’t understand the magic that had worked the physical transportation of her corporeal body—or at least some of it—and then of the parchment.

  But that was a question for another day, for a day when the rosy plague was beaten. She still had no solution, no cure, but at least she had a weapon now. She looked down at the parchment and nodded her relief to find that neither the poultice nor the syrup required any ingredients that could not be readily found. It also struck her that many of the ingredients were flowers, including many of those commonly found in the monks’ tussie-mussie beds. Perhaps there was something to those old tales of posies and the like.

  Armed with her parchment, Pony rushed downstairs, to find that it was morning again, and late morning at that.

  “I thought ye’d sleep the whole of the day away,” Belster remarked, and the grim edge to his voice told Pony of his deeper fears: that this time, the rosy plague had caught her.

  “Gather your friends,” Pony said, scampering over to the bar and placing the parchment before the startled innkeeper. “We need to collect all these things and put them together quickly.”

  “Where’d ye get this?”

  “From a friend,” Pony replied, “one who visited me in the night, and one we can trust.”

  Belster looked down at the beautiful script on the page, and, though he could barely read, the delicate lines of calligraphy certainly gave him some indication of who that nighttime visitor might have been.

  “Will it work?” he asked.

  “It will help,” Pony answered. “Now be off and be quick. And find one who can scribe copies, that we might send them to the south!”

  Later that same afternoon, Pony knelt beside the bed of Jonno Drinks. She had lathered his emaciated, racked body with the poultice and had spooned several large doses of the syrup into him. And now she had her soul stone in hand, ready to go in and do battle with her newest allies beside her.

  She found the plague waiting for her, like some crouched demon, wounded by the elven medicines. But that wound only seemed to make the tiny plague demons even more vicious in their counterattack, and Pony soon found herself slouched on the floor, overwhelmed and exhausted.

  Jonno Drinks was resting more comfortably, it seemed, but Pony knew that she had done little to defeat the plague, that she and her elven-made allies might have bought the poor man a little comfort and a little time, but nothing more.

  Still, she went at the plague again the next day, and the next after that, fighting with all her strength, again trying various gemstone combinations.

  Jonno Drinks was dead within the week, leaving Pony frustrated and feeling very small indeed.

  Chapter 31

  Saving Potential Saints

  ABBOT BRAUMIN’S EYES WIDENED WHEN HIS DOOR SWUNG OPEN AND TIMIAN Tetrafel, Duke of the Wilderlands, Baron of Palmaris, stormed in, a very agitated Brother Talumus right on his heels.

  “I tried to keep him out,” Talumus started to explain.

  “Keep me out indeed!” Tetrafel boomed. “I will raze your walls if ever I find the doors closed to me again.”

  “The abbey is closed,” Abbot Braumin said, working hard to make his tone calm, to show complete control here.

  “And the streets are full of dying people!” Tetrafel yelled at him.

  “That is why the abbey is closed,” Braumin replied, “as should be Chasewind Manor—none to enter and none to leave.”

  “I am watching my city die about me,” Tetrafel fumed, “and I have had to expel several servants and soldiers from my own house these last three weeks! It will catch us in our holes, I say!”

  “A situation more likely if we come out of those holes,” said Abbot Braumin, “or allow others in.”

  “Are you not hearing me?” the Duke cried. “The rosy plague has entered my house.”

  Abbot Braumin stared long and hard at the man, trying to be sympathetic but also holding fast to his pragmatism. “You should not have come here,” he said. “And you, Brother Talumus, should not have let him in.”

  “He had an army with him,” Talumus protested. “They said that—”

  “That we would tear down your doors,” Tetrafel finished for him. “And so we would have done just that. Thrown St. Precious open wide for the masses to come in.” He walked over to the room’s one window and tore the curtain aside. “Can you not see them down there, Abbot Braumin?” he asked. “Can you not hear their misery?”

  “Every groan,” replied Braumin, in all seriousness and with not a hint of sarcasm in his words.

  “They are afraid,” said Tetrafel, calming a bit. “Those who are not afflicted fear that they soon will be, and those who are … they have nothing to lose.”

  Braumin nodded.

  “There are fights all around the city,” the Duke went on. “Those few ships that do come in cannot find anyone to help unload their cargoes. The farmers who come in with crops find themselves assaulted almost as soon as they pass through the city gates, the mobs of miserable, helpless victims fighting for food they can no longer afford to buy.”

  Abbot Braumin listened carefully, understanding then the fears that had brought Tetrafel so forcefully, and so unexpectedly, to St. Precious. The plague continued to intensify in Palmaris, ravaging the city; and Tetrafel was afraid, and rightly so, that the city could explode into rioting and mayhem. Braumin had heard rumors that the city guardsmen were not overfond of their new ruler, and no doubt Tetrafel was having trouble controlling them. Thus Duke Tetrafel, coming into St. Precious with such fire and self-righteousness, was in fact guided by simple desperation. The city had to be put in line or suffer even worse, and Tetrafel was afraid that he could not rely on the soldiers to carry out his orders.

  “All that you say is already known to me,” Braumin said, after Tetrafel finished his long rant.

  “Well, what then do you intend to do about it?” the Duke asked.
<
br />   Braumin put on a puzzled expression. “I?” he asked.

  “Are you not the abbot of St. Precious?”

  “Indeed, and as such, I am not the magistrate in control of Palmaris’ streets,” Braumin replied. “That is your jurisdiction, Duke Tetrafel, and so I suggest that you put your soldiers to work quickly. As for me and my brethren, we will continue our course, offering masses from the walls.”

  “And hiding behind the walls,” Tetrafel muttered sarcastically.

  Braumin let the remark pass. “We are the guardians of the spirit, not of the body,” the abbot went on. “We have no power over the rosy plague; and the best that we can do is lend comfort—from a safe distance, yes—to those afflicted. To ease their passage from this life.”

  Tetrafel stuttered over several intended replies, and wound up throwing his hands up in disgust. “The healers of the world!” he cried, storming out of the room.

  Abbot Braumin motioned for Talumus to close the door behind the departing Duke. “I am sorry, abbot,” Talumus explained. “I would not have allowed him admittance, but I feared that his soldiers would take down the gates.”

  Braumin was nodding and patting the air comfortingly. “Find Viscenti and Castinagis,” he instructed. “Work with them to triple the watches at the front gates. If Duke Tetrafel returns, deny him admittance.”

  “And his soldiers?”

  “Keep them out,” Abbot Braumin said grimly, “by whatever means necessary. By lightning stroke and fireball, by crossbow quarrel and hot oil. Keep them out. St. Precious is not to be violated again, at any cost.”

  Talumus stood as if struck for a long while, staring wide-eyed at Braumin—and Braumin knew that it was as much his tone as his words that had so caught the young man off guard. But this was not the time for squeamishness, Braumin knew, not the time for weakening convictions. Their duty in a time of the rosy plague was simply to survive, to hold the secrets and teaching of their faith secure for the world when the darkness at last lifted.

  Still, he saw them now, with the curtain torn away from his window: the miserable wretches huddled and shivering, though the day was warm.

  For kindhearted Abbot Braumin Herde, the sight nearly broke him.

  The young monk came out of St.-Mere-Abelle solemnly, the walk of the dead. He carried a large pack, stuffed with food and other supplies, but the parting gift of the Abellican brothers to this poor, frightened, plague-infested young man hardly seemed to suffice.

  As he had been ordered, he crossed the tussie-mussie bed; and as soon as he did, the other plague victims knew that he, too, had become one of them. They came to him and crowded about, as much to see what he had in his pack as to offer their sympathy.

  That craven desperation only made the poor young monk even more upset, and he pushed people away and cried out.

  And then one peasant woman with half her face torn away approached him, and her smile was too genuine and too comforting for the monk to mistrust her. She took his hand in her own, patted it and kissed it gently, then led him through the gathering.

  He saw a fellow brother then, though he hardly recognized Master Francis, with his beard and long, dirty hair. Francis recognized him, however, and he patted the young brother on the shoulder. “I will come to you this very night,” he promised, and he showed the young brother a soul stone. “Perhaps together we can banish the plague from your body.”

  Glad that his frightened brother was calmed somewhat by the pledge, Francis patted him again on the shoulder and nodded to Merry Cowsenfed, who led the monk away.

  Francis had other matters to attend at that time, but when he glanced back toward the abbey, he saw a vision he could not resist, a one-armed monk dressed in a robe of flowers, standing just inside the alcove before St.-Mere-Abelle’s great gates, on the safe side of the tussie-mussie bed.

  “Begone, beggar,” Fio Bou-raiy said when Francis came over to face him across the flower bed.

  “How far the mighty have fallen, then,” Francis replied, and a flicker of recognition crossed Master Bou-raiy’s face at the sound of that familiar voice. Bou-raiy moved closer to the tussie-mussie bed and peered intently at the hunched figure across the way, wearing still the robes of an Abellican monk, though they, too, like Francis, had weathered the winter and spring badly.

  “Still alive?” Bou-raiy asked with a snicker.

  “That, or I am the specter of death come to warn you of the consequences of your cowardice,” Francis replied sarcastically.

  “I would have thought that the plague had taken you by now,” Bou-raiy went on, seemingly unperturbed by Francis’ unyielding sarcasm. “Any little rings about your body, Master Francis?”

  “None,” Francis answered defiantly. “But if the plague does find me, then I know it to be God’s will.”

  “A fool’s consequence, more likely,” Bou-raiy interrupted.

  Francis paused, then nodded, conceding the point. “I have saved one already,” he replied. “My life for the reward of another’s life.”

  “The life of an Abellican master for the life of a lowly peasant,” Bou-raiy retorted, obviously unimpressed.

  “Perhaps I will save even more,” Francis went on, and he held up the soul stone.

  “You are ahead of the odds already,” Bou-raiy replied. “One in twenty, brother, and one in seven will poison you.”

  “I have treated scores,” Francis stated.

  “And saved only one?”

  “Too many are far too advanced in the plague when they arrive,” Francis tried to explain, though he wondered why he even bothered trying to reach this stubborn brother.

  “And what of Brother Gellis?” Master Bou-raiy asked, motioning in the direction where the newest addition to the plague camp had gone. “First signs. Can Francis the hero save him?”

  Francis shrugged calmly.

  “And what of the other three monks who have left St.-Mere-Abelle?” Bou-raiy asked slyly, for he knew well enough their fate.

  Francis had no answer. Indeed, three other plague-afflicted brothers had come out of the barricaded abbey, and all three had died within two weeks. Francis had tried to save them, had worked with them, joining their spirits within the magic of the hematite, but to no avail.

  “It would seem that you have survived longer than the old poems predict,” Master Bou-raiy conceded, “but also have you failed to heal as many as the old poems predict. Perhaps you are not going at this task with all your heart, brother.”

  Francis just glared at him.

  “Father Abbot Agronguerre would allow you to return to us,” Bou-raiy then said, taking Francis by complete surprise. “Of course, you would have to spend a week within the gatehouse, secluded, and that even after several brothers had probed your spirit with soul stones. But if you remain plague free, then you will be back in the fold, brother, back to your position of master, and none will judge your indiscretions.”

  Now Francis stared at the man incredulously, wondering why Bou-raiy would even relay such an invitation. Surely Bou-raiy would be happier if Francis dropped dead of the plague there and then!

  But when he thought more carefully about it all, Francis understood the master’s seeming enthusiasm about his possible return, and suspected that Bou-raiy might even have suggested the invitation to Father Abbot Agronguerre. Because if Francis gave up his mission and walked back into St.-Mere-Abelle, he would be bolstering the Church canon concerning the plague, would be admitting that this enemy was far beyond the power of the monks and their gemstones even to be faced.

  Hadn’t the former Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart used those same tactics against his enemies? Against Jojonah and his followers? Hadn’t Markwart, in fact, offered that same sweet honey—forgiveness, even redemption, back in the Abellican fold—to hold Francis to his side after Francis had inadvertently killed Grady Chilichunk on the road from Palmaris?

  “Do you see that woman?” Francis asked, pointing across the field to a woman walking with a limp and a stooped
back and carrying two pails for water. “Her name is Merry Cowsenfed,” Francis explained. “She came from Falidean town, far to the south, by way of St. Gwendolyn. She, too, is scarred with the rings of the rosy plague, but Abbess Delenia went to her and healed her.”

  “And Abbess Delenia is now dead,” Bou-raiy reminded him. “And St. Gwendolyn is a mere shell, being run by but a handful of minor sisters.”

  “But they tried,” Francis explained emphatically. “And because Abbess Delenia had the heart to try, Merry Cowsenfed is alive. Now, you will argue that her life is not worth that of a single Abellican, let alone an abbess, but look at her! Watch her every move! The woman, this peasant that you would so easily disclaim and allow to die, is beatified by her every action. A hundred years hence, there may well be a new saint, Saint Merry, who would have died unnoticed had not Abbess Delenia tried. You cannot place value upon people because of their temporary station in life, brother. That is your error, the arrogance that allows you to justify your decision to hide behind thick stone walls.”

  Master Fio Bou-raiy stared long and hard at Merry Cowsenfed as she made her slow, deliberate way across the field. Then he turned back to Francis; and for a moment, just a split second, Francis thought that he had gotten through to the stubborn man. But then Bou-raiy snorted and waved his hand, and whirled about, his flower-sewn robes flying wide.

  Francis just put his head down and walked back out to his people. As he had promised, he went to the newest addition to the plague camp, the exiled young Brother Gellis, that very night, and together, they fiercely battled the rosy plague within the monk.

  For only the second time in the few months Francis had been outside, he believed that he was making strong progress against the disease, but then, one morning, Gellis awoke with a scream, his body racked by fever.

  He died that same afternoon.

  Francis walked with the bearers as they carried his emaciated body to the pyre for burning. He noted that his fellow monks were watching that procession from St.-Mere-Abelle’s wall, prominent among them Fio Bou-raiy, with his flowered robe and his grim expression.