It was over.
Chapter 36
The Ghost of Romeo Mullahy
THEY WALKED THROUGH THE STREETS AS UNOBTRUSIVELY AS POSSIBLE, MAKING the daily run for supplies down to the dock section before the sunrise. This day, though, they had learned of the riot in that area, of many Behrenese beaten, even murdered, and all at the hands of this strange cult, the Brothers Repentant.
The five monks had lingered longer than they had planned and now understood, to their alarm, that they would not get back into St. Precious before daylight. They moved with all speed in their flower-sewn robes, like walking tussie-mussie beds. They moved to each street corner carefully, peeking around, making sure that they would not rush onto the next lane into a host of plague victims. Those folk of Palmaris weren’t pleased with the Abellican Church at that time.
Brother Anders Castinagis, leading the group this morning, breathed a little easier when the wall containing the secret back entrance of St. Precious at last came into view. He could have brought his brethren around in a wide loop to avoid being seen by the host encamped before the abbey, but Castinagis figured that such a delay might prove even more dangerous. He led them, then, across the boulevards to the side of the square.
Cries rang out behind them, but Castinagis wasn’t overconcerned, for he had known before this last expanse that they would not make the run without being spotted. But he was confident, too, that he and his four companions could get through the back door before any of the roused plague victims got anywhere near them.
They hustled off, trotting along the wall toward the door, glancing back confidently.
They should have looked ahead.
Coming around the corner at the back of the abbey, running fast and with obvious purpose, came a host of black-robed, red-hooded monks.
Castinagis skidded to a stop. He saw the crack of the concealed door—a portal that would not be noticed by anyone who didn’t know it was there—and measured the distance immediately against the speed of the approaching band.
He dropped his supply-laden pack, crying for his brethren to do the same, and sprinted away, calling out for the door to be opened.
And it was, a crack, and Castinagis could have gotten there ahead of the approaching Brothers Repentant, but his companions could not, he recognized, and so he burst right by the door, meeting the charge of the leading red-hooded monk. “Get in!” he cried as he went.
Anders Castinagis was a fine fighter, a big and strong man with fists of stone and a jaw that could take a punch. He had trained well at St.-Mere-Abelle, was graduated from the lessons of arts martial near the top of his class.
He did not know that now he was about to battle his instructor.
He came in hard, thinking to knock the leading attacker back, hit him quickly a few times, then wheel back to join his brethren inside.
His surprise was complete when the first punch he threw, a straight right, got picked off cleanly, a hand snapping up under his wrist, catching hold and easily turning his arm over. Castinagis tried to ward with his free left hand as his opponent came forward, right hand positioned like a serpent’s head aiming to strike his throat.
But then, suddenly and unexpectedly, the red-hooded monk brought his straight-fingered hand out to the side, then kicked Castinagis’ twisted elbow, shattering the bone. As Castinagis moved his free hand down to grasp at the pain, that serpentlike hand snapped in against his exposed throat.
He felt himself falling, but then he was caught, a strong hand clamping tightly over his face, and he knew no more.
Marcalo De’Unnero thought to drop his catch when he noted the fighting by the back door of St. Precious. His brethren had run past him and the monks from inside the abbey, knowing a brother to be trapped outside, had come pouring out to meet the charge.
Also, farther back but closing fast, came the angry mob, throwing stones and shouting curses. And behind them came the clatter of hoofbeats, of city guardsmen, De’Unnero knew.
It was all too beautiful.
He hoisted the half-conscious monk up under his arm and dragged him down one side alley, and many of his brothers followed.
And so began the impromptu trial of Anders Castinagis, with De’Unnero, Brother Truth, holding him up as an example of the errors of the world, an Abellican monk who, like all the brown-robed churchmen, had fallen from the path of God and had thus brought the rosy plague down among them all.
The plague victims wanted to believe those words—needed someone to blame—and they came at poor Castinagis viciously, spitting at him and kicking at him.
Over by the abbey, there came the sound of a lightning stroke, and even more general rioting.
That would have been the bitter end of Anders Castinagis, but then a contingent of horsemen, city guard, turned into the alleyway and came charging down, scattering plague-ridden peasants and Brothers Repentant alike.
De’Unnero thought to make a stand against them, thought to leap astride the nearest horse and kill the soldier, but he understood that this was not a fight he wanted. He wasn’t personally afraid, of course, but thus far the soldiers of Palmaris—and thus, implicitly, the Duke serving as ruler of the city—had not hindered the Brothers Repentant from their orations and their occasional attacks on the Behrenese. Better not to make them an enemy, the cunning De’Unnero understood.
He leaped out of the way of the nearest approaching soldier and yelled for a general retreat. There was no pursuit, for the soldiers likewise did not wish to do battle with De’Unnero and his group. No, they were merely acting as the law required them, to protect an Abellican brother.
From the end of the alley, the fierce monk watched the soldiers scoop up the battered form of Anders Castinagis and turn back for St. Precious, forming a tight, defensive ring about the monk and warding the angry peasants away.
De’Unnero smiled at the sight. He knew that while many were dying each day of the plague, the numbers of the discontented, of the outraged, would continue to swell. He knew that he would find many allies in his war against the Abellican Church—no, not the Abellican Church, he mused, for it was his intent to reestablish that very body in proper form. No, this incarnation of his beloved Church more resembled a Church of Avelyn, or of Jojonah.
He would remedy that.
One abbey at a time.
One burned abbey at a time.
“It was De’Unnero,” Castinagis, lisping badly from a lip swollen to three times its normal size, insisted. “No one else could move like that, with such speed and precision.”
“Rumors have named him as the leader of the Brothers Repentant,” Abbot Braumin replied with a sigh.
“Then we expose him to the people of Palmaris,” Viscenti chimed in eagerly.
The door of the audience chamber banged open then, and a very angry Duke Tetrafel stormed into the room.
“How did you—” Abbot Braumin started to ask.
“His soldiers had just helped us, abbot,” came a nervous remark from behind the Duke, from the brother who had been charged with watching the gate that day.
Abbot Braumin understood immediately; Duke Tetrafel had used the leverage of his soldiers’ intervention to bully his way into the abbey. So be it, Braumin thought, and he waved the nervous young sentry monk away.
“You submitted to the gemstone inspection, of course,” Braumin remarked, though he knew well that the Duke most certainly had not.
Tetrafel scoffed at the absurd notion. “If your monks tried to come to me with that stone of possession, my soldiers would raze your abbey,” he blustered.
“We are allowed our rules and our sanctuary,” Braumin replied.
“And did my soldiers not just allow several of your monks to get back into that sanctuary?” Tetrafel asked. “Your friend Brother Castinagis among them? He would have been killed in the gutter. Yet this is how you greet me?”
Braumin paused for a long while to digest the words. “My pardon,” he said, coming around the desk and offering a
polite bow. “Of course we are in your debt. But do understand that we have set up St. Precious as a sanctuary against the rosy plague, and to ensure that we must spiritually inspect everyone who enters. Even the brothers are subjected to such inspections, myself included, if we venture out beyond the tussie-mussie bed.”
“And if it was discovered that you had become afflicted with the plague?” Tetrafel asked suspiciously.
“Then I would leave St. Precious at once,” Abbot Braumin replied without the slightest hesitation and without any hint of insincerity in his voice.
Tetrafel chuckled and stared at the abbot incredulously. “Then you are a fool,” he said.
The abbot only shrugged.
“And if I became afflicted?” the Duke asked slyly. “Would I, too, be denied admittance to St. Precious? And if so, would you and your brethren come out to tend to me?”
“Yes,” said Braumin, “and no.”
Tetrafel paused a moment to clarify the curt responses, then a great scowl crossed his face. “You would let me die?” The soldiers behind the Duke bristled.
“There is nothing we could do to alter that.”
“The old songs of doom proclaim that a monk might cure one in twenty,” Tetrafel argued. “Would not twenty monks then have a fair chance of saving their Baron and Duke?”
“They would.” Again, Abbot Braumin kept his response curt and to the point.
“But you would not send them,” Duke Tetrafel reasoned.
“No,” answered the abbot.
“Yet I risk my soldiers for the sake of your monks!” the Duke snapped back, and he was having a hard time masking his mounting anger.
“We can make no exceptions in this matter,” Braumin replied, “not for a nobleman, not for an abbot, not for the Father Abbot himself. If Father Abbot Agronguerre became so afflicted, he would be cast out of St.-Mere-Abelle.”
“Do you hear your own words as you speak them?” Duke Tetrafel roared. “Could you begin to believe that the lives of twenty minor monks were not worth the gain of saving a duke or even your own Father Abbot? Pray you then that King Danube does not become so afflicted, for if he did, and if your Church then did not come to his aid with every Abellican brother available, then the kingdom and the Church would be at war!”
Abbot Braumin seriously doubted that, for it was not without precedent. Furthermore, while it pained gentle Braumin to watch the suffering of the common folk, Tetrafel’s point was lost completely on him. In his view of the world, the life of a single brother, even a novitiate to the Abellican Church, was worth that of a duke or a king or a father abbot. As were the lives of every commoner now suffering on the square outside St. Precious. Yes, Braumin Herde cursed his helplessness daily, but he was glad, at least, that he was not possessed of the arrogance that seemed to be a major trait among the secular leaders of the kingdom.
“I have your words and your thoughts now,” Duke Tetrafel fumed. “I see your perspective all too clearly, Abbot Braumin. Understand that I now relinquish all responsibility for the safety of your brethren if they venture outside St. Precious. Exit at your own peril!” And he turned and stormed out of the room, sweeping his soldiers up in his wake.
“That went well,” Castinagis lisped sarcastically.
As if to accentuate the point, a stone bounced off Braumin’s window, clattering for a second, then falling harmlessly away. All day long, since the near riot at the back door, the peasants had been throwing rocks and curses at the abbey.
“We have lost the city,” Abbot Braumin remarked.
“We could send word to St.-Mere-Abelle for help,” Viscenti offered.
Braumin was shaking his head before the man even finished. “Father Abbot Agronguerre has his own troubles,” he replied. “No, we have lost the hearts of those in Palmaris, and cannot regain them short of going out with our gemstones among the people.”
“We send out salves and syrups, blankets and food, every day,” Castinagis interjected.
“And it is not enough to placate those who know they are dying,” said Braumin.
“We cannot go out to them,” Viscenti reasoned.
“Then we weather the plague within our abbey,” Abbot Braumin decided, “as it has been in the past, as we have done thus far. We will continue to send out the salves and other supplies as we can spare them, but if the peasants—led by the Brothers Repentant, no doubt—come against us, then we will defend St. Precious vigorously.”
“And if we lose the abbey?” Castinagis asked grimly.
“Then we flee Palmaris,” Braumin replied, “to Caer Tinella, perhaps, where we might establish the first chapel of Avelyn.”
“That course was denied,” Viscenti remarked.
Braumin shrugged as if that fact wasn’t important. “Perhaps it is time we think about establishing the Church of Avelyn, in partnership with the Abellican Church if they so desire, a separate entity altogether if they do not.”
The strong words raised the eyebrows of the other two brothers in the room, and Braumin, too, understood the desperation of such a course. The Church would never agree to such a split, of course, and would likely declare Braumin a heretic—again—and excommunicate any who sided with him. But they wouldn’t come after him, Braumin knew, at least not until the time of plague had passed. And in those years, it was quite conceivable that he, with a more generous attitude toward the terrified peasants, might establish himself so securely that the Abellican Church would think it wiser to just let him be.
Those fanciful thoughts continued to roll in Braumin’s head for a long while, long after both Viscenti and Castinagis had taken their leave. But in the end, they didn’t hold, for Braumin recognized them as the course of a desperate fool. His current problems were not the making of a new Church—indeed, he and his comrades had pushed the Church in a direction favorable to Avelyn and Jojonah, favorable to his own beliefs. The current problem was the plague, pure and simple, and even if Braumin successfully managed to go and establish his coveted chapel, even if he split from the Abellican Church altogether and began his own religion, what would be the gain? The rosy plague would still be among them, and Braumin would still be helpless against it.
Another rock thudded against the abbot’s wall.
He glanced that way, toward the window, and tuned in to the curses and shouts being hurled against his abbey. No, he would not run away. He and his brethren would defend St. Precious from all attacks, and vigorously, as he had instructed. If all the city came against them, then all the city would be destroyed, if that is what it would take.
Braumin hated his own thoughts.
But he wouldn’t deny the truth, nor the righteousness, of them.
Pony knelt over Dainsey, holding her hand and talking comfortingly to her, trying to give her some dignity and some sense that she was loved and was not alone at this, the end of her life. How bitter it all seemed to Pony, to fail here, just a mile from her destination, though in truth, she doubted that even if she could get to Avelyn’s arm, it would do Dainsey any good. The poor woman was too far gone.
“Let go, Dainsey,” she whispered, wanting the woman’s misery, her obvious fear and pain, to end. “It is all right to let go.”
If Dainsey heard her, she made no indication, but Pony kept talking, kept hoping that she was doing some good.
Then a strong hand grabbed Pony’s shoulder and pulled her up to her feet. She glanced back to see Bradwarden, right beside her, holding the pouch of gemstones she had left far back down the path.
“What?” she started to ask.
“Ye get her up on me back and climb yerself up with her,” the centaur explained. “I’ll get ye to the top o’ Mount Aida.”
“B-Bradwarden, the plague,” Pony stuttered.
“Damn it to the dactyl’s own bed!” the centaur roared. “I’d rather be catchin’ it and dyin’ than to keep away and watch me friends sufferin’!”
Pony started to argue—that generous nature within her thought immediatel
y to protect her unafflicted friend. But who was she to so determine Bradwarden’s course, or anyone’s for that matter? If she was willing to take such risks with her own life as to dive spiritually right into the disease as it ravaged Dainsey, or even complete strangers, then how could she presume to warn Bradwarden away?
Besides, she didn’t disagree with him. There were indeed fates worse than death.
She helped Bradwarden to get Dainsey in place on his strong back, and then she climbed up behind her.
“All this time, you have helped, but from a safe distance,” Pony observed. “Why now?”
“Because I trust ye, girl,” the centaur admitted. “And if ye’re thinkin’ that ye can heal the plague at the arm, and if ye’re hearin’ that from Avelyn and Nightbird themselves, then who might I be to be arguin’?”
Pony considered the words and merely shrugged.
“I’ll keep it as smooth as I can,” the centaur promised.
“She is feeling nothing,” Pony replied. “Speed is more urgent than comfort. Fly on!”
And Bradwarden did just that, pounding along trails that he knew all too well. He came down the side of the Barbacan ring, onto the expanse leading to Mount Aida, fields growing thick with new grasses after the devastation of Avelyn’s fight against Bestesbulzibar. Then up, up, went Bradwarden, running along familiar trails.
“I’ll be coming up on the south face,” he explained. “It’s a quicker run to the plateau, but I’ll not be able to get up the last climb to the place with ye.”
“I may need you there,” Pony remarked.
“And I’ll join ye as soon as I can get meself to the other side,” Bradwarden promised.
On they went. They came to places where Pony had to dismount and run along beside, and one cliff where Pony found the strength to use the malachite, levitating both Bradwarden and Dainsey up behind her and saving many hundreds of yards of winding trail.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 55
