Mortalis

One returning brother after another," Master Bou-raiy said with obvious sarcasm as Marcalo De'Unnero walked into his office in St.-Mere-Abelle. "First Brother-oh, do pardon me, it is Master Francis now-comes in unexpectedly, and now our pleasure is doubled."

De'Unnero wore a smirk as he studied the man. Bou-raiy had never been a friend of his, had resented him; for, though younger, De'Unnero had been in greater favor of Father Abbot Markwart, and, through deed after deed, had elevated himself above Bou-raiy. Their rivalry had been evident to De'Unnero soon after the powrie fleet had come to St.-Mere-Abelle. De'Unnero had distinguished himself in that fight, while Bou-raiy had spent the bulk of it at the western wall, waiting for a ground invasion that had never come.

De'Unnero wasn't surprised to find that Bou-raiy had used the power vacuum at St.-Mere-Abelle to further his own cause; who else was there, after all, to take up the lead at the great abbey? So now Bou-raiy, a man long buried under Markwart's disdain, had stepped forward, with that lackey Glendenhook at his heels.

"Two masters-former bishops, former abbots, both-returned to bolster St.-Mere-Abelle in this time of trial," De'Unnero said.

"Bolster?" Bou-raiy echoed skeptically, and he gave a sarcastic laugh. De'Unnero pictured how wide that smile might stretch if he drove his palm through Bou-raiy's front teeth. "Bolster? Master De'Unnero, have you not listened to the whispers that hound your every step? Have you not heard the snickers?"

"I followed Father Abbot Markwart."

"Who is discredited," Bou-raiy reminded him. "Both you and Francis found your zenith under Markwart's rule, that is true. But now he is gone, and will soon enough be forgotten." He paused and shook his head. "Offer

me not that scowl, Marcalo De'Unnero. There was once a day when you outranked me here at St.-Mere-Abelle, but only because of Father Abbot Markwart. You will find few allies among the remaining masters, I assure you, even with Master Francis, if what I have heard about his admission of error is true. No, you have returned to find a new Church in the place of the old-the old that so welcomed a man of your . . . talents."

"I'll not defend my actions, nor recount my deeds, for the likes of Fio Bou-raiy," De'Unnero retorted.

"Deeds inflated in your recounting, no doubt."

That statement stopped De'Unnero cold, and he stared hard at the man, felt the primal urges of the tiger welling inside him. How he wanted to give in to that darker side, to become the great cat and leap across the desk, tearing this wretch apart! How he wanted to taste Fio Bou-raiy's blood!

The volatile master fought hard to keep his breathing steady, to restrain those brutal urges. What would be left for him if he gave in to them now? He would have to flee St.-Mere-Abelle and his cherished Order for all time, would have to run and exist on the borderlands of civilization, as he had done over the last months. No, he didn't want that again, not at all, and so he fought with all his willpower, closing off his mind to Bou-raiy's continuing stream of sarcastic comments. The man was a gnat, De'Unnero reminded himself constantly, an insignificant pest feeling the seeds of power for the first time in his miserable life.

"You are nearly ten years my junior," Bou-raiy was saying. "Ten years! A full decade, I have studied the ancient texts and the ways of man and God longer than you. So know your place now, and know that your place is beneath me."

"And how many years more than Master Bou-raiy have Masters Timminey and Baldmir so studied the ways of man and God?" De'Unnero asked with sincere calm, for he was back in control again, suppressing the predator urge. "By your own logic, you place yourself below them, and below Machuso and several others as well, and, yet, it is Bou-raiy, and none of the others, who now sits in the office of the Father Abbot."

Bou-raiy leaned back in his chair, his smile widening on his strongfeatured face. "We both understand the difference between men like Machuso and Baldmir and men like us," he said. "Some were born to lead, and others to serve. Some were born for greatness, and others .. . well, you understand my meaning."

"Your arrogance, you mean," De'Unnero replied. "You separate brothers along whatever lines suit your needs. You claim ascendance above me because of experience, yet rebuff the notion in those who would so claim ascendance over you."

"They would not even want the responsibility of the position," Bou-raiy replied, coming forward suddenly, and again, De'Unnero had to hold fast against his surprise and the sudden killer urge it produced.

"And do you intend to have your stooge, Glendenhook, nominate you for father abbot formally at the College of Abbots?" De'Unnero asked bluntly. "They will destroy you if you so try, you know-Braumin Herde and Francis, and the newest master, Viscenti," he said with a derisive chortle. "Je'howith and Olin, and Olin's lackey, Abbess Delenia. They will all stand against you." He paused for dramatic effect, though he realized there would be little surprise in his proclamation. "As will I."

Bou-raiy sat back in his chair again, obviously deep in thought for a long, long while. De'Unnero thought he understood where the man's line of reasoning might be leading, and his suspicions were confirmed when Bou-raiy announced, rather abruptly, "They will back Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour,aswilll."

Yes, it made perfect sense to De'Unnero. Bou-raiy knew that he'd never defeat Agronguerre, and so he would throw all his influence behind the gentle Vanguardsman, the old Vanguardsman, in the hopes that Agronguerre would do for him what Markwart had done for De'Unnero and Francis. The difference, though, was that Bou-raiy was much older than either Francis or De'Unnero had been when Markwart had taken them firmly under his black wing. Thus, when old Agronguerre died-likely within a few years-Bou-raiy would be right there, the heir apparent, and with all the experience and credentials to step in virtually uncontested.

"Abbot Agronguerre is a kind man of generous nature," Bou-raiy said unconvincingly, for though the words were accurate, De'Unnero understood that those qualities of which Bou-raiy now spoke so highly were not admirable in his eyes. "Perhaps our Church is in need of exactly that at this troubled time: a man of years and wisdom to come into St.-Mere-Abelle and begin the healing."

Marcalo De'Unnero knew this game, and knew it well. He almost admired Master Bou-raiy's patience and foresight, and would have said as much to him-except that he hated Bou-raiy.

De'Unnero went about his business acclimating himself to the daily workings of St.-Mere-Abelle. Bou-raiy didn't oppose him at all, to his initial surprise, and even allowed him to step back in as the master in charge of training the younger brothers in the arts martial.

"Your left arm!" De'Unnero cried at a second-year brother, Tellarese, at training one damp morning. The master stormed up to him and grabbed his left arm forcefully, yanking it up into the proper blocking position. "How do you propose to deflect my punch if your arm hovers about your chest?"

As he finished, the obviously weak man's arm slipped down again, and De'Unnero wasted not a second in a snapped jab over that forearm and into Tellarese's face, knocking the man to the ground.

With a frustrated growl, the master turned about and stalked away. "Idiot!" he muttered, and he motioned for another of his students, a firstyear brother who showed some promise, to go against Tellarese.

The two squared off and exchanged a couple of halfhearted punches, more to measure each other than to attempt any real offense, while the other ten brothers at the training exercise tightened their circle around the combatants, keeping them close together.

When Tellarese's arm came down yet again and the first-year brother scored a slight slap across his face, De'Unnero stormed back in and tossed the first-year brother aside, taking his place.

"I th-thought to counter," Tellarese stuttered.

"You offered him the punch in the hope that you might then find an opening in his defenses?"

"Yes."

De'Unnero snorted incredulously. "You would trade your opponent a clear shot at your face? For what? What better counter might you find than that? "

"I only thought-"

"You did not think!" the frustrated De'Unnero yelled. Once, he had been the Bishop of Palmaris, a great man with a great responsibility, one that he had performed to perfection. Had Markwart defeated Elbryan and Jilseponie on that fateful day in Chasewind Manor, then he, De'Unnero, would have been in line to become the next father abbot. Once, he had hunted Nightbird, the famed ranger, perhaps the greatest warrior in all the world. He had faced off against the man squarely and fairly, and, to his thinking, had bested him.

Once, he had known all of that glory, and now, now he was teaching idiots who would never, ever, be able to defend themselves against an ugly litde goblin, let alone a real opponent.

All that frustration rolled out of Marcalo De'Unnero as he slapped Tellarese across the face with his right hand, and then, when the man put his hand up to block that hand, De'Unnero hit him harder across the face with the left, an obvious and easy response.

And when pitiful Tellarese, always a step behind, brought his other arm up to block, dropping his first guard, De'Unnero slapped him hard again with his right hand.

"If I had a dagger, would you let me stick it deep into your belly in the hope that you would then find an opening to slap me? " De'Unnero asked, and he hit Tellarese again, and then again, and when the man finally put both his hands up to protect his head, De'Unnero punched him in the belly. When his hands came instinctively down as he doubled up a bit, De'Unnero slapped him once and again across the face. He heard the other students groaning and gasping in sympathy for poor Tellarese, but that support for the weakling only spurred the angry De'Unnero on even more. His blows came harder, and more rapidly, and then, suddenly, he stopped.

It took Tellarese a long time to even peek out from behind his raised arms, and then, slowly, slowly, he uncoiled.

"I did not understand," he said quietly.

"And do you now? " De'Unnero asked him, and his voice seemed to the others to carry a strange, almost feral quality.

"I do."

"Then defend!" he said, leaping into a fighting stance.

Tellarese's arms came up into proper position, and De'Unnero rolled his shoulder, several times, feigning punch after punch.

To his surprise, Tellarese launched a punch of his own, a left jab, that somehow got through and clipped De'Unnero's face. The younger brothers encircling the pair, though they tried to hold it back, gave the beginnings of a cheer.

De'Unnero's arm came forward with blinding speed, swiping hard across Tellarese's face, and-to Tellarese's horror, to the horror of those looking on, to the horror of De'Unnero himself-leaving four distinct gashes across the young brother's face.

De'Unnero immediately dropped his arm to his side, letting his voluminous sleeve fall back over his feline limb. How had that happened? How, when, had he lost control?

And over this!

"There are times when you allow a strike to gain a strike," he growled at the stumbling, dazed Tellarese, spinning to take in the whole group. "When I know that my strike will be decisive, I might allow a minor hit," he improvised; for in truth, Tellarese's lucky punch had surprised De'Unnero almost as much as learning that his arm had transformed into a tiger's paw. "But beware! When you employ such a strategy, there is no room for error. You must be certain of your opponent's weakness and of your own ability to deliver the final blow. Your lesson is ended this day. Perform the course of obstacles a dozen times, each of you, then run the length of the abbey wall three times. Then retire and consider this lesson!"

He started away, wanting nothing more than to crawl into his room and hide for the remainder of the day, but he stopped, seeing the expressions of stunned horror on the faces of the other students. He turned back to see Tellarese down on one knee, holding his face, but hardly stemming the dripping blood flow.

"You two," De'Unnero said to the two nearest brothers. "See to his wounds or take him to Master Machuso, if necessary. And when he is bandaged, the three of you complete the lesson." And with that, Marcalo De'Unnero went back to his small room, closed the door tightly, and wondered, wondered, how this thing had happened. So distressed was he that he missed the vespers.

"Allies?" De'Unnero asked Master Francis doubtfully later that evening, when Francis arrived uninvited at his door.

"We once served the same Father Abbot," was all that Francis would admit.

"The man who fell," De'Unnero replied. "And now are we to fall with him? Or are we to stand together, my friend. Master Francis?" His tone showed his words to be obviously a jest. "You and me against all the rest of the Church?"

"You make light of this, which tells me clearly that you underestimate the danger to us, and to any others who stood with Markwart," Francis replied coldly. "The Church has changed, Master De'Unnero, has shifted away from Markwart and his heavy-handed tactics. I suspect that Marcalo De'Unnero, whose primary fame stems from his ability to train brothers in the arts martial, will either change his mannerisms or find his role greatly diminished in the new Abellican Church,"

"Would you have me suckle at Fio Bou-raiy's teat?" De'Unnero snapped back.

"Master Bou-raiy will not lead the Church," Francis answered. "But do not underestimate his influence within St.-Mere-Abelle. When I returned from Palmaris, I, too, was surprised by how deeply he had entrenched himself. To go looking for a fight with the man is not wise."

"Why did you come to me?" De'Unnero demanded. "When has Francis called De'Unnero a friend? " It was true enough; even in the days of Markwart, Francis and De'Unnero had not been close, not at all. If anything, they'd been rivals, vying for whatever positions came open as Markwart ran roughshod through the Church hierarchy.

"I came here only to advise," Francis replied calmly. "Whether you take that advice or not is within your province. This is not Markwart's Church any longer. I expect that Braumin Herde and the other followers of Avelyn andJojonah will have their day now."

De'Unnero snorted at the absurdity.

"Even Father Abbot Markwart admitted his failure concerning Avelyn Desbris," Francis explained.

"His failure in not bringing the man, and the man's followers, to swifter and more severe justice," De'Unnero interjected.

"His failure in admitting the truth," Francis went on determinedly. "The tale that is widely accepted by the people of Honce-the-Bear is that Avelyn-with help from Jilseponie and Elbryan; the centaur, Bradwarden;

and the Touel'alfar-destroyed the demon dactyl." "And how has this tale been proven?" De'Unnero asked. "By the words of outlaws? "

"Outlaws no longer," Francis reminded. "And the story is confirmed by the presence of Avelyn's mummified arm, protruding from the rock at blasted Mount Aida. You have, perhaps, heard of the miracle at Aida?"

"The silly tale of goblins reduced to mere skeletons when they tried to approach those huddled at the all-powerful hand? "

Now it was Francis' turn to chortle. "Not so silly when spoken by an abbot who witnessed the event," he said; for, indeed, Abbot Braumin had been among those saved by the miracle at Aida.

"This is foolishness and nothing more," De'Unnero said with a sigh, "mere fantasy, put forth to further the ambitions of eager young men."

"Whatever you may think of it, whatever I may think of it, the people of the kingdom, and many of those within the Church, have decided in Braumin Herde's favor," Francis remarked.

"And how does Master Francis view the exploits of Avelyn Desbris, and Master Jojonah after him? " De'Unnero asked, a sly edge creeping into his voice. "And how does Master Francis view the supposed miracle at Aida?"

"Your test of me is irrelevant and foolish," Francis answered.

"Yet I would know the answer," De'Unnero was quick to reply.

"I have heard two sides of the story of Avelyn Desbris, and there is some truth in both versions, I would guess," Francis said noncommittally. "As for Master Jojonah, I do not agree that he deserved his fate."

"You did not speak in his favor," De'Unnero remarked.

"I was only an immaculate brother then," Francis reminded, "with no voice in the College of Abbots. But you are right in your accusation nonetheless, and my silence is something I will have to live with for the rest of my years."

"Have you, too, lost the belly for the fight? " De'Unnero asked.

Francis didn't justify that nonsense with an answer.

"And what of the miracle, then," De'Unnero pressed. "Does Francis believe that the ghost of Avelyn returned to slay goblins? "

"Your sarcastic tone reveals that you have not been to Aida," Francis answered. "I have. I have seen the grave, the mummified arm, and I have felt. . ." He paused and closed his eyes.

"What, Master Francis?" De'Unnero pressed, his words sounding more like a sneer than a question. "What did you feel at Mount Aida? The presence of angels? God himself come down to bless you as you groveled before a fallen heretic? "

"I went there with complete skepticism," Francis shot back. "I went there hoping to find Avelyn Desbris alive, that I could drag him back to Father Abbot Markwart heavily chained! But I cannot deny that there was an aura about that grave site, a sense of peace and calm." De'Unnero waved his hand dismissively. " Next you will be nominating Brother Avelyn for sainthood," he scoffed.

"Abbot Braumin will beat me to that, I would guess," Francis said in all seriousness. De'Unnero nearly spat with disgust.

"Oh, wondrous time!" the fierce monk said with absolute sarcasm. "To live in the age of miracles! What joy I have found!"

Francis paused for a long time, staring at the man, nodding. "I came to you simply to explain what I have observed," he said at length, "to warn you that the Church as you knew it no longer exists. To bid you to temper your fires, for in this Church such actions as your wounding Brother Tellarese will not be looked upon with favor. This is not Markwart's time, nor are kingdom and Church under siege by the minions of the demon dactyl. Take heed, or do not. I felt obligated, for all that we went through side by side, to tell you these things, at least, but I'll take no responsibility for your decisions."

De'Unnero was about to dismiss him, but Francis didn't wait, just turned and stormed away.

Despite De'Unnero's flippant attitude, the words of Master Francis resonated deeply within the troubled man. He could scoff and spit and respond with sarcasm, but the simple truth of Francis' observations cut deeply.

He went to bed with those thoughts in mind and found little sleep-and certainly nothing restful-for his tossing and turning was filled with dreams of his slashing his way through lines of praying brothers with his tiger's paws. Terrible dreams, with the blood of young brothers splattering him, covering him, while he yelled at them, telling them that they were wrong, that they were weak, and that their weakness would be the end of the Abellican Church. And when they wouldn't listen, when they turned away from his ranting to continue their idiotic prayers, De'Unnero slashed them and tore them and felt their hot blood all over his neck and face.

He awakened, covered in sweat, and on the floor, wrapped in his bedsheets, long before the dawn. Immediately he looked at his hands-and nearly fainted with relief to find that they were still hands and not feline paws. Then, his relief lasting only a split second, De'Unnero started patting himself and rubbing his neck and face, feeling for blood.

"Just a dream," he told himself, for he felt only sweat. He climbed back into his bed and started straightening the blankets, but before he had settled down, he realized that he would find no further sleep this night.

He went to the abbey's east wall instead, overlooking All Saints Bay, and there watched the sunrise, the slanting rays turning the dark Mirianic waters a shimmering red.

He had thought that he was coming home when he had left Palmaris and the fools at St. Precious, but now he understood the painful truth. He hadn't changed-at least, he didn't believe that he had-but St.-MereAbelle surely had. This was not his home any longer, he knew, and he wasn't even certain if this was truly still his Church or his Order. Marcalo De'Unnero had not been overly fond of Father Abbot Markwart. Certainly he hadn't been the man's willing lackey, as had Francis. No, he had argued with Markwart at many turns, and had followed his own course on occasion, to the frustration of the tyrannic Father Abbot. But at least with Markwart, the Church had known stability and a direct code of conduct. In his last days, Markwart had brought purpose to the Church, had aspired to bring the Abellican Order to new and greater heights of power-thus the appointment of a bishop in Palmaris, a move to take power for the Church from the King unknown in Honce-the-Bear in several centuries. Thus Markwart's decree that only members of the Church could possess the sacred gemstones.

Yes, for all the differences he might have had with Father Abbot Markwart, De'Unnero agreed in principle with the man's policies. But what might he, and his Church, find now with Markwart gone, with no clear-cut and powerful leader to take his place? Even worse, how strong would the idiot Braumin Herde and his followers become, using the image ofJojonah burning at the stake to bolster their position among the more softhearted brothers, and proclaiming a "miracle" at Mount Aida?

De'Unnero didn't like the prospects, and honestly, given his inability to deal with Master Bou-raiy, didn't see any way in which he could turn the tide.

He leaned on the wall, staring at the sparkling red waters of All Saints Bay, and wondered how far his beloved Church would fall.

The approach of footsteps some time later brought him from his contemplations, and he turned, and sighed, to see Francis and Bou-raiy marching his way.

"Brother Tellarese will be some time in healing," Bou-raiy announced.

"It was but a minor wound," De'Unnero replied, turning away from him.

"Or would have been, had it not been inflicted by cat's claws," said Bouraiy. "It is full of pus and required Machuso to work on the man with a soul stone for half the night."

"That is why we have soul stones," De'Unnero dryly answered, never taking his gaze from the bay. To his surprise, Bou-raiy came up right beside him, leaning on the wall.

"We have heard rumors of trouble in the south," he said, his voice grim;

but still De'Unnero did not look his way. "Rumors of the rosy plague."

Even the reference to that most dreaded disease didn't stir De'Unnero. "Someone cries plague every few years," he replied.

"I have seen signs of it," Francis interjected.

"Signs that you compare with pictures in an old book? " came De'Unnero's sarcastic response.

"The other masters and I have decided that we must send someone to investigate these claims," Bou-raiy explained. Now De'Unnero did look at the man, his eyes narrow and threatening. "All the other masters?" he asked. "Where, then, was I?"

"We could not find you this morning," Bou-raiy answered, not backing away from that threatening glare.

De'Unnero turned it upon Francis. "Leave us," he instructed.

Francis made no move to go.

"Pray, leave us, Brother Francis," De'Unnero more politely requested, and Francis gave one concerned look to Bou-raiy, then walked off a bit.

"And you have decided that I should be the one to go and investigate," De'Unnero said quietly.

"Perhaps it would be better if you were to leave the abbey for a while, yes," Bou-raiy answered.

"I am not bound by your edicts," said De'Unnero, standing straight and, though he was not a tall man, thoroughly imposing.

"It is a request backed by every master at St.-Mere-Abelle."

"Francis?" De'Unnero asked, loudly enough so that the man could hear.

"Yes," Bou-raiy answered.

That brought a chuckle from De'Unnero. He couldn't believe how quickly Bou-raiy had acted, seizing upon the injury of Brother Tellarese to turn against him. He should have seen it coming, he realized. His climb to power had left many sour faces in its wake.

"I can get the immaculate brothers also to agree with the request," Bouraiy said.

"Now I am to take my orders from immaculate brothers?" De'Unnero was quick to answer, "or from troublesome and jealous masters who fear, perhaps, that I will shake their comfortable world? "

Bou-raiy looked at him curiously.

"Yes, Master Fio Bou-raiy has carved out a comfortable niche for himself in the absence of Markwart and others," De'Unnero went on. "Master Fio Bou-raiy fears that I will come in and upset his coveted position."

"We have already had this argument," Bou-raiy said dryly, obviously seeing where this was heading.

"And we will have it again, and many times, I suspect," said De'Unnero. "But not now. I was just thinking that perhaps it would be better if I left St.-Mere-Abelle for a while, and if the masters wish that course to be to the south, then so be it."

"A wise decision."

"But I will be back for the College of Abbots, of course, a loud voice indeed," De'Unnero promised. Then more quietly, so that Francis could not hear, he added, "And I will watch the course of the nominating carefully, I assure you, and if Agronguerre of Belfour is to win, then I will back him as vehemently as Bou-raiy, and I will become indispensable to the man, as I was to Father Abbot Markwart."

"Abbot Agronguerre is no warrior," Bou-raiy remarked. "Every father abbot is a warrior," De'Unnero corrected, "or will be, as soon as he learns of the undercurrents among those he should most be able to trust. Oh, he will be glad of my assistance, do not doubt, and he is not a young man."

"Do you really believe that you could ever win the favor of enough in our Order to win a nomination as father abbot? " Bou-raiy said incredulously.

"I believe that I could prevent Bou-raiy from achieving the position," De'Unnero stated bluntly, and to his delight, his adversary's lips grew very thin.

"A fight for another day," De'Unnero went on. He looked past Bou-raiy, drawing Francis' attention. "You have an itinerary planned for me, no doubt? " he asked.

"Presently," a startled Francis answered.

"Soon," said De'Unnero. "I wish to be out of here before midday."

And he walked away, considering again this Church he had returned to find, this hollow shell, in his estimation, of what Markwart might have achieved. Yes, he would willingly go to the south, but not on any search for the plague. He would go to St. Gwendolyn, perhaps, or all the way to Entel, if time allowed, and seek out allies among the more forceful brethren of the southern abbeys. How would Abbot Olin react upon hearing that the ascension of Agronguerre to father abbot was all but assured?

Olin and De'Unnero got on well together, and he knew that Olin would not likely be pleased with the events occurring in the Church, as the man had been glad that Jojonah was put to the stake. And he knew from the previous College of Abbots that Olin-and Abbess Delenia, as well-were no friends to Bou-raiy.

Yes, De'Unnero mused, on the road he could stir up some trouble; and in his estimation, any chaos he might bring to this present incarnation of the Church-this pitiful Order that tried to find a hero in Avelyn Desbris, a heretic and murderer, and in Jojonah, who had admitted treason against St.-Mere-Abelle-could only facilitate positive changes.

Marcalo De'Unnero had been a political animal for most of his adult life, and he understood the implications of his path. And he knew, if Bou-raiy and Francis and the others did not, that Braumin Herde and his ill-advised friends could well split the Abellican Church apart. De'Unnero would wage that battle earnestly and eagerly, and if he had to burn St.-Mere-Abelle itself down to the ground, then he would do so in the confidence that he would rise atop the ashes.

He made one stop before receiving his itinerary from Francis, a visit to one of the lower libraries, where he slipped one of the few copies of a very special ocean chart into the folds of his robes.

His steps out of St.-Mere-Abelle were even more eager than the hopeful ones that had led him back to the place a few days before.

* * * From the wall of St.-Mere-Abelle, Master Bou-raiy watched the man go. His own thoughts concerning the Church that morning were not so different from those of this man he considered an enemy. Logically, it seemed to Bou-raiy as if the appointment of Agronguerre-an event that seemed more and more likely to him-should signal the beginning of the healing process. Agronguerre was known for just the kind of gentleness and compassion that would be needed within the wounded Church; and Bou-raiy's remark to the surprised De'Unnero that the ascension of Agronguerre might be exactly what the Church needed at this time was not made in jest, nor for any subtle political reasons.

It seemed obvious and logical, and Bou-raiy was certain that enough abbots and masters would see it that way to elect the man easily.

But when he looked deeper than the seemingly obvious logic, Fio Bouraiy couldn't help thinking that this great living body that was the Abellican Church was now like some giant crouching predator, motionless in the brush, hushed and ready to spring.

And again-his thoughts ironically along the same lines as those of his avowed enemy De'Unnero-Fio Bou-raiy wasn't sure at all that he wanted to head off that predator's spring.