“But I am no fanatic for Avelyn Desbris,” DeNauer went on, “though I believe him to have been a godly man, and perhaps worthy of sainthood. I question your decision concerning the magical gemstones not out of disrespect, but out of painful memories. How will Palmaris react this time when brothers arrive at the doors of merchants, demanding the precious stones? Stones purchased from the Abellican Church, no less, and for tidy sums?”
De’Unnero nodded as the man played out his reasoning. “We must first identify every stone,” he explained. “And then we will contact the owners of such stones privately. We will not take the stones, as Father Abbot Markwart once desired, but rather, we will procure them with generous payment. King Aydrian understands the potential for anger in this action, and so he has provided us with the wealth we require to buy back the sacred stones that the Church should never have sold in the first place.
“We enter a new chapter in the history of our faith, brothers,” De’Unnero went on, his voice excited and almost breathless. “No more will the Abellican Church operate outside the secular society of Honce-the-Bear. We now have a joining, of Church and State. King Aydrian is our ally.” He turned a sudden sharp look over at DeNauer, anticipating a retort. “And not as Jilseponie was supposedly our ally when she served as queen,” he said before the man could offer an argument. “For King Aydrian understands the truth of our faith. His teacher was not Avelyn Desbris—yes, a godly man in many respects, but an errant one in many others! No, King Aydrian understands the truth of Brother Avelyn, and of Father Abbot Markwart. He knows where each was correct, and where each ultimately failed. We have the wealth, brothers. We have the strength of the throne behind us. Let us go now and reshape the Abellican Church in our wisdom.”
That brought another cheer from the enthusiastic gathering, one that elicited a grin from Marcalo De’Unnero. He hated giving Brother Avelyn any credit, of course, but he understood the need to temper his orders with generosity. These younger brothers only knew Avelyn from the words of his admirers, men like Braumin Herde, and from those who had survived the rosy plague, they believed, because of Avelyn’s “miracle.” De’Unnero knew better than to openly compete with those beliefs. No, he would build upon them instead, nudging the brothers along the course he desired.
That same day, the brothers of St. Precious, armed with gemstones that could be used to detect magic and with lists compiled during the reigns of Bishop Francis and Bishop De’Unnero of merchants known to possess other enchanted stones, began their march across Palmaris. Watching them go out, Marcalo De’Unnero considered again the good fortune that had brought him to Aydrian. If this day’s meeting had happened a few years ago, Master DeNauer would now be dead, torn apart by the weretiger. And all would have been for naught, with the brothers of St. Precious turning away from De’Unnero in horror.
But now …
Now there was hope. Aydrian had taught De’Unnero the control he needed to complete his rise within the Church.
From his window in St. Precious, the fierce master looked out across the great and lazy river to the east, imagining again the solid walls of St.-Mere-Abelle, the oldest and grandest abbey in all the world. He would rule from within those walls, he knew.
Or, with Aydrian’s help, he would tear them down.
The watchman’s cry of “Dragon!” had Brynn looking out to the south that late afternoon, several days after returning from her visit to Avrou Eesa. Soon after her arrival back in Dharyan-Dharielle, the warrior leader had sent Agradeleous out with her commanders to rouse the To-gai-ru warriors from their villages. She was afraid of the current events in Behren; the uneasy feeling that had engulfed her in Avrou Eesa had not diminished. Honce-the-Bear was on the march here, obviously, and her friend Aydrian seemed to be quite an imperialistic leader.
Brynn knew that part of her uneasiness was in fact coming from her recollections of Aydrian from their time together with the Touel’alfar. She had liked the young ranger, her only human companion for several years, but she had seen a distinct danger within Aydrian even then. Never, by all accounts, had any ranger given Lady Dasslerond such trouble! And it came from an inner fire, Brynn knew, that had exceeded even her own pressing need to see To-gai free of Behrenese rule. There was something about Aydrian—something too ambitious and eager.
Out of caution, and because the folk of the steppes were entering their slow hunting season anyway, Brynn had mustered the warriors all along the plateau divide and brought many into Dharyan-Dharielle as well, tripling the guard and launching scouting expeditions east along the mountains, south along the plateau divide, and into the desert areas in between. And of course she had this other huge advantage: the dragon Agradeleous. With his keen eyes and great speed, Brynn could watch the movements of any army across the desert sands.
So far, at least, De Hamman had not advanced beyond Avrou Eesa in any significant manner.
As the great dragon soared in closer, Brynn recognized that it bore a rider this day, and her heart leaped at the thought. There weren’t many Agradeleous would allow such a perch, and given the dragon’s direction, coming from the southeast, Brynn had a good idea of who it might be.
The dragon glided in to his customary perch in Dharyan-Dharielle, the flat roof of the central guard tower, and Brynn was thrilled indeed to see her suspicions confirmed, to see that it was Pagonel returned to her atop the dragon. She moved quickly to join the mystic, and met him coming out of that guard tower a few moments later.
“My heart is glad of your return,” she said, and she wrapped Pagonel in a great and warm hug. The mystic had remained in Avrou Eesa after Brynn’s abrupt departure, wishing to study further this curious comradeship that had apparently developed between the Chezru and Abellican religions. Though she had wanted her chief advisor standing beside her as she prepared To-gai for a potential advance from the east, Brynn had readily agreed with Pagonel’s assessment that the situation needed further investigation.
“I had feared for you,” Brynn admitted. “The Jhesta Tu have never been welcomed by either the Chezru or the Abellicans.”
“But was I not the man who helped reveal the deception of Chezru Chieftain Douan?” Pagonel replied.
“Which made me fear that De Hamman and the others might bear some undercurrent of hatred for you. You unsettled their world, after all.”
“I was treated with respect, if distantly,” the mystic replied. “Though I suspect their politeness was born more out of my association with you than because of any of my actions in Jacintha against Chezru Douan.”
“Distantly?” Brynn echoed. “You were given little access?”
“Little more than anyone else in the conquered city. Yatol De Hamman’s official proclamations told me much, however. He cited the deception of Yakim Douan as the primary reason for the destructive and unnecessary rift between the two churches, Abellican and Chezru. It is obvious that the current leadership of Chezru has embraced the Abellicans as friends and allies on every level.”
Brynn winced at that news, and shook her head.
“Yatol De Hamman even went so far as to claim that the two churches actually follow the same god, though with a different name, and the same hopes of eternal life in their common kingdom of heaven above.”
“They have joined at the heart, and not just as allies,” Brynn reasoned.
“Though in truth, I suspect that all churches could be similarly described,” Pagonel went on.
Brynn smirked at the remark and looked at him slyly. “Even the Jhesta Tu?”
“Perhaps,” the mystic answered. “But our knowledge of that possibility, and admission of that possibility, makes us more tolerant of those who do not follow our specific guidelines.”
“Will the spread of St. Abelle prove an enlightenment for the folk of Behren?” Brynn asked. “Or a shadow that will cover the desert kingdom?”
“That is the question,” the mystic replied.
“I fear them. I fear Aydrian.”
“
There is little doubt that the move southward by the soldiers and priests of Honce-the-Bear was swift and deliberate,” Pagonel agreed. “They came here with a purpose beyond bailing out the beleaguered remnants of the Chezru leadership in Jacintha.”
“A purpose that has spread across the sands to our very feet.”
“And what does that mean?”
The simple question had Brynn off balance. “I know not,” she admitted. “All preparations have been made against an attack, should one come, but I am not about to initiate a war on behalf of Behren against this insurgence of the northmen, especially when it seems that many in Behren accept and invite the Abellicans.”
“There is another troubling consideration,” Pagonel remarked. “Should a fight come back to To-gai, our enemies this time will be more potently armed—especially against our major asset.”
“The dragon fears gemstone magic,” Brynn agreed, and she looked up the tower as she spoke, to see Agradeleous’ great reptilian tail swaying over the edge above her.
She looked back at Pagonel to see him nodding his agreement, his expression seeming to show that he not only agreed that the dragon did fear the gemstone magic, but that he also agreed that the dragon should fear the gemstone magic.
Roger grimaced as the guard loosened the ropes about his wrists, but he never took his eye off the man who had summoned him.
He was in one of the private rooms of St. Precious Abbey. The place was somewhat dim, having only one small window, and that partially obscured by one of the many tapestries hanging from the walls. Roger knew this drawing room well, for he had spent many hours in it with Abbot Braumin and Master Viscenti during their tenure here in Palmaris. It had been one of his favorite rooms, tastefully decorated with interesting tapestries and a warm and inviting hearth fronted by a thick wool rug and three of the most comfortable chairs Roger had ever known.
Now, though, the place seemed cold and uninviting, though whether that was because of the present company or the lack of a fire in the hearth to counter the chill winter wind, Roger could not say.
“Begone,” De’Unnero ordered the guards, and they obeyed immediately, leaving Roger standing by the door and rubbing his sore wrists.
Of course, the battered man’s wrists were hardly the worst of his wounds. That first hit De’Unnero had inflicted on the day of Abbot Braumin’s escape had raked a line of gashes across Roger’s chest and belly, and without treatment, without even clean water to wash the mud from his wounds, the gashes had not properly healed.
“I am very tired of this, Master Lockless,” De’Unnero said, breaking the silence.
Roger lowered his eyes and happened to glance to the side, to the room’s small desk and the wine-screw that Abbot Braumin kept there for his meetings with Roger and Viscenti. Roger looked back at De’Unnero, to see him moving toward the window, staring out and paying Roger no apparent heed whatsoever.
A slight step had the battered prisoner closer to the wine-screw.
“How long shall we continue our fight?” De’Unnero asked, looking over at Roger, who stiffened immediately. “How many decades?”
“I had thought our battle ended years ago,” Roger answered. “When Markwart was thrown down.”
De’Unnero gave a little laugh and looked back out the window.
“And then again when you led the Brothers Repentant to this city, disgracing yourself and damning yourself beyond salvation,” Roger pressed on, and he moved to the side another step and slipped the wine-screw into his cupped hand. “You remember, don’t you? When Jilseponie chased you out of Palmaris in disgrace?”
De’Unnero slowly turned to face him, all hint of mirth gone from his stern face.
“We thought you dead, De’Unnero,” Roger said defiantly. “We hoped you were dead. All the misery you’ve brought …”
“Misery?” De’Unnero asked. “You and your pitiful friends have presided over the fall of the greatest institution in the history of mankind. And to this day, you do not even understand the damage that you have done, do you? You do not even understand that you have stolen from the people of Honce-the-Bear all sense of spirituality and ultimate justice.”
“You babble!”
“I speak the truth!” De’Unnero insisted. “You and your wretched friends, beginning with that fool Avelyn Desbris, have brought the descent of the Abellican Church from on high. Once we were seen by them”—he waved his hand out toward the window and the streets of Palmaris beyond—“as emissaries of God. The Father Abbot was more powerful than the king himself in holding the souls of the people. You took all that, for selfish reasons. First Avelyn, to cover his own crime of murder, then his lackeys. Jojonah. Elbryan. Jilseponie. And to a lesser extent, those fools who fell under the spell of those lackeys.”
“I have little desire to argue the facts of the DemonWar with you, De’Unnero. Nor the ending of the rosy plague—I’m sure that you remember that small event, yes? If the faith of the people of Honce-the-Bear was shaken by the fall of Markwart—and well it should have been—then it was restored and heightened tenfold by those who made the pilgrimage to Mount Aida, where this man you name as a fool saved their mortal bodies!”
He thought his words would enrage De’Unnero, and expected the man to spring at him. In his shielded hand, he held the wine-screw ready, hoping for the chance to plunge it into Marcalo De’Unnero’s chest.
“As you will, incorrigible fool,” De’Unnero replied with a snort. “They are all dead now, you know? Avelyn. Jojonah—oh yes, I had the distinct pleasure of heaping the logs onto the pyre that burned that heretic. And Elbryan, by my own hand.” He turned a wicked glare over Roger. “And Braumin Herde, you know, and by my own hand.”
“You lie.” Roger’s voice lacked both strength and conviction.
“The river has taken him out into the gulf by now, of course,” De’Unnero went on, seeming quite pleased with himself. “The fish have no doubt nibbled the flesh from his bones.”
“You lie!” The denial came forth more strongly this time and Roger felt the rage welling up inside of him. He fought it back, understanding that De’Unnero was goading him here, much as he had just tried to goad the volatile monk. He saw that so clearly stamped upon the monk’s face now, in the form of a superior smile.
“They are all dead,” De’Unnero went on. “Remember Brother Castinagis? The poor lad died in a fire, yes? Up in Caer Tinella. I was up there at the time, taking young Aydrian to claim the sword and bow that are rightfully his. Oh yes, I saw that fire.”
Roger felt his breath rush away and his knees nearly buckled beneath him. He stubbornly held his balance, though, not wanting to give De’Unnero the satisfaction.
“Only three remain,” De’Unnero mused aloud. “And you are here, alive at my whim. The annoying little Viscenti has fled to St.-Mere-Abelle, of course, and so he will meet his deserved end soon enough. In truth, I care as little for him as I do for you. I could let him walk away without concern, as I could let you walk out of here a free man.”
Roger spat.
“Because, of the three who remain, I care only for one, Roger Lockless. And you know where she is.”
“You’re a fool.”
“You left with her and with your wife, fleeing like bilge rats before King Aydrian swept into Palmaris,” De’Unnero remarked. “Do you think that all within the city are so loyal to you and to the witch Jilseponie that they would not tell me such things? Do you think that all of the brothers here at St. Precious, even, are so blinded by the lies of Braumin Herde that they would approve of the ridiculous changes that have swept through the Abellican Church?”
“Go ask your demon dactyl master for the information you so desperately desire!” Roger shouted at the man, and De’Unnero took a long stride toward him.
“Where is she?” the monk asked with deadly calm.
“I know not!”
“You do!” De’Unnero shouted, and he came forward—and Roger thrust out his hand, stabbing the wine-scre
w for Marcalo De’Unnero’s heart.
The anticipation of feeling that instrument slide into the chest of his most-hated enemy turned suddenly into an explosion of fiery pain, as De’Unnero, with reflexes honed as finely as any man’s alive, caught that stabbing arm at the wrist and jerked it out and over, turning Roger’s elbow in and forcing the man to drop to one knee.
“Where is she?” De’Unnero demanded again, and he snapped his powerful arm out and down some more.
Roger heard the pop of his elbow a moment before the wave of agony crashed over him. He would have fallen to the floor, but De’Unnero grabbed him by the hair and jerked him upright. The poor man tried to grab at his broken elbow, but De’Unnero hit him a backhand across the face that sent him flying backward, crashing over the side of the small desk and crumpling against the base of the wall.
As his vision refocused, he saw De’Unnero towering over him. He tried to kick out, but the monk stamped upon his ankle and pinned it brutally to the floor.
“You went north with your wife,” De’Unnero remarked. “Beyond Caer Tinella, so obviously to Dundalis. When I find your precious wife, perhaps I can persuade her to tell me of Jilseponie’s whereabouts.”
The mention of Dainsey brought a surge of power to Roger and he kicked out with his free foot, aiming for the knee of the leg pinning him.
But De’Unnero jumped straight up, then came down lightly on one leg behind the blow, and before Roger could retract his leg for another strike, the monk’s other foot smashed into his face.
All the room was spinning.
“Make it easy on yourself and your wife, Roger Lockless,” he heard De’Unnero saying, though it seemed as if the monk’s voice was coming from far, far away. Roger felt himself being lifted into the air and set back on his feet. He forced his eyes to open and to focus.
Just in time to see De’Unnero’s fist sweeping in at his jaw.
He felt the blow, and felt the wall crunch against the back of his head.
De’Unnero kept screaming at him, and kept hitting him.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 211
