Now Pony wasn’t sure what they had won and what it had been worth. She recognized the almost circular nature of her long journey; but instead of drawing comfort from that, she felt restless and trapped.
“It is far too cold for you to be up here, I fear,” came a gentle voice behind her, the voice of Brother Braumin Herde, the leader of the band of monks who had followed Master Jojonah away from the Church, believing as they did in Avelyn’s goodness, one of the monks who had come to join Elbryan and Pony in their efforts against Markwart.
She turned to regard the handsome man. He was older than Pony by several years—in his early thirties—with black, woolly hair just starting to gray and a dark complexion made even more so by the fact that no matter how often he shaved his face, it was always shadowed by black hair.
“It is too unimportant for me to care,” she answered quietly. Pony looked back over the city as he walked up to lean on the wall beside her.
“Thinking of Elbryan?” he asked.
Pony smiled briefly, believing the answer to be obvious.
“Many are saddened,” Brother Braumin began—the same hollow words Pony had been hearing from so many for the last three months. She appreciated their efforts—of course she did!—but, in truth, she wished they would all leave her to her thoughts in private.
“The passage of time will heal …” Brother Braumin started to say, but when Pony fixed him with a skeptical glance, he let his words die away.
“Your pain is to be expected,” he tried again a moment later. “You must take solace and faith in God and in the good that came of your actions.”
Now Pony glared sternly at him, and the gentle monk retreated a step.
“Good?” she asked.
Braumin held up his hands as if he did not understand.
“They are fighting again, aren’t they?” Pony asked, looking back over the snowy city. “Or should I say that they are fighting still?”
“They?”
“The leaders of your Church,” Pony clarified, “and King Danube and his advisers. Fighting again, fighting always. It changes not at all.”
“If the Church is in turmoil, that is understandable, you must admit,” Braumin returned firmly. “We have lost our Father Abbot.”
“You lost him long before I killed him,” Pony interjected.
“True enough,” the monk admitted. “But still it came as a shock to so many who supported Dalebert Markwart to learn the truth: to learn that Bestesbulzibar—curse his name, the ultimate darkness—had so infiltrated our ranks as to pervert the Father Abbot himself.”
“And now he is gone and you are better off,” Pony remarked.
Brother Braumin didn’t immediately respond, and Pony understood that she wasn’t being fair to him. He was a friend, after all, who had done nothing but try to help her and Elbryan, and her sarcasm was certainly wounding him. She looked at him directly and started to say something but bit it back immediately. So be it, she decided, for she could not find generosity in her heart. Not yet.
“We are better off by far,” Braumin decided, turning the sarcasm back. “And better off we would be by far if Jilseponie would reconsider the offer.”
Pony was shaking her head before he completed the all-too-predictable request. Reconsider the offer. Always that. They wanted her to become the mother abbess of the Abellican Church, though nothing of the sort had ever been heard of in the long history of the patriarchal Order. Brother Francis, Markwart’s staunchest follower, had suggested it, even while holding the dying Markwart in his arms, the demon burned from the Father Abbot’s body by the faith and strength of Pony and Elbryan. Francis had seen the truth during that terrible battle, and the truth of his terrible master. Pony had killed the demon that Markwart had become, and now several very influential monks were hinting that they wanted Pony to replace him.
Some of them were, at least. Pony didn’t delude herself into thinking that such a break with tradition as appointing a woman to head the Church—and a woman who had just killed the previous leader!—would be without its vehement opponents. The battles would be endless, and, to Pony’s way of thinking, perfectly pointless.
If that wasn’t complicated enough, another offer had come to her, one from King Danube himself, offering to name her Baroness of Palmaris, though she obviously had no qualifications for the position either, other than her newfound heroic reputation. Pony wasn’t blind to the reality of it: in the aftermath of the war both Church and Crown were jockeying for power. Whichever side could claim Jilseponie, companion of Elbryan the Nightbird, as friend, could claim to have promoted her to a position of power, would gain much in the battle for the hearts and loyalty of the common folk of Palmaris and the surrounding region.
Pony began to laugh quietly as she looked away from Brother Braumin, out over the snow-blanketed city. She loved the snow, especially when it fell deep from blustery skies, draping walls of white over the sides of buildings. Far from a hardship such weather seemed to Pony. Rather, she considered it a reprieve, an excuse to sit quietly by a blazing fire, accountable to no one and without responsibility. Also, because of the unexpectedly early storm, King Danube had been forced to delay his return to Ursal. If the weather did not cooperate, the king might have to wait out the winter in Palmaris, which took some of the pressure off Pony to either accept or reject his offer of the barony.
Though the weather had cooperated, Pony felt little reprieve. Once she had called this city home. But now, with so much pain associated with the place—the ruins of Fellowship Way, the loss of her adoptive family and her beloved Elbryan—no longer could she see any goodness here or recall any warm memories.
“If he retains the barony, Duke Kalas will battle St. Precious in every policy,” Brother Braumin remarked, drawing Pony from her thoughts. But only temporarily, for the mere mention of the forceful Duke, the temporary Baron of Palmaris, inevitably led her to consider the man’s residence, the very house in which her marriage to Connor Bildeborough had swiftly descended into chaos, the house wherein Markwart had taken Elbryan from her forever.
“How will we win those battles without heroic Jilseponie leading us?” Braumin dared ask. He draped his arm about Pony’s shoulders, and that brought, at last, a genuine smile to the woman’s beautiful face. “Or perhaps Jilseponie could take the King’s offer instead.…”
“Am I to be a figurehead, then?” she asked. “For you or for the Crown? A symbol that will allow Braumin and his friends to attain that which they desire?”
“Never that!” the monk replied, feigning horror; for it was obvious that he understood Pony was teasing him.
“I told Bradwarden and Roger Lockless that I would join them up in Dundalis,” Pony remarked; and, indeed, as she said it, she was thinking that traveling back to her first home might not be such a bad thing. Elbryan was buried up there, where it was … cleaner. Yes, that was a good word to describe it, Pony decided. Cleaner. More removed from the dirt of humankind’s endless bickering. Of course, she, too, was trapped here, and likely for the entire winter, for the road north was not an easy one this season.
She glanced over to see a disappointed Brother Braumin. She honestly liked the man and his eager cohorts, idealists all, who believed they would repair the Abellican Church, put it back on a righteous course by following the teachings of Avelyn. That last thought made Pony smile again: laughing inside but holding her mirth there because she did not want to seem to mock this man. Braumin and his friends hadn’t even known Avelyn—not the real Avelyn, not the man known as the mad friar. Braumin had joined the Abellican Order the year before Avelyn, God’s Year 815. Both Master Francis and Brother Marlboro Viscenti, Braumin’s closest friend, had come in with Avelyn’s class in the fall of God’s Year 816. But Avelyn and three others had been separated from the rest of their class as they had begun their all-important preparations for the journey to the Isle of Pimaninicuit. The only recollection Braumin, Viscenti, or Francis even had of Avelyn was on the day when the four chosen monks
had sailed out of All Saints Bay, bound for the island where they would collect the sacred gemstones. Braumin had never seen Avelyn after he had run off from St.-Mere-Abelle, after he had become the mad friar, with his barroom brawling and his too-frequent drinking—and wouldn’t the canonization process of rowdy Avelyn Desbris be colorful indeed!
“Too cold up here,” Brother Braumin said again, tightening his grip on Pony’s shoulders, pulling her closer that she might share his warmth. “Pray come inside and sit by a fire. There is too much sickness spreading in the aftermath of war, and darker would the world be if Jilseponie took ill.”
Pony didn’t resist as he led her toward the tower door. Yes, she did like Brother Braumin and his cohorts, the group of monks who had risked everything to try to find the truth of the world after the turmoil stirred up by the defection of Avelyn Desbris and his theft of so many magical gemstones. It went deeper than liking, she recognized, watching the true concern on his gentle and youthful face, feeling the strong and eager spring in his energetic step. She envied him, because he was full of youth, much more so than she, though he was the older.
But Brother Braumin, Pony realized within her darkened perception, was possessed of something she could no longer claim.
Hope.
Bastion of Darkness Page 30
