"There are several promising brothers soon to attain the rank of immaculate," Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart said to Brother Braumin Herde when he joined the younger monk on the sea-wall of the great monastery of St.-Mere-Abelle, high above the cold waters of All Saints Bay.
Braumin turned to face the old man, then jumped back, startled. Markwart's hair had been thinning, but now it was gone, his head shaven clean. And that bald pate had changed Markwart's appearance considerably. His ears seemed longer and narrower, almost pointed, and his face seemed like chalky cloth laid over a skull. Braumin considered the tilt of Markwart's withered face, the hint of a sparkle - an evil glimmer? - in the man's other-wise dead eyes. And how much older the Father Abbot looked!
And yet, there was an undeniable aura of strength about the Father Abbot. He appeared taller to Braumin Herde, standing straighter than the younger monk remembered. Also, there was energy in the man's move-ments, and Brother Braumin knew that any thoughts he might have that the old wretch would soon die were false hopes. The shock of the Father Abbot's appearance soon wore off, but Braumin continued to study the old man closely, surprised that Markwart had ventured out in the chill wind, for Brother Braumin Herde, known as a friend of the executed heretic Jojonah, was obviously not among the Father Abbot's favorites.
"Promising," Markwart said again when his first words failed to bring any response from the younger monk. "Perhaps there are now immaculate brothers at St.-Mere-Abelle who should fear that these new peers might step ahead of them into the positions of master left vacant by the departure of Marcalo De'Unnero and the death of the heretic Jojonah."
The murder, you mean!Brother Braumin silently retorted. It had hap-pened just three weeks before, in mid-Calember, the eleventh month, with winter beginning its icy assault on the land. A College of Abbots had been convened at St.-Mere-Abelle, and Father Abbot Markwart, as expected, had used the occasion to ask for a formal declaration that Avelyn Desbris be branded a heretic and an outlaw. Master Jojonah, Braumin's mentor and friend, had taken his stand against Markwart, arguing that Avelyn, though he defied the Church and absconded with some sacred gemstones, was a holy man and no heretic, and that Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart was in fact the true heretic, who twisted Church doctrine for evil gain.
Jojonah had been burned at the stake that same morning.
And Brother Braumin, because of his vow to his dear mentor, had watched helplessly as his beloved friend had been tortured and murdered.
"Have you seen to the preparation for the ceremony welcoming the new class?" Markwart asked. "It may seem like a long time away, but if winter comes on with a vengeance this year, you will not be able to get out into the courtyard to measure for the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering and other such necessities."
"Yes, Father Abbot," Brother Braumin mechanically replied.
"Good, my son, good," Markwart replied, his tone condescending. The old man reached up and patted Braumin's shoulder, and it took every ounce of self-control Braumin could muster not to recoil from that cold, heartless touch. "You have great potential, my son," the Father Abbot went on. "With proper guidance, you may yet replace Master De'Unnero, as Brother Francis will likely replace damned Jojonah."
Braumin Herde gritted his teeth, biting back a vicious response. The mere thought of Brother Francis Dellacourt, the spineless, plotting lackey, replacing his beloved Jojonah disgusted him.
Markwart, trying futilely to hide his grin, walked off then, leaving Braumin alone with a throat full of bile and silent screams. The monk did not doubt the Father Abbot's sincerity in hinting that Braumin might be elevated to the position of master. That coveted title would carry little prac-tical weight under Markwart's rule, and Braumin would only be awarded the honor, if it ever happened, so that Markwart could dispel any rumbling of discontent within the Abellican Church. Master Jojonah had been highly regarded by many abbots and fellow masters, and the suddenness and bru-tality with which Markwart and Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce had accused, convicted, and executed him had taken all by surprise, leaving more than a few upset. Of course, any who might have protested was kept silent by terror - Markwart and Je'howith had used soldiers of the Allheart Brigade, the elite guard of the King himself, as their tools of murder, and few would dare argue against the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order in his home abbey of St.-Mere-Abelle, perhaps the greatest fortress in the world.
Now, Markwart was working to control any budding arguments based on hindsight. He had his declaration against Avelyn - that seemed secure enough - but the further declaration that had condemned Jojonah seemed open to interpretation and argument. By promoting Brother BrauminHerde, widely known as the protege of Jojonah, to the rank of master, Markwart would quiet such talk.
Still, even knowing that his appointment might strengthen Markwart, Braumin would have to accept, by the same vow that had kept him silent as his dearest friend had been burned alive.
The monk stared out over the seawall at the choppy water some three hundred feet below him. Small indeed did he feel physically in the face of the scope of Nature's majesty spread before him, and in every other way in the face of the plotting and power of Dalebert Markwart.
The Father Abbot rubbed his arms briskly when he entered the abbey, but even here the seawall corridor was full of open windows and offered only meager protection from the cold wind. The old man wasn't really bothered by it. He was in a generous mood this day; his words to Brother Braumin Herde were not without merit, and were not even based solely on Markwart's own conniving. For all the world seemed brighter to Markwart since the College of Abbots had rid him of troublesome Jojonah and had declared Avelyn a heretic. That declaration, along with the formal wording which hinted Avelyn and Jojonah had conspired from before Avelyn had gone to Pimaninicuit to gather the gemstones, had all but restored the Father Abbot's reputation concerning those stolen jewels. If Markwart could retrieve the stones, he would find a place of great respect in the annals of the Abellican Church; and even if he could not, the bulk of the blame had been diverted.
No, his reputation had been secured. Between the defeat of the con-spiracy within the Church and the defeat of the demon dactyl, Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart's name would surely be spoken in reverence by the future generations of Abellican monks.
With a bounce in his step, the old man hurried along and pushed through a door - and nearly ran into Brother Francis Dellacourt, who was hastening the other way. The younger monk was out of breath and seemed relieved to have found the Father Abbot.
"You have news," Markwart reasoned, noting the rolled parchment Brother Francis clutched in his hand.
Francis had to catch his breath. And he, too, was startled by the change in Markwart's appearance. Francis tried to hide his discomfort, but he blinked repeatedly, his mouth partly open.
"I consider it rather becoming," Markwart said calmly, running a hand over his bald pate.
Francis stuttered through an incomprehensible reply, then merely nodded his head and began fumbling with the ribbon securing the parchment.
"Is that the list I asked you to compile? " an impatient Markwart asked.
"No, Father Abbot. It is from Abbot De'Unnero," Francis replied, regaining some composure as he handed it over. "The courier said it was of utmost importance. I suspect it might have something to do with the missing gemstones."
Markwart snatched up the parchment, flipped the ribbon from it, and unrolled it, devouring the words. At first his expression showed confusion, but it quickly began to brighten, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wicked grin.
"The gemstones?" Brother Francis asked.
"No, my son," Markwart purred. "No mention of the stones. It seems that the great city of Palmaris has fallen into a state of complete confusion, for Baron Rochefort Bildeborough has chosen a most inopportune time to leave this life."
"Pardon?" Brother Francis asked, for Markwart's words did not fit the old man's smug expression. They both knew about Rochefort's death, of course, for news had reached St.-Mere-Abelle long before the College of Abbots had been convened.
"The Baron of Palmaris died at a very inopportune time for his family, it seems," the Father Abbot said plainly. "They have concluded the search of Palmaris records, and Abbot De'Unnero's suspicions have been proven true. The Baron left no heirs. A pity, for Rochefort Bildeborough, despite his oft-misguided bravado, was, by all accounts, a fine man and wise governor, as has been the tradition of the Bildeborough family for generations."
Francis sought a reply, but found none. They had received word only a few days before learning of Baron Bildeborough's demise that Connor Bildeborough, nephew of Rochefort and, it seemed, sole heir to the barony, had been killed north of the city.
"Dispatch Abbot De'Unnero's messenger with the reply that his note was received and understood," Markwart instructed, moving past Francis and motioning for him to follow. "And what of that list? "
"It is nearly complete, Father Abbot," Francis said sheepishly. "But the workers at the abbey are in a state of almost constant flux, with some leav-ing and others being hired every week."
"You offer excuses?"
"N-no, Father Abbot," Francis stuttered. "But it is a difficult - "
"Focus on any who might have come in after my journey to Palmaris," Markwart instructed, "including those who were hired during that time and who have already left our employ."
The Father Abbot started on his way then, with Francis falling into step behind him. "We each have work to do," Markwart said rather sternly, turning to Francis.
"I only thought that we were to speak," Francis apologized.
"And so we have." Markwart turned and walked off.
Brother Francis stood in the empty hall for a long while, wounded by the abrupt treatment and stunned by the Father Abbot's change in appearance, his harsh, almost sinister look. The Father Abbot had been in good spirits of late, but apparently that did not prevent him from cutting hard and deep. Francis considered his own failings, tried to put Markwart's ire in perspective considering that he had not completed the task. But in truth he knew he had worked diligently and without pause - except for answering Abbot De'Unnero's messenger - since Markwart had assigned him the list.
Brother Francis could accept the harsh words. What bothered him more was the news from Palmaris and the Father Abbot's reaction to it. Baron Bildeborough, the next in a growing line of adversaries to Father Abbot Markwart, was now, like all of those previous adversaries, dead. Coinci-dence? And how convenient it seemed that there were no other Bildebor-oughs left alive to inherit the barony.
Brother Francis pushed away the thoughts, forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He had to go to the larders next, to speak with Brother Machuso, who handled all the servants for kitchen and cleaning duties. It would be a long day.
Brothers Braumin Herde, Marlboro Viscenti, Holan Dellman, Anders Castinagis, and Romeo Mullahy each made his separate way to the secret oratory prepared far below the common rooms of St.-Mere-Abelle, to a small chamber beside the old library wherein Master Jojonah had found his answers to the philosophical conflict between Father Abbot Markwart and Brother Avelyn Desbris. Since the week after the execution of Master Jojonah, the five monks had met every other night, soon after vespers, for these private prayers.
The five sat on the floor in a circle about a single tall candle and joined hands. Brother Braumin, as the ranking monk and the oldest of the group by several years, began the prayers, as usual invoking the names of Jojonah and Avelyn Desbris, asking for guidance and strength for the group from their departed mentors. Braumin noted that both Castinagis and Mullahy shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Avelyn: merely speaking the man's name in a positive manner was now considered a heinous crime by the Abellican Church - and by the state, since Avelyn had been formally declared a heretic. The same was true of Jojonah, but all five of these men had known Jojonah for a long time and not one of them accepted the verdict that had doomed the gentle master.
When the prayer was done, Braumin rose to his feet and looked down at his companions, his gaze settling on the two youngest of the group. At first their gatherings had been only three strong - Herde, Viscenti, and Dellman - but they were discovered during their fourth meeting by the other two, curious classmates of young Dellman. Neither Castinagis nor Mullahy, who had both witnessed the horrible execution of their friendJojonah, had been hard to convince - not only to not tell of the meeting but also to join in future gatherings - but while both young monks seemed sin-cere, neither had become overly enthusiastic.
"Do you understand why we have gathered here?" Braumin asked Mullahy.
"To pray," the man replied.
"We spend hours each day in prayer at our daily duties," Braumin argued.
"A man can never pray too often," Brother Castinagis, a very outspoken and forceful young monk, interjected.
"You refuse to admit the difference between our evening prayers and our daily prayers," Braumin remarked, drawing curious looks from all the others. Marlboro Viscenti, a skinny and nervous man with more than one tic, began shifting uncomfortably. "That admission of philosophical differ-ence, the open recognition that only our prayers to Master Jojonah and Brother Avelyn are in the true spirit of the Abellican Order, is the whole point of our gathering," Braumin went on.
"Is not the mere act of joining your private group such an admission?" Castinagis asked.
"To the others of the group, perhaps," Braumin replied. "But such a show of loyalty does nothing to admit the truth within your own heart."
Again the two in question looked at Brother Braumin with puzzled expressions. Viscenti continued to twitch, but now Brother Dellman was wearing a warm smile of understanding.
"And all that truly matters is what is in your own heart," Braumin finished.
"If the tenets of these meetings were not in our hearts, then why would we attend?" Castinagis asked. "Do you think us spies for the Father Abbot? For if you mean to accuse - "
"No, Brother Castinagis," Braumin replied quietly. "And I know of your loyalty to Master Jojonah, may his soul forever rest."
"A finer man I've never known," Brother Mullahy declared. Mullahy and Castinagis had been quite close, even before they had taken their vows and entered St.-Mere-Abelle; but the two were very different, as illustrated by the sheepish manner in which Mullahy spoke, lowering his gaze to the floor and mumbling so softly that the others could hardly hear him.
"Because you never knew Brother Avelyn," Braumin said.
Now the curious looks took on an antagonistic edge, as if the two young brothers had considered Braumin's words as a gauntlet thrown down against the memory of their beloved Master Jojonah.
"But they did not see the grave site," Brother Dellman interjected, some-what relieving the tension. "They were not beside us at Mount Aida when we viewed the extended, mummified arm of Brother Avelyn Desbris, when we felt that aura, so powerful and beautiful."
"Nor did either of them - of you - get the opportunity to speak with Master Jojonah about Brother Avelyn Desbris," Braumin added. "If you had, then you would know that my words are no assault against the memory of Jojonah, but rather an expression of the principles that must guide us in our struggles, the principles shown to Master Jojonah, to us all, by Avelyn Desbris."
The words diffused the anger, and Castinagis, too, bowed his head reverently.
Braumin Herde moved across the small room to a chest in the corner, the same one where the secretive brothers kept pillows and the candle, and produced an old and weathered book. "The crime that split Brother Avelyn from the Abellican Order was one condemned by our Church standards," he explained.
"The murder of Master Siherton?" Brother Castinagis asked incredu-lously, for in the very first meeting, Brother Braumin had taken great pains to exonerate Avelyn from that alleged offense.
"No," Braumin replied sharply. "There was no murder of Master Siherton; the man was killed while trying to prevent Brother Avelyn's lawful escape."
"Brother Avelyn acted only in defense of his own life," Brother Dellman put in.
"No, I speak of the Church's actions," Brother Braumin explained, "par-ticularly those of Master Siherton against theWindrunner, the ship com-missioned by Father Abbot Markwart to take the four chosen brothers to the isle of Pimaninicuit in God's Year 821."
Now all three of the youngest brothers were curious, for the story of the collection of the gemstones was not a public matter in St.-Mere- Abelle. Indeed, none below the level of immaculate was formally told anything of the equatorial island where the chosen Preparers would collect the sacred gemstones - and most of the immaculate brothers didn't even know much about the place. All the Abellican monks knew that the stones fell from heaven, a gift of God, but the particulars were not a matter of open dis-course in the abbey. Master Jojonah had told Braumin Herde; and he, in turn, had relayed the story to Brother Viscenti. Now, he decided, it was time to tell the others, to trust them with what was, perhaps, the deepest secret of all.
"Pimaninicuit is the name given to the island far out in the great Miri-anic, where the sacred gemstones are sent from heaven," Brother Braumin began somberly. "This most blessed event occurs only once every seven generations, one hundred and seventy-three years. We are blessed that this occurred during our lifetime, but more blessed was Brother Avelyn, for he was one of the four monks chosen to voyage to the island, one of the two Preparers allowed to go onto Pimaninicuit and witness the stone shower. His companion was Brother Thagraine, who faltered in his faith on the island and did not seek proper shelter from the glory of God. Thus, Tha-graine was killed that day, by the same gemstone Brother Avelyn eventually used to destroy our greatest enemy, the demon dactyl."
Brother Braumin paused to study his companions. He was overwhelming them, he recognized. But they had to hear it, had to understand the signifi-cance and the danger. For a younger brother even to utter the name of Pimaninicuit violated Abellican rules and was cause for harsh punishment, possibly excommunication or even execution.
"What you need to understand about that mission is the truth of the voyage back to St.-Mere-Abelle," Braumin went on. "A glorious return it was, despite the death of Brother Thagraine; for Brother Avelyn, so close to God, delivered unto mankind the greatest harvest of gemstones ever taken from the island, the greatest gift of gemstones ever delivered by God.
"But then," he went on, lowering his voice ominously, "glory turned to horror, God's gift became demon sin. TheWindrunner's crew sailed away from St.-Mere-Abelle into All Saints Bay, their job complete, thinking their reward in hand. But that reward was false, a trick, an illusion caused by the sacred stones."
"Thieves!" Brother Dellman cried. "Thieves in our midst!"
"Murderers," Brother Braumin corrected. "For theWindrunner never got out of All Saints Bay. The ship was assaulted by ballistae and catapult and by magic from the walls of this very abbey, was torn asunder by the wrath of St.-Mere-Abelle, and every man aboard murdered."
Three blood-drained and wide-eyed faces stared up helplessly at Brother Braumin, as Brother Viscenti, who had heard all this before, nodded enthu-siastically. Brother Castinagis shook his head, though, as if he did not believe the story, and it seemed as if Brother Mullahy could not draw breath.
"It was not always like this," Brother Braumin insisted, holding up the ancient text. He looked at the candle, which was much shorter now than when they had begun. "But our time now has run out," he offered. "Let us end with a final prayer for the souls of those lost on theWindrunner."
"But, Brother Braumin," Brother Castinagis protested.
"Enough," Braumin replied. "And know that if any of us is caught speaking of such things, he will surely be tortured and killed. For your proof, look only to the charred corpse of Master Jojonah, whose crimes in the eyes of Father Abbot Markwart were far less than these words." With that, Braumin knelt and began the prayer. That image of Jojonah, a sight that had burned in the hearts of all the brothers in this room, would hold them quiet, he knew; and he understood, too, that not one of them would be a moment late for their next gathering two nights hence.
A spiritual meeting of another sort was taking place that same night, at least partially at St.-Mere-Abelle.Go to him and see what is in his mind and in his heart, the ever-more-insistent voice inside Markwart's head had bade him.I will show you the way.
The voice had spoken, and Markwart listened. In the most private room of his quarters, sitting in the middle of a pentagram he had inscribed on the floor, a burning candle set at each of its five points, Father Abbot Markwart clutched tightly to a hematite, a soul stone, marveling as his magical energy connected with that of the stone, achieving new and greater levels of power.
Soon Markwart's spirit walked free of his body and hovered about the room, considering the view. He had found the pentagram in an ancient text,The Incantations Sorcerous. The Church had banned the book, consid-ered unholy for centuries, burning all copies save the one kept in the cellar library of the abbey. Markwart believed that he understood the Church's reasons: this book held the key to greater power, and that, rather than any connection with the demon dactyl, had inspired fear among the Church leaders. Using the pentagram and the words of a spell within the book, combined with a hematite, Markwart had even summoned a pair of minor demons to his bidding.
With this book, the evil creatures of the underworld will be slaves to the powers of good,he thought now, his spirit looking down at his cross- legged form. He did a quick scan of his rooms and the empty hallway outside to make sure the area was secure, then set off, speeding out the main doors of the abbey and off west, flying across the miles. In mere minutes, his spirit hovered on the southern bank of the great Masur Delaval, some eighty miles from St.-Mere-Abelle.
He floated above the waters with equal ease and speed, and soon the dark structures of Palmaris came into view. Markwart's spirit rose above the city, looking down on the buildings, picking out the distinctive design of St. Precious. Down he swooped to the abbey, right through the thick stone wall. Markwart had been in St. Precious only the previous year, and he knew the layout of the place well enough to easily locate the private rooms of the new abbot.
He was not surprised to find De'Unnero pacing the floor, fists clenched with tension. The man was ready for bed, wearing only a nightshirt, but as always, he seemed too full of energy.
Get your soul stone,Markwart's spirit telepathically instructed. Monks of the Abellican Order had used hematites for rudimentary communication for centuries. One monk might even use the body of another, far away, pos-sessing the other to speak with those nearby, as Markwart had done through Brother Francis when Francis had gone to Mount Aida. Even without possession, which was indeed a brutal step, some communication might be achieved, though it was usually crude, an imparting of feelings, perhaps. If a disaster befell the abbess of St. Gwendolyn, for instance, she might take up a soul stone and contact St. Honce or St.-Mere-Abelle to beg for help. The monks of those abbeys might understand that something was amiss, even discern the source of the communication, might spiritually "hear" the words of the abbess. But Markwart, with his newfound insights and power, meant to take this practice to a higher level - and he knew he would succeed.
Get your soul stone,he commanded De'Unnero.
The man stopped pacing and glanced around, confused. "Who is there? " he asked.
Markwart's spirit drifted to the man, and within - not too deeply, not to possess, but only to let De'Unnero feel his presence clearly.
The newly appointed abbot of St. Precious darted to his desk and, using a small key hung on a chain around his neck, opened a secret compartment within a drawer. He fumbled for a moment, before producing a hematite and clutching it closely. Soon he, too, was out of his body, and his spirit stood perplexed, staring at a very clear image of Markwart.
What manner of meeting is this?The spirit of an obviously flustered De'Unnero - a rare sight indeed! - asked.
You took a great chance,Markwart coolly replied.
I fear no spirits and I knew it was you.
Not in coming to meet me,Markwart explained.In going out to meet Baron Bildeborough's carriage.
Why do we speak of this now?De'Unnero questioned.The Baron has been dead for months, and you knew from the beginning - you had to know! - that I was involved! Yet you spoke no word of his demise to me at the College of Abbots.
Perhaps I had other, more pressing duties to attend,Markwart replied.And Rochefort Bildeborough's death has taken on a greater meaning now.
You have spoken with my messenger, then.
I have read between the plain words Marcalo De'Unnero offered,Mark-wart corrected.The Baron of Palmaris was killed on the road, heirless. What a fortunate turn for the new abbot of St. Precious.
And for the Father Abbot, who called Rochefort Bildeborough an enemy,De'Unnero replied.
How did he die?Markwart asked. He watched De'Unnero's spirit relax. Even body language was clearly visible, though neither party was in his body! A smile came over De'Unnero's spirit face, but he made no move to answer.You did it with the tiger's paw, Markwart reasoned.
As you wish.
Do not play games. This matter is too important.
Like the matter of Connor Bildeborough? Or Abbot Dobrinion?De'Un-nero retorted slyly.
That set Markwart back a bit, the Father Abbot surprised at De'Un-nero's lack of respect. Markwart had set the young man up as abbot of St. Precious - no easy task - because he considered De'Unnero a powerful thorn to stick in Bildeborough's side and, more important, a loyal underling. Now it seemed De'Unnero was taking his new position to mean that he was more Markwart's peer than his subject, an attitude Markwart liked not at all.
You killed them both,De'Unnero charged.Or had them killed, by the hands of the men I trained as brothers justice.
You presume much.
Markwart heard, or at least felt, the other spirit's sigh as clearly as if it had come from De'Unnero's body.
I am no fool, Father Abbot, and I survive through observation. No powrie killed Abbot Dobrinion. The man who brought the bodies of Connor Bilde-borough and Brother Youseff back to Palmaris spouted Connor's wild claims that the Church had murdered Dobrinion. Wild claims?he scoffed, and laughed wickedly.Wild, perhaps, to those who have not watched Father Abbot Markwart closely over the last few months.
You tread on dangerous ground,Markwart's spirit warned.I can destroy you as easily as I promoted you.
A claim I do not doubt,De'Unnero answered sincerely.And I do not desire your enmity, Father Abbot. Never that. I speak of such dark business with respect and approval.
Markwart paused to digest the words.
During the months that Youseff and Dandelion were in training, I begged you to let me go after the stolen gemstones. I say again that, had it been De'Unnero on the trail, those stones would be back at St.-Mere- Abelle and their unlawful keepers, the friends of the heretic Avelyn, would lie dead in unconsecrated ground.
Markwart could not honestly disagree - Marcalo De'Unnero was per-haps the most competent and dangerous man he had ever known. De'Un-nero was in his mid-thirties now, but carried himself with the ease and strength of a twenty-year-old, a combination of experience and power very rare in the world.
But I say this again not to criticize,De'Unnero's spirit quickly added,only to remind you and to ask you to ask more of me.
Like the elimination of Baron Bildeborough?
The other stopped short, caught by the blunt words.
I'll have the truth, or I shall indeed destroy you,Markwart imparted, the simple tone of his thoughts making the words a promise, not a threat. He wanted to see if De'Unnero would threaten to expose the murderer of Abbot Dobrinion and Connor Bildeborough. If he did, then Markwart would break the connection and start the process of eliminating this problem. But De'Unnero wasn't playing that game, not at all.
I am not your enemy, Father Abbot, but your subject,the spirit explained.A loyal subject. I did venture out on the road south of Palmaris in the form of a great cat.
Do you understand the chance you took?
No greater than the one you took,De'Unnero countered.Less, I would say, since Abbot Dobrinion was one of our own, and his murder could turn the whole Church against you. Bildeborough's demise is not a matter for the Abellican Church.
Only for the King,Markwart came back sarcastically, but De'Unnero's spirit seemed to shrug that away as inconsequential. In truth, Markwart agreed with the man's assessment, fearing the power of the Church far more than that of the state.
The killing was clean,De'Unnero insisted.There is nothing to connect the death of Baron Bildeborough with me, and certainly not with you.
A bit more than coincidence, some will whisper,Markwart replied,espe-cially now that there are no Bildeborough heirs to take up the barony.
And some are already whispering,De'Unnero countered,and were whis-pering before Bildeborough's demise. But lacking clear, undeniable evidence, who would dare accuse the father Abbot of the Abellican Church? No, we should focus on the gains of our actions, not dwell on the risks.
The gain is yet to be determined,Markwart answered.We know not upon whom the King will confer the barony. Likely, given the whispers, Danube Brock Ursal will choose one who does not look favorably on the Church, to ensure the continuation of his own power in Palmaris.
I do not agree,De'Unnero dared to argue.Was it not this same King who willingly gave his elite soldiers to Abbot Je'howith for the College of Abbots?
Over the protest of his secular advisers, no doubt,Markwart put in.Je'howith has long battled for the King's ear at Ursal.
A battle he must now win,De'Unnero continued flatly,for now, with the absence of state power in Palmaris, it might be time for the Church to heighten its role in governing the masses.
Again Markwart's spirit was set back a bit.
It is not without precedent,De'Unnero insisted.Palmaris has no baron, and few with credentials to hold such a title would desire to leave Ursal for the less luxurious existence in Palmaris, especially considering the whispers of conspiracies and the potential danger.
Markwart could not believe the man's nerve! De'Unnero was trying to make gains from every possible pitfall, turning the suspicions about Church involvement in the deaths into a positive thing!
Go to Je'howith as you have come to me,De'Unnero begged.Let us force the King into an alliance that will expand Church power.
That will expand your power,Markwart corrected.
And I serve you, father Abbot.De'Unnero was answering before Mark-wart ever finished the thought.The King will not choose to go against us now, not when the easier course is to let us help him through this chaotic aftermath of war.
It made sense, Markwart had to admit.I will go to Je'howith this very night, he agreed, but then his tone changed.You are to take no decisive actions on any matter without my permission, he warned.The times are too dangerous, and our positions too tentative for me to trust the judgment of one as inexperienced as Marcalo De'Unnero.
But concerning Baron Bildeborough,De'Unnero responded,am I to assume that you approve?
Markwart broke the connection immediately, his spirit flying from that place. He came back into his body in a few minutes, wearing a wide smile. He should have gone to bed then, for such a long use of the soul stone was terribly draining, but strangely, the Father Abbot felt rejuvenated, hungry for more information.
Instead, he sent his spirit west and south to the one city in all Honce- the-Bear that was larger than Palmaris.
St. Honce in Ursal was the second largest Abellican abbey, smaller only than St.-Mere-Abelle. It was joined to the palace of the King by a long, narrow hall known as the bridge. The abbot of St. Honce traditionally served as spiritual adviser to the King and his court. Markwart knew the place well. Here, he had been anointed as Father Abbot of the Order by Abbot Sherman, who had been succeeded by Abbot Dellahunt, who had been succeeded by Je'howith. The ceremony had been formalized by King Danube Cole Ursal, the father of the present king. Markwart had little trouble finding the private rooms of the abbot.
Je'howith's response to the spiritual intrusion, once he had gathered up his soul stone and gone out of body, was absolute delight.What wonders such quick communication might bring to the world! his spirit exclaimed.Think of the gains to warfare if captains could so communicate with their field commanders! Think of- -
Enough,Markwart's spirit interrupted, knowing the man's hopes to be nothing more than illusions. None but he could so powerfully spirit-walk - no abbot, no master, and surely no secular soldier!I have a task for you. You have heard of the death of Baron Bildeborough, and that he was with-out heir?
Word reached us just this day,Je'howith replied somberly.Truth, father Abbot, I have barely found a moment's rest. I only returned to Ursal this week, and now -
Then you know of the vacancy in Palmaris,Markwart interrupted, having no time for Je'howith's blabbering.
A problem that King Danube considers wearily,Je'howith answered.The poor man is near to breaking, I fear, though the war is finally won. He has faced so many problems these last few months, after years of peace.
Then let us lessen his troubles,Markwart offered.Convince him to give the barony to Abbot De'Unnero and let the Church handle the troubles of Palmaris.
The abbot's surprise was evident in the posture of his spirit form.King Danube does not even know this Marcalo De'Unnero. Nor do I, if the truth be told, except we met once at the College of Abbots.
Take my word as recommendation of his character and his ability to rule Palmaris,Markwart instructed.And understand that even in the combined position of baron and abbot, called bishop in past days, Marcalo De'Unnero will answer to me - and to you, if you do not fail me in this.
That last thought was too much bait to be ignored.
You do remember that the Church once ruled beside the King,Markwart went on. Je'howith's spirit was nodding and smiling.Convince the King.
Perhaps I could go and meet Abbot De'Unnero through the soul stone, much as you - Je'howith began, but Markwart cut him short.
You could not attain this level of clarity,the Father Abbot explained honestly - and angrily - for he did not believe that Je'howith could perform this level of magic.This is my magic, and mine alone. It is not to be discussed, nor initiated, by you, though I may come to you often in the future.
The humility and submission that came back from Je'howith satisfied the Father Abbot, and so he soared back across the miles to St.-Mere-Abelle. There, despite his tremendous expenditure of magical energy, he was still restless. He paced for more than an hour, trying to gain perspective on the new routes of power that suddenly seemed open to him. Just that morning, Markwart had thought his reputation in Church history settled, the only possibility of elevating it being the retrieval of the stolen gemstones. But now the issue of the stones seemed almost trivial. De'Unnero's claim that the Church had once played a more active role in governing was true enough: a king of Honce-the-Bear, in ages long past, had actually been anointed as Father Abbot of the Abellican Order. But for hundreds of years, the balance of power in the kingdom had held relatively stable between Church and state: separate, but powerful, entities. The king saw to the secular activities of his subjects, managed the standing army, and handled disputes with the neighboring kingdoms of Behren and Alpinador, but claimed little lordship over the powers of the Church. In many reaches of the kingdom, particularly the smaller villages, the Church was far more influential than the distant King, whose full name many of the subjects did not even know.
But now, because of Markwart's wise and prudent actions in Palmaris, the elimination of Connor Bildeborough and Abbot Dobrinion, and because of the subsequent death of the Baron, the balance of power in the kingdom might be shifted in favor of the Church. Danube Brock Ursal was weary, by Je'howith's own words. If Je'howith managed to wrest Palmaris from him ...
Obviously, neither Markwart nor Je'howith had many years left to live - they were both in their seventies. Suddenly the Father Abbot wasn't satis-fied with that place he had secured in Church history. Suddenly hisambition went far higher - and so had Je'howith's, he believed. Together they could use men like De'Unnero to change the world.
Father Abbot Markwart was immensely pleased by such a prospect.
Not far from the quarters of the Father Abbot, Brother Francis Dellacourt stood in his candlelit room, staring at his reflection in a mirror. The dark shadows about him seemed a fitting frame to the beleaguered man.
For most of his life, Francis had placed himself on a secret pedestal, above the average man - above any man. He never consciously told himself that he was the chosen of God, but he had believed it, as if all the world were merely a dream played out for his personal benefit. Francis had believed himself without sin, the perfect reflection of the perfect God.
But then he had killed Grady Chilichunk on the road from Palmaris.
It had been an accident, Francis knew, for his blow to Grady's head was only supposed to stun the man and prevent him from continuing his disre-spect for the Father Abbot. But Grady had not awoken the next day, and the image of dirt falling on Grady's lifeless, bloated face as Francis had buried him had haunted the monk ever since, and had kicked the secret pedestal out from beneath his feet.
All the events of the world had swirled about Francis since that fateful day. He had watched Father Abbot Markwart order the torture and execu-tion of Master Jojonah, and while he had never actually cared for Jojonah, Francis could hardly believe the punishment fitting.
But Francis had gone along with it, had served the Father Abbot slav-ishly, for the leader of the Abellican Order had placed no blame on Francis, had insisted that Francis had acted appropriately and that the fate of Grady - and the fate of Grady's parents - had been caused by their own sacrilege. Thus Francis had become even more devoted to Markwart, had come to believe that his only chance of reclaiming his pedestal was to follow in the shadow of the great leader.
And then Markwart had ordered Jojonah dragged from the hall at the College of Abbots. The soldiers pulling the master had taken him right by Francis, and Francis had looked into Jojonah's doomed eyes.
And the doomed master, who had learned the truth about Grady's death and who understood that Francis had been responsible, had forgiven Francis.
Now the young monk could only stare at the dark shadows surrounding his mortal form like stains on his eternal soul, and battle futilely with the confusing jumble of remorse and guilt that swirled in his thoughts.
His pedestal was gone, his innocence lost.
Another man was awake in St.-Mere-Abelle at that late hour, washing the dishes, a task that he should have completed much earlier that evening. But other duties - the planning of his next, and boldest, scouting mission - haddelayed Roger Lockless that night. Roger had come to this place after wit-nessing the murder of Baron Bildeborough on the road south of Palmaris. He had run to St.-Mere-Abelle in the hopes of finding Elbryan and Pony; and in the town of St.-Mere-Abelle, some three miles inland from the great abbey, he had witnessed yet another murder, the execution of a man named Jojonah.
Roger was a slight man, barely over five feet tall and weighing no more than the average fifteen-year-old boy. His growth had been stunted by a disease - the same illness that had taken his parents. He was quite familiar with the ways of street beggars and knew how to play the "pitiful waif" to perfection. He had found little trouble securing a job from the generous Master Machuso of St.-Mere-Abelle, and had worked in the abbey for the last three weeks. In that time, Roger had heard many rumors, garnering enough confirmation to believe that Master Jojonah had aided some intruders who rescued Bradwarden from the Father Abbot's dungeons. But then the story got confusing, full of conflicting rumors, and Roger wasn't certain if these intruders - whom he knew were Elbryan, Pony, and Bel-li'mar Juraviel - had gotten away, though he did know that Bradwarden was no longer in the abbey. He believed that his friends had also escaped, but before he would leave his job at the abbey, Roger had to make certain.
He thought he knew where he would find his answers, though the notion of going into the private quarters of a man as powerful as Dalebert Markwart was unnerving even to the man who had taunted powries in their encampment at Caer Tinella; defeated a brother justice of the Abellican Church; earned "Lockless" as his surname; and, most significantly of all, earned the respect of Nightbird.