Mortalis

The snow was deep, the northern wind bitterly cold, but Abbot Braumin showed a distinct spring in his step as he approached the . gates of Chasewind Manor.

The sentries at the outer gate held him in check for a long while, as he expected, and didn't even offer him the meager shelter of their small stone gatehouse nor any of their steaming tea. No, they merely eyed him, their stares as cold as the north wind; and Abbot Braumin, despite his fine mood, had to wonder if he could ever repair the damage Duke Kalas had done to the relationship of Church and Crown in Palmaris.

A short while later, the abbot was finally admitted to the main house, and there he was made to sit and wait yet again, as the minutes became an hour, and then two. Braumin took it all in stride, whistling, singing some of his favorite hymns, even coaxing one flustered servant into an impromptu penitence session.

That session-certainly not a welcome thing in the court of Duke Targon Bree Kalas-was interrupted almost immediately by Kalas' aide, bidding the abbot to enter and commence his business with the Duke.

Abbot Braumin muttered a little prayer for himself, begging forgiveness for so using the unwitting servant, and promised to attend his own penitence session once he returned to St. Precious.

"Good morn, God's morn, Duke Kalas," Braumin said cheerfully as he entered the man's study.

Kalas peered up at him from behind a great oaken desk, his expression one of pure suspicion.

Braumin took a long moment studying that scowl. It was no secret about the city that the Duke had been in a particularly foul mood of late; and Braumin could guess the source of that discontent. Many of Ursal's nobles were no doubt wintering in Entel or at Dragon Lake, a favored winter palace, while he was stuck up here, in the bitter Palmaris winter, alone and without any close friends. Even many of the stoic Allheart knights were beginning to shows signs of discontent, of homesickness.

"It is morning," Kalas replied gruffly, shuffling some papers and nearly overturning his inkwell, "and I suppose that every morning is God's to claim."

"Indeed," Braumin said, intentionally making his tone annoyingly chipper.

"Whatever concept of God one might hold," Duke Kalas continued, narrowing his eyes.

"Ah, the purest concept of all," Braumin answered without the slightest hesitation. He tossed a rolled parchment on the desk in front of Kalas.

Still eyeing Braumin suspiciously, the Duke picked it up and slipped the ribbon from it. He snapped it open with a swift, sudden movement, his eyes scanning, scanning, while he tried to hold his expression steady. Then, finished, he simply dropped the parchment back to his desk and sat up straight, folding his hands together on the desk before him. "A chapel for Avelyn Desbris? " he asked.

"In Caer Tinella," Abbot Braumin said cheerfully, "with the blessing of new Father Abbot Agronguerre-a good friend of your King's brother, I understand."

Kalas, well aware of Prince Midalis' relationship with the Abellican Church in Vanguard, didn't blink. "How steady is your Church, Abbot Braumin," he remarked. "First you claim Avelyn a heretic, now a saint. Do you so sway between good and evil? Do you worship God today and a demon tomorrow, or in your eyes are they, perhaps, one and the same? "

"Your blasphemy does not shock me, Duke Kalas," Braumin replied, "nor does it impress me."

"If you believe that I have any desire to impress you, or any of your clergy leadership, then you do not understand me at all," came the confident and firm answer.

Abbot Braumin gave a slight bow, conceding the point, not wanting to go down this tangent path.

"I have no jurisdiction over Caer Tinella," the Duke of Wester-Honce went on. "You should be throwing your writ upon the desk of Duke Tetrafel of the Wilderlands."

"I need not the permission of the Crown or any of its representatives to begin construction of the chapel of Avelyn in Caer Tinella," Abbot Braumin returned.

"Then why come here?" asked Kalas. "Do you mean to taunt me by flaunting the expansion of your Church? Or to convince me, perhaps, that your way-the Light of Avelyn, I am hearing it called-is the one true way, and that Markwart and all the evil he wrought was but an aberration, a corrected mistake? " "I inform you of the construction of the new chapel in Caer Tinella merely as a courtesy," Abbot Braumin answered. "I intend to use masons from Palmaris for that work, and for the expansion of St. Precious."

Kalas was nodding, obviously bored, and it took a long moment for that last part to even register. He snapped his glare up at Abbot Braumin, his eyes again going narrow and threatening. "We have already settled this matter," he said.

"What is settled in one moment might be altered in another," Braumin replied.

Kalas just stared at him.

"There is new information," the abbot said.

"You have found a way around the law? " Duke Kalas asked skeptically.

"You decide," Abbot Braumin replied, with equal confidence. "Brother Dellman told me of a most unusual encounter up in Vanguard, Duke Kalas:

a battle fought with powries."

"Not so unusual in these troubled times," Kalas replied, glancing at the lone sentry in the room, an AUheart knight, standing at attention to the side of the great desk.

Abbot Braumin studied the Duke carefully, looking for any signs of unintentional personal betrayal, as he continued. "Apparently, these powries had some trouble with their ship."

"Abarrelboat?"

Now it was Abbot Braumin's turn to glance at the AUheart knight, then questioningly back to Kalas.

The Duke caught the cue. "Leave us," he instructed the knight. The man looked at him curiously, but then snapped a chest-thumping salute and strode from the room.

"Palmaris ship," Braumin said bluntly as soon as the door had closed, and he paused and let the notes of that devastating information hang in the air. Kalas did shift in his seat then, and Braumin imagined the man fighting an inner struggle at that moment. Should he feign ignorance? Or should he concoct some wild tale of escape?

The Duke folded his hands but did not sit back comfortably in his chair, a clear sign to Braumin that his words had intrigued the man and, perhaps, had scared him.

"A curious thing," Braumin went on, his tone now casual. "Brother Dellman insists that he recognized one or two of the powries."

"They all look alike, so I have observed," Duke Kalas said dryly.

"Though some might carry remarkable scars or wear distinctive clothing," Abbot Braumin remarked.

Duke Kalas sat very still, staring, probing; and Braumin knew that he had hit the man squarely, that Brother Dellman's beliefs about the origins of the powrie band in Vanguard had been right on the mark. And now, given Kalas' reactions, Abbot Braumin knew that the powrie band had not escaped from Palmaris. Duke Kalas had a secret, a very dark one.

"And where does your Brother Dellman believe he once saw these same powries? " Kalas asked, again in dry and seemingly unconcerned tones. But again, a subtle shift in his seat betrayed his true anxieties.

"He cannot yet be certain," Abbot Braumin replied, emphasizing the word "yet." "He envisions a misty and drizzly morning. . . ." He let his voice trail off, the threat to Kalas hanging obvious and ominous.

The Duke stood up suddenly. "What games do you play?" he asked, walking to the side of his desk to a brandy locker with, Braumin noted, a rather large sword hanging over it. The Duke poured himself a drink and motioned an offer to Braumin, who shook his head.

Kalas swirled the liquid in his glass a couple of times, then slowly turned, half sitting on the edge of the locker, his expression calm once more.

"If you have more to say, then speak it clearly," he bade the abbot.

"I doubt there will ever be more to say," Braumin replied. "I will be too busy with the construction of the chapel of Avelyn in Caer Tinella and with the expansion of St. Precious."

There it was, laid out clearly and simply.

Duke Kalas sat very still for a long while, digesting all of the information, sipping his drink, then swallowing it suddenly in one great gulp. He threw the glass against the wall, shattering it, and rose up so forcefully that the heavy locker skidded back a few inches.

"You have heard of the word 'extortion'? " he asked.

"You have heard of the word 'polities'? " Braumin came right back.

Kalas reached back and above him and tore the sword from the wall, bringing it out before him. "Perhaps a personal meeting with your God will teach you the difference between the two," he started to say, but he stopped, staring curiously, as Abbot Braumin presented his hand forward, palm up, revealing a small dark stone, a graphite, humming with power.

"Shall we see which of us God chooses to take and instruct this day? " he asked, a wry, confident smile on his face; though in truth, his guts were chuming. Braumin Herde had never been a warrior, nor was he overproficient with the gemstones. With his graphite, he could bring forth a small bolt of lightning, but he doubted it would do more than slow fierce Kalas for a few moments, and perhaps straighten a bit of the curly black hair on the man's head.

But still, Braumin was not surprised by this sudden turn, not at all. His quiet accusation against Kalas was no minor thing, after all!

And so he was ready for this moment, had prepared himself extensively, and he stood perfectly still, hand up firm.

"You play dangerous games, Abbot Braumin."

"Not so, Duke Kalas," Braumin replied. "We each use whatever means we must to further that cause in which we believe. The revelation of a supposed dark secret, perhaps, or a battle on a foggy morning."

"And what cause will you further? " Kalas spat.

"St. Precious will be expanded," the monk replied. He lowered his hand as Kalas lowered his sword.

"That is all?"

"That is all." Braumin Herde didn't add "for now," but he saw from Kalas' sour expression that the Duke understood the implication well enough. Abbot Braumin had a heavy sword now, hanging in the air above the head of Duke Targon Bree Kalas, and Kalas' own inability to dismiss the hints as preposterous were all the proof that Braumin needed to know that what Dellman suspected was true: Duke Kalas of Wester-Honce, perhaps the closest adviser in all the world to King Danube Brock Ursal himself, had utilized powries, wretched bloody caps, in his quest to strengthen the power of the Throne in Palmaris.

Abbot Braumin's step as he exited Chasewind Manor soon after wassurprisingly to him-not as boisterous as the ones that had brought him to the place, though he had the signed approval for St. Precious' expansion tucked safely under one arm. No, Braumin found the whole business of coercing Duke Kalas a most distasteful affair, and he prayed that he would never, ever have to repeat it.

But he would visit the man again, if need be, the abbot assured himself. His life had purpose and a direct path, and he swore then on the soul of Master Jojonah-his mentor, his dearest friend-that he would continue the good fight.

"Lady Pemblebury approaches," the sentry in the hall announced.

Abbot Je'howith crinkled his old face at the proclamation, but King Danube couldn't hold back a smile.

"You have not made the open declaration yet," Je'howith reminded him. "Whispers speak that the coming child is yours, of course, but word has not been sent, nor has your decision concerning the status of the child."

"I did not know that anything was required of me," Danube replied sarcastically, for he was the king, after all, and his word, whatever that word might be, was law in Honce-the-Bear.

" I only wonder what your brother might come to think if those whispers reach his ears," Je'howith said; and that did indeed give Danube pause. "The new Father Abbot is of Vanguard, and a friend to Midalis. It seems likely that the region will be more closely tied to the rest of the kingdom now, with Agronguerre leading the Church."

"And perhaps those of your Church are not well versed in discretion," Danube retorted.

"The only brother who returned to Vanguard from the College of Abbots was young Dellman, no friend of mine, I assure you," Je'howith came back. " If Brother Dellman has brought news of Constance Pemblebury's condition, then he learned it from someone else."

"The same Dellman from Palmaris? " King Danube asked, for he remembered well Braumin Herde and his little group of imprisoned companions.

Je'howith nodded.

"The same Dellman who is friend to Jilseponie? " King Danube asked.

Abbot Je'howith raised an eyebrow at that and at the way Danube spoke the woman's name. Apparently, that little spark Je'howith and others had seen up in Palmaris continued to burn. Constance, beginning her eighth month of pregnancy, would not enjoy the sight of that simmering flame.

Constance Pemblebury entered the room then, waddling more than walking, one hand supporting her lower back. Her look was not one of a woman in pain, though, but of a woman fulfilled and in bliss.

King Danube went to her immediately and brushed aside her attendant, taking her by the arm and guiding her to a seat in the audience room's only chair: the throne.

How ironic, old Je'howith mused.

"You do realize, my King," the old monk said, grinning wryly, "that the Church must openly frown on our monarch producing a bastard child."

King Danube turned and scowled at Je'howith, but Constance laughed. "How unprecedented!" she said with complete sarcasm, and then she groaned and winced.

Danube turned to her immediately, feeling her swollen belly, putting a gentle hand to her forehead. "Are you all right? " he asked.

Je'howith studied the man, his movements, and the tone of his voice. Gentle, but not loving. He did care for Constance, but Abbot Je'howith recognized at that moment that Danube would not likely marry the woman, not while images of the fair Jilseponie danced in his head.

Constance assured him that she was feeling quite well, and Je'howith seconded that sentiment, guiding the doting Danube away from her. "She has two months yet to go," the old abbot reminded him.

"And then comes our child," Constance remarked.

"My son," Danube agreed, and again Constance beamed.

To hear Danube speaking of the child with such obvious pride fostered her hopes, Je'howith realized. And what of those hopes? the cleric wondered. What course would King Danube take once the child, his son, was born? Would he employ the Denial of Privilege, as they had discussed, or would he be so overwhelmed by the birth of this child that he would accept it openly?

Wouldn't Prince Midalis be thrilled if that came to pass!

Je'howith couldn't contain a chuckle, though when Danube and Constance looked at him, he merely shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. In truth, the old abbot hardly cared which way King Danube chose to go concerning the child. Certainly, if he did not disavow the child's bloodline rights, the kingdom could be in for a difficult and messy transition, but that would not likely afreet Je'howith, who would probably be long dead by that time. And if King Danube did openly accept the child, keeping the babe, and thus, Constance, at his side, then the possibility of Jilseponie ever getting close toJe'howith's beloved Ursal seemed even more remote.

In either case, this situation could be getting all the more interesting in about two months' time.

Abbot Je'howith fought hard to contain another chuckle.

Abbot Braumin was surprised and quite pleased to see the visitor to St. Precious that day. He was a handsome man of about Braumin's age, with a slender but hardened frame and alert dark eyes that took in every detail of the room about him. He was a military man, obviously, trained in readiness.

The snows had continued heavy that winter, but word had come to Abbot Braumin that Duke Kalas had left Chasewind Manor, and the city altogether, for a trip to the south. And now this, an old friend, the return of a good man who had shared some very important moments in Braumin Herde's life. Yes, the year was off to a grand start.

"Shamus Kilronney," the abbot greeted him warmly. "I heard that you had resigned your post in the Kingsmen and traveled south."

"Not so far south, my friend, Brother-Abbot Braumin," Shamus Kilronney replied. He looked around appreciatively. "You have done well, and are deserving of all that has befallen you of late."

Braumin accepted the kind words with a nod and a smile. Shamus had been with him on that journey to the Barbacan, when the goblins had encircled them, closing in. Shamus Kilronney had stood tall and proud, prepared to die, when the miracle of Avelyn's upraised, mummified arm had sent forth waves of energy to destroy the goblin horde.

Shamus had been beside Braumin again on a second occasion in that same place, when King Danube and Father Abbot Markwart had marched in with their respective armies to take them as prisoners.

In truth, the two men hardly knew each other, and yet they had forged a deep bond in trials shared and miracles witnessed.

"The sky is thick with snow," Abbot Braumin remarked. "Why does Shamus Kilronney return to us at this unlikely time? "

"Duke Kalas bade an AUheart knight named Mowin Satyr to serve in his stead while he returned to the court at Ursal at the summons of King Danube," Shamus explained. "Satyr is an old friend of mine, and he knew that I have family within the city, so he bade me to come and aid him."

"Colleen?" "She is north, in Caer Tinella, I have heard," Shamus replied.

"Well, I am glad that you have returned," Abbot Braumin said, motioning for the man to follow him to more comfortable quarters. "You may be aware that the relationship between Church and Crown in Palmaris has not been a good one since the events at Chasewind Manor."

"Duke Kalas has never been fond of the Church," Shamus remarked, "at least not since Queen Vivian became ill and died, and the brothers of St. Honce could do nothing to save her. You will find Mowin Satyr more agreeable, I believe."

"For however long he might serve."

"It could be some time," Shamus explained. "That is why I have come to you. Duke Kalas claimed that he was summoned to Ursal, but none of those remaining at Chasewind Manor know anything about that. Nor, according to Mowin Satyr, is he planning on returning to the city any time soon, per- haps never."

Abbot Braumin couldn't help but smile and shake his head. He couldn't believe how effective his hints concerning the powries had been, further confirmation to him that Kalas had indeed engaged in some sort of underthe-table dealings with the bloody caps. He poured himself a glass of wine and one for Shamus, then handed it over.

"To a better relationship between Church and Crown," he toasted, lifting his glass, and Shamus was quick to tap it with his own.

"I wonder," Abbot Braumin mused aloud a moment later. "Perhaps there is something more you might do for me, my friend, if you are willing."

"If I might," Shamus said.

"Inquire of your friend Mowin Satyr of a battle that was fought on the western fields before King Danube departed the city, around the Calember before last."

Shamus looked at him curiously.

"He will know the fight," Abbot Braumin assured the man, "a quick and easy victory over a powrie band."

"I will ask," Shamus agreed, looking at the monk curiously. "But I say this now, my friend Abbot Braumin, I will not serve as a spy for St. Precious. I have come back to Palmaris because an old friend needed me, and I will do all that I can to bring a better peace between you and whoever is ruling at Chasewind Manor. But I will play no role in this continuing intrigue between St. Precious and Chasewind Manor."

"Fair enough," Abbot Braumin replied. He lifted his glass in toast again, and again, Shamus Kilronney was quick to tap it with his own.

Yes, God's Year 828 was off to a grand start.