Abbot Braumin stared at the man for a long while, studying his every movement, trying hard to decipher all of this surprising information. “You believe that you tempt me, but in truth, you do not understand that which is in my heart,” he said. “I care not for my personal gain above the well-being of my dearest friend, and I’ll not submit her to any plotting that goes against that which is good for her.”
“How can you believe that such an ascension will not prove beneficial to Jilseponie?” Fio Bou-raiy asked incredulously. “She has decided upon a life of service now, by her own words, and we might be able to bring her into a position to strengthen that potential immeasurably. You do not believe that she will see the benefit?”
“The benefit to Jilseponie or to the Abellican Church?” asked Braumin.
“To both,” Bou-raiy answered, waving his arm in exasperation. “Though if the gain was only to the Church, then she should still be pleased to go along. As should you, and without this questioning! Your duty to the Abellican Church is clear, Abbot Braumin. Convince the woman to go along with this, to accept both titles unified into the position of bishop, until such time as she is betrothed to King Danube, should that come to be. That union will then bind Church and State more completely than they have ever been and will allow the good work of the Abellican Church to strengthen throughout the land.”
“You will make of her a figurehead, at least on the side of the Church, with no real power within our patriarchal structure,” Braumin accused. “You use her popularity for our gain and not her own. King Danube will indeed likely go along with your designs, for I, too, doubt that he will deny Jilseponie this opportunity; and playing on that goodwill might buy us a permanent position of bishop in Palmaris. Indeed, even without that continuance, the Church’s gain will be great, for the mere association with Jilseponie will elevate the love of the common man for the Church greatly. And, no, Master Bou-raiy, I do not think that an evil thing. Yet I do fear so using my friends for gains to others. For Jilseponie, despite what you say, there will be little realized advantage. The Church side of the position of bishop, that as abbess of St. Precious, will afford her little real power, and none at all as soon as she relinquishes the position to go to the court at Ursal. No, for Jilseponie, bishop will prove an empty title, one bereft of any real power as soon as she leaves Palmaris.”
Fio Bou-raiy was laughing loudly before Braumin even finished. “She will leave to become queen!” he argued, as if that alone should silence the abbot. “And you misweigh the situation. Popularity is power, my friend, and that is the simplest truth of existence, the one that those who are not popular try very hard, and very futilely, to disparage. Within Palmaris and without, Jilseponie will be able to exert great power and influence with her mere words, with hardly an effort. She will possibly one day be queen, and if we are wise and cunning, she will continue to hold a voice in the Church even then. I do not wish to use her popularity and her favor with King Danube and then discard her—far from it; for the loss then will be ours alone! No, my friend, I have come to believe that Jilseponie Wyndon has earned a voice in the Church, as bishop if we can effect that, and then beyond. Perhaps her role as queen will involve a position of power within St. Honce in Ursal. A sovereign sister appointment, perhaps even an appointment there as abbess, for surely there is no bounty of qualified brethren in that troubled southern abbey!”
Master Bou-raiy could have then pushed Abbot Braumin over with a feather, so stunned was he. His mind whirled and stumbled repeatedly over Bou-raiy’s plans, for they made little sense to him. Even after the revelations of the covenant of Avelyn, even after the Church began to see Avelyn Desbris and his followers as true Abellicans, Fio Bou-raiy had done little to effect any real change within the entrenched power structure. Whenever Jilseponie’s name had come up as a potential candidate to be lured into the Church—with the exception of bringing her in to head St. Gwendolyn Abbey, which was traditionally led by a woman—Bou-raiy had reacted with a scowl. And now here he was, pressing to bind her tightly to the Church’s side.
“It will be unprecedented,” Bou-raiy went on, “to have the reigning Queen of Honce-the-Bear hold a voice in the next College of Abbots, which, I assure you, will soon enough be convened, given Father Abbot Agronguerre’s advanced age and ill health.”
A voice in the College? Abbot Braumin silently asked himself. Or a vote in the College? Was that the true prize Fio Bou-raiy had traveled to Palmaris to secure? Did he think to mend old wounds in an effort to gather allies for himself in the next election for father abbot? But if that was the case, then why would he wish a voice for Jilseponie?
“Would not Master Fio Bou-raiy, who desires an election to father abbot, be better served without Jilseponie at the College?” Braumin asked bluntly. “It is well known that she favors others in the Church.”
Fio Bou-raiy, always so in control, showed very little emotion at the blunt question, but revealed enough, a flash in his gray eyes, that Abbot Braumin knew that his straightforwardness had surprised the ever-plotting man somewhat.
“She favors others who are not yet ready to ascend to the position,” the master from St.-Mere-Abelle answered with equal bluntness.
“You speak as if Father Abbot Agronguerre is already in his grave,” said Braumin distastefully.
“Father Abbot Agronguerre is dead in every way but the physical,” said Bou-raiy. Though his words were callous, Abbot Braumin found it hard to fault him, for there was—quite unexpectedly—a hint of sympathy and compassion in his often cold voice. Perhaps the years with Agronguerre, a gentle man by all accounts, had rubbed off well on Fio Bou-raiy.
“He remembers little, sometimes not even his own name,” Bou-raiy went on quietly. “He has been an exemplary father abbot—better by far than I would ever have believed possible, for I was no supporter of his election those years ago—but his time with us is not long, I am sure. A few months, a year or two, and no more. I say that not from eagerness to ascend, though I do believe myself the best qualified to succeed Father Abbot Agronguerre, but merely because it is the truth, one well known among the brethren of St.-Mere-Abelle, who witness the man’s decline every day.”
Abbot Braumin sat back in his chair and began tapping the ends of his fingers together, studying Fio Bou-raiy, trying to sort through it all. Was he trying to persuade Braumin, hoping to win the voting bloc that would likely include Viscenti, Castinagis, Talumus, and Master Dellman of St. Belfour, and might perhaps even take in Abbot Haney of that northern abbey? Though he had been in St. Belfour for several years, Dellman remained loyal to Braumin Herde and the friends he had left behind at St. Precious. Haney, a young abbot who had succeeded Agronguerre in St. Belfour, might well look to the more worldly Dellman as a guide for his vote.
But where did Fio Bou-raiy think Jilseponie might fit in? Was he merely hoping to win over Braumin by seemingly favoring her? Or did he truly wish to have her voice heard at the College?
Then it hit Braumin completely, as he considered Fio Bou-raiy’s only real competition for the highest office. For Bou-raiy was correct, of course, in saying that Braumin Herde was too young and inexperienced to ascend. And given the swift decline of Marcalo De’Unnero; the tumult within St. Honce, with a new abbot yet again; the extreme weakness within St. Gwendolyn after the depredations of the plague in that particular abbey; and the fact that both St. Precious and St. Belfour were now headed by abbots—Braumin and Haney—much too young to try for the position of father abbot, only one of the older masters and abbots stood out for his accomplishments and leadership: Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce in Entel. Olin had been a serious rival of Agronguerre’s for the title at the College of Abbots a decade before, and in recent years the southern abbot’s position had only strengthened and solidified. But Olin had one weakness, one dark mark to hinder his ascension, one that the supporters of Abbot Agronguerre had used to great effect against him in the last election: he was tied to the southern kingdom of Behren more intimately than
any Abellican abbot had been in centuries. Honce-the-Bear and Behren weren’t at war, certainly, but neither were they the best of neighbors. Furthermore, the Abellican Church and the yatol priests of the southern kingdom had never been on friendly terms. Olin presided over his abbey in Entel, the southernmost Honce-the-Bear city, a thriving port only a short boat ride around the Belt-and-Buckle mountain range from Jacintha, the capital city of Behren, the seat of the Chezru chieftain who led the yatols. Olin’s ties to the strange customs of Entel had always been uncomfortable for the Abellican Order, but his closeness to Behren had often been the source of absolute distress for King Danube Brock Ursal.
Jilseponie would be queen, Master Bou-raiy was obviously thinking, as were most observers, and as such, she would be sensitive to King Danube’s desires and political needs. Having Olin as father abbot of the Abellican Church would not sit comfortably with King Danube, no doubt; and so Jilseponie would be pushed into the voting bloc of Master Bou-raiy.
What a cunning plan! Braumin had to admit, and he found that he wasn’t upset with Bou-raiy at all for such plotting; in fact, he found that he rather admired the man’s tenacity and political adeptness. Being father abbot was a matter of juggling the needs of the Church and the demands of the King, after all. It was a political position as much as anything else—despite Agronguerre’s refusal to work hard in any political role. Traditionally, most father abbots had kept close consult with the reigning King.
Having Jilseponie become bishop then—and thus pleasing Braumin and several others—would prove very beneficial to Fio Bou-raiy at the College of Abbots, especially if she did indeed become Queen of Honce-the-Bear. Though Jilseponie was no fan of Fio Bou-raiy, neither was she an enemy, and any wife of Danube would have to favor him over Abbot Olin and his many Behrenese friends.
In truth, Abbot Braumin didn’t much like the implications of Fio Bou-raiy’s scheme, and using Jilseponie in any way certainly left a bitter taste in his mouth. But he had to admit, to himself at least, that in many ways Bou-raiy’s plan seemed for the good of the Church and the State. At that point, despite any personal misgivings, Braumin could only look with favor at the appointment of Jilseponie to the position of bishop of Palmaris and his own transfer to preside over the opening and ascension of the Chapel of Avelyn.
“You will convince her?” a smiling and confident Bou-raiy asked, seeming as if he had watched Braumin wage his inner struggle and come out on Bou-raiy’s side.
Abbot Braumin paused for a long while, but did eventually nod his head.
Chapter 6
Bertram’s End
SUMMER HAD PASSED ITS MIDPOINT, WITH THE EIGHTH MONTH NEARING ITS END. The day was brutally hot, the air thick with moisture steaming from the many lakes nearby, Marcalo De’Unnero knew. The sun had been blazing hot every day; then, every day of the last week, great thunderstorms erupted in the late afternoon, shaking the ground and drenching the earth.
So it had been the previous day: a wild and windy storm. And thus, on this hot morning, De’Unnero—Bertram Dale—had to add considerable roof repairs to his chores. He had awakened long before dawn and had gone right out to the woodpile to do his chopping, trying to be done with that heavy work before the hot sun climbed high into the sky. Now, dressed only in his trousers, his lean, tanned, and muscled torso sweating in the midday sun, he perched atop a roof, tearing away the ruined thatch and working on the supports. He had to pause often to wipe the sweat from his brow, but still much slipped past the bandana he had tied there, stinging his eyes. Even in his superb physical condition, De’Unnero had to stop to catch his breath in the stifling air many times, often dousing himself with water. On one such break, he glanced around, and from his high perch, caught sight of a group of men—a pair walking and three riding—moving along the road toward Micklin’s Village.
Though the approaching band wasn’t close enough for him to discern features clearly, it wasn’t a group of huntsmen, De’Unnero knew at once, for none of his fellow villagers had gone out on horseback. Wary, De’Unnero rolled over the edge of the roof, holding the wall top, and dropped lightly to his feet. Not many strangers came this way, and those who did were more often running from something than heading toward anything.
De’Unnero found a sleeveless shirt and pulled it on, then removed his bandana and wiped his face. He moved steadily toward the end of town nearest the approaching strangers. His eyes darted side to side as he went, studying the area closely, picking potential escape routes or advantageous defensive positions, and looking for any other strangers who might have slipped into Micklin’s Village in advance of the approaching band.
He heard singing a moment later—from one of the riders, he saw, as they continued their approach. The bard sat comfortably in the saddle of the middle horse, strumming a three-stringed instrument and singing of faraway battles against dragons. A fairly good minstrel, De’Unnero had to admit; and that, plus the fact that this group was riding in so openly, gave him hope that these were not worthless vagabonds bringing with them nothing but trouble.
“ ‘The dragon’s eyes, they gleamed like gold,’ ” the bard sang. “ ‘Its fiery breath licked at the stone. But Traykle’s sword was swifter still. Beneath the wing he found his kill.’ ”
“The Ballad of Traykle Chaser,” De’Unnero realized, a well-known old song about a legendary dragon hunter who had braved the winter of northern Alpinador to go and wreak vengeance upon a great dragon that had laid waste Traykle’s Vanguard village. De’Unnero had seen several different versions of the song in the library at St.-Mere-Abelle and had heard it sung many times by villagers who had come to the abbey for market. De’Unnero was still wary, though, for he thought it too simple a melody for a traveling bard to be offering.
Perhaps the rider wanted any villagers who might be about to believe that he was only a traveling bard.
Still out of sight, De’Unnero studied the group carefully as they neared, trying to gain a measure of this band’s formidability by the way they rode and the way they walked. A practiced warrior had a gentle and fluid stride, he knew, while a simple thug often walked as if his feet were attacking the ground with every step. So it was with both of those walking: a bearlike man whose bald head shone brightly in the sun and a smaller man with a grizzled face and reddish hair, showing his Vanguard ancestry. Both carried large weapons across their shoulders, an axe for the heavy man, a gigantic spear for the other. One of the riders appeared no more refined, a gap-toothed tall man with long black hair; though his sword, belted at his hip, appeared to De’Unnero a much finer and more dangerous weapon. The remaining two, including the bard, seemed more sophisticated still in dress and hygiene, both having short hair and clean-shaven faces. One was of medium build, around De’Unnero’s size, and he carried a short bow, strung and slung over one shoulder, with a quiver of arrows tied to his saddle, in easy reach. The other, the singer, was a tiny man with a falsetto voice and shining, light brown eyes that seemed all the more brilliant when he flashed his beaming, bright smile. He carried no weapon at all as far as De’Unnero could see; to the battle-hardened former monk, that made him the most dangerous of the group.
They were up to the nearest buildings by then, and still making no effort to conceal themselves, so out went De’Unnero, stepping in the path before them.
“Greetings,” he said. “Not often does Micklin’s Village see visitors, so forgive our lack of any formal greeting.” As he finished, he bowed low. “Bertram Dale at your service.”
“Fair greetings on a fair day!” the singer said exuberantly in an unmistakably feminine voice. Only then, looking more closely, did De’Unnero realize that the singer was a woman, with short-cropped brown hair. “We are wandering adventurers, out to see the world,” she went on with enthusiasm, “in search of tales to spin into great ballads.”
Then why do you waste your time with the songs of children? De’Unnero thought. He wasn’t looking at the woman, though he found her appearance somewhat interesting
, because he was more concerned with the two walking thugs, who had slipped off to the side and were muttering quietly to each other. They were looking for other townsfolk, De’Unnero knew, and that told him without any doubt at all that this was no innocent band.
“We have food and drink to offer travelers,” he said, looking back at the woman bard.
“I could use some fire in me throat,” the tall man on the horse said in a peasant’s accent.
“Not liquor,” De’Unnero explained. “We have water, tortha-berry juice, and a fine mixture squeezed from blueberries and grapes. Nothing more. But if you will get down from your mounts, I will set them out to graze in the corral and then fix a fine meal for all of you.”
The three riders looked at each other. They neither accepted nor refused, but, De’Unnero noted, neither did they begin to dismount. The other two, meanwhile, pushed through the door of a nearby cottage and peered in.
“Pray tell your companions to adhere to standards of privacy and decency,” De’Unnero said quietly to the bard. “We are friendly enough folk, but some of our buildings are common and others, like the one in which they now seem so interested, are private.”
“Just looking,” the tall man answered.
“My fellows of Micklin’s Village will soon return from the day’s hunt,” De’Unnero went on, growing very tired of this polite posturing. If they meant to attack him or threaten him, then he wished they’d get it over with. “I am sure that they will allow you to stay as long as you desire. And they will wish to hear all your songs and tales, trading good entertainment for good food and warm beds.”
The bard, staring at De’Unnero in a curious way, smiled at his offer and, still astride, dipped a graceful bow.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 73
