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PROLOGUE



Jilseponie-Pony-sat on the crenellated roof of the one squat tower of
St. Precious Abbey in the great city of Palmaris, looking out over the
snow-covered rooftops, her gaze drifting inevitably to the dark flowing
waters of the Masur Delaval. A bitterly cold wind nipped at her, but Pony,
deep in memories, hardly noticed the sting. All the region, the northwestern
expanses of the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear, had experienced an early
snow only a week before, winter coming on in full force, though the year
had not seen the end of the tenth month.

By all estimations, the war against the demon Bestesbulzibar and its
goblin, giant, and powrie minions had gone unexpectedly well, had been
completed with minimal loss of human life and without a single major city
burned to the ground. Now with winter, though, the aftereffects of that war
were beginning to show, most notably the food shortages in villages whose
supplies had been diverted to towns that had harbored the King's soldiers.
Rumors had come to Palmaris of uprisings in some of those villages against
King Danube and against the Abellican Church, whose leader had surely
acted in the interests of the demon. Other rumors spoke of several mysterious deaths along the coast of the Mantis Arm and of a group of fanatics
threatening to break away from the Abellican Church while rejecting out-
right the notion of any church dedicated to Avelyn Desbris.

So the war had ended here in Palmaris, but it seemed to the grieving
Pony as if the turmoil had only begun.

Or was it merely a continuing thing? she wondered. Was such travesty
and turmoil, such unrest, merely a reflection of the human condition, an
unending procession of one battle after another, of one cause of bitterness
replacing another? The notion stung Pony deeply, for if that were the case,
then what had they really accomplished? What had been bought by their sacrifice?

Why had Elbryan, her beloved husband, died?

Pony gave a helpless sigh at the futility of it all. She thought back to her
early days, up in the wild Timberlands, in Dundalis, when she and Elbryan
had grown up together, carefree. She remembered running down the
wooded trails beside the boy, running particularly among the white caribou
moss in the pine-filled valley north of their village. She remembered
climbing the northern slope beside him one chilly night, looking up at the
sky to see Corona's Halo, the beautiful multicolored ring that encircled the
world, the source, she had later come to learn, of the blessed magical gem-
stones that served as the power and focus of faith of the Abellican Church.

The next dawn, Pony and Elbryan had witnessed the return of their
fathers and the other hunters. How clearly Pony now remembered that,
running, full of excitement, full of anticipation, full of-

Horror. For suspended from a shoulder pole had hung a most curious
and ugly little creature: a goblin. Never could Pony or Elbryan have fore-
seen that slain little brute as a harbinger of such doom. But soon after, the
goblins had attacked in force, burning Dundalis to the ground, slaughtering
everyone except Pony and Elbryan, the two of them somehow managing
separately to elude the monsters, each not knowing that the other had
survived.

And afterward Pony had wound up here, in Palmaris, bereft of memory
and identity, adopted by Graevis and Pettibwa Chilichunk, patrons of the
bustling tavern Fellowship Way.

Pony looked out across the quiet city now, in the direction where that
establishment had stood. What wild turns fate had placed in her path: married to the favored nephew of the city's Baron Bildeborough; the wedding
annulled forthwith and Pony indentured in the King's army; her ascension
to the elite Coastpoint Guard and her appointment to Pireth Tuime; the
coming of the powries and the fall of that fortress. It had all taken years, but
to Pony now it seemed as if it had happened overnight. She could again feel
the chill deep in her bones as she had escaped doomed Pireth Tuime,
floating in the cold waters of the Gulf of Corona. Perhaps it was fate, per-
haps mere chance, that had pulled her from those waters in the vicinity of
Avelyn Desbris, the "mad friar" from St.-Mere-Abelle who was being
hunted by the Church for the death of a master and the theft of many of the
sacred magical gemstones. Avelyn had taken Pony back to Dundalis, and
there she had been reunited with Elbryan, who had returned to the region
after being trained as a ranger by the mysterious Touel'alfar.

What a dark road the three had walked from there: to Aida and the
demon dactyl; back across the kingdom to St.-Mere-Abelle, where Pony's
adoptive parents had been imprisoned and had died; and then back
again-a road that should have lightened, despite the grief, but that had
only darkened more as the evil that was Bestesbulzibar, the dactyl demon,
infected Father Abbot Markwart with a singular desire to do battle with
Elbryan and Pony.

And so he had, in that same mansion where Pony had spent her wedding
night with Connor Bildeborough, the mansion of horrors where Elbryan
and Pony had waged the final fight against Markwart, and had won, though
at the price of Elbryan's life.

Now Pony wasn't sure what they had won and what it had been worth.
She recognized the almost circular nature of her long journey; but instead
of drawing comfort from that, she felt restless and trapped.

"It is far too cold for you to be up here, I fear," came a gentle voice
behind her, the voice of Brother Braumin Herde, the leader of the band of
monks who had followed Master Jojonah away from the Church, believing
as they did in Avelyn's goodness, one of the monks who had come to join
Elbryan and Pony in their efforts against Markwart.

She turned to regard the handsome man. He was older than Pony by several years-in his early thirties-with black, woolly hair just starting to gray
and a dark complexion made even more so by the fact that no matter how
often he shaved his face, it was always shadowed by black hair.

"It is too unimportant for me to care," she answered quietly. Pony
looked back over the city as he walked up to lean on the wall beside her.

"Thinking of Elbryan? " he asked.

Pony smiled briefly, believing the answer to be obvious.

"Many are saddened," Brother Braumin began-the same hollow words
Pony had been hearing from so many for the last three months. She appreciated their efforts-of course she did!-but, in truth, she wished they would all leave her to her thoughts in private.

"The passage of time will heal ..." Brother Braumin started to say, but
when Pony fixed him with a skeptical glance, he let his words die away.

"Your pain is to be expected," he tried again a moment later. "You must
take solace and faith in God and in the good that came of your actions."

Now Pony glared sternly at him, and the gentle monk retreated a step.

"Good?" she asked.

Braumin held up his hands as if he did not understand.

"They are fighting again, aren't they? " Pony asked, looking back over the
snowy city. "Or should I say that they are fighting still? "

"They?"

"The leaders of your Church," Pony clarified, "and King Danube and his
advisers. Fighting again, fighting always. It changes not at all."

"If the Church is in turmoil, that is understandable, you must admit,"
Braumin returned firmly. "We have lost our Father Abbot."

"You lost him long before I killed him," Pony interjected.

"True enough," the monk admitted. "But still it came as a shock to so
many who supported Dalebert Markwart to learn the truth: to learn that
Bestesbulzibar-curse his name, the ultimate darkness-had so infiltrated
our ranks as to pervert the Father Abbot himself."

"And now he is gone and you are better off," Pony remarked.

Brother Braumin didn't immediately respond, and Pony understood that
she wasn't being fair to him. He was a friend, after all, who had done
nothing but try to help her and Elbryan, and her sarcasm was certainly
wounding him. She looked at him directly and started to say something but
bit it back immediately. So be it, she decided, for she could not find generosity in her heart. Not yet.

"We are better off by far," Braumin decided, turning the sarcasm back.
"And better off we would be by far if Jilseponie would reconsider the
offer."

Pony was shaking her head before he completed the all-too-predictable
request. Reconsider the offer. Always that. They wanted her to become the
mother abbess of the Abellican Church, though nothing of the sort had
ever been heard of in the long history of the patriarchal Order. Brother
Francis, Markwart's staunchest follower, had suggested it, even while
holding the dying Markwart in his arms, the demon burned from the Father
Abbot's body by the faith and strength of Pony and Elbryan. Francis had
seen the truth during that terrible battle, and the truth of his terrible
master. Pony had killed the demon that Markwart had become, and
now several very influential monks were hinting that they wanted Pony to
replace him.

Some of them were, at least. Pony didn't delude herself into thinking that
such a break with tradition as appointing a woman to head the Church-
and a woman who had just killed the previous leader!-would be without
its vehement opponents. The battles would be endless, and, to Pony's way
of thinking, perfectly pointless.

If that wasn't complicated enough, another offer had come to her, one
from King Danube himself, offering to name her Baroness of Palmaris,
though she obviously had no qualifications for the position either, other
than her newfound heroic reputation. Pony wasn't blind to the reality of it:

in the aftermath of the war both Church and Crown were jockeying for
power. Whichever side could claim Jilseponie, companion of Elbryan the
Nightbird, as friend, could claim to have promoted her to a position of
power, would gain much in the battle for the hearts and loyalty of the
common folk of Palmaris and the surrounding region.

Pony began to laugh quietly as she looked away from Brother Braumin,
out over the snow-blanketed city. She loved the snow, especially when it fell
deep from blustery skies, draping walls of white over the sides of buildings.
Far from a hardship such weather seemed to Pony. Rather, she considered
it a reprieve, an excuse to sit quietly by a blazing fire, accountable to no one
and without responsibility. Also, because of the unexpectedly early storm,
King Danube had been forced to delay his return to Ursal. If the weather
did not cooperate, the king might have to wait out the winter in Palmaris,
which took some of the pressure off Pony to either accept or reject his offer
of the barony.

Though the weather had cooperated, Pony felt little reprieve. Once she
had called this city home. But now, with so much pain associated with the
place-the ruins of Fellowship Way, the loss of her adoptive family and her
beloved Elbryan-no longer could she see any goodness here or recall any
warm memories.

"If he retains the barony, Duke Kalas will battle St. Precious in every
policy," Brother Braumin remarked, drawing Pony from her thoughts. But
only temporarily, for the mere mention of the forceful Duke, the temporary
Baron of Palmaris, inevitably led her to consider the man's residence, the
very house in which her marriage to Connor Bildeborough had swiftly
descended into chaos, the house wherein Markwart had taken Elbryan
from her forever.

"How will we win those battles without heroic Jilseponie leading us? "
Braumin dared ask. He draped his arm about Pony's shoulders, and that
brought, at last, a genuine smile to the woman's beautiful face. "Or perhaps
Jilseponie could take the King's offer instead. . . ."

"Am I to be a figurehead, then? " she asked. "For you or for the Crown?
A symbol that will allow Braumin and his friends to attain that which they
desire? "

"Never that!" the monk replied, feigning horror; for it was obvious that
he understood Pony was teasing him.

"I told Bradwarden and Roger Lockless that I would join them up in
Dundalis," Pony remarked; and, indeed, as she said it, she was think-
ing that traveling back to her first home might not be such a bad thing.
Elbryan was buried up there, where it was . . . cleaner. Yes, that was a good
word to describe it, Pony decided. Cleaner. More removed from the dirt of
humankind's endless bickering. Of course, she, too, was trapped here, and
likely for the entire winter, for the road north was not an easy one this
season.

She glanced over to see a disappointed Brother Braumin. She honestly
liked the man and his eager cohorts, idealists all, who believed they would
repair the Abellican Church, put it back on a righteous course by following
the teachings of Avelyn. That last thought made Pony smile again: laughing
inside but holding her mirth there because she did not want to seem to
mock this man. Braumin and his friends hadn't even known Avelyn-not
the real Avelyn, not the man known as the mad friar. Braumin had joined
the Abellican Order the year before Avelyn, God's Year 815. Both Master
Francis and Brother Marlboro Viscenti, Braumin's closest friend, had come
in with Avelyn's class in the fall of God's Year 816. But Avelyn and three
others had been separated from the rest of their class as they had begun
their all-important preparations for the journey to the Isle of Pimaninicuit.
The only recollection Braumin, Viscenti, or Francis even had of Avelyn
was on the day when the four chosen monks had sailed out of All Saints
Bay, bound for the island where they would collect the sacred gemstones.
Braumin had never seen Avelyn after he had run off from St.-Mere-Abelle,
after he had become the mad friar, with his barroom brawling and his
too-frequent drinking-and wouldn't the canonization process of rowdy
Avelyn Desbris be colorful indeed!

"Too cold up here," Brother Braumin said again, tightening his grip on
Pony's shoulders, pulling her closer that she might share his warmth. "Pray
come inside and sit by a fire. There is too much sickness spreading in the
aftermath of war, and darker would the world be ifJilseponie took ill."

Pony didn't resist as he led her toward the tower door. Yes, she did like
Brother Braumin and his cohorts, the group of monks who had risked
everything to try to find the truth of the world after the turmoil stirred up
by the defection of Avelyn Desbris and his theft of so many magical gem-
stones. It went deeper than liking, she recognized, watching the true con-
cern on his gentle and youthful face, feeling the strong and eager spring in
his energetic step. She envied him, because he was full of youth, much more
so than she, though he was the older.

But Brother Braumin, Pony realized within her darkened perception,
was possessed of something she could no longer claim.

Hope.

"Brennilee! Ye've not fed the chickens, ye silly lass!" Merry Cowsenfed
called out the front door of her small house. "Oh, Brennilee, where've ye
got yerself to, girl?" She shook her head and grumbled. Truly Brennilee,
her youngest child, was the most troublesome seven-year-old Merry had
ever heard of, always running across the rocky cliffs and the dunes below,
sometimes daring the brutal tidewaters of Falidean Bay-which could bring
twenty feet of water rushing across the muddy ground in a matter of a few
running strides-in her endless quest for adventure and enjoyment.

And always, always, did Brennilee forget her chores before she went on
her wild runs. Every morning, Merry Cowsenfed heard those chickens com-
plaining, and every morning, the woman had to go to her door and call out.

"I'm here. Mum," came a quiet voice behind her, a voice Merry hardly
recognized as that of her spirited daughter.

"Ye missed yer breakfast," Merry replied, turning, "and so've the
chickens."

"I'll feed 'em," Brennilee said quietly, too quietly. Merry Cowsenfed
quickly closed the distance to her unexpectedly fragile-looking daughter
and brought her palm up against Brennilee's forehead, feeling for fever.

"Are ye all right, girl? " she asked, and then her eyes widened, for Bren-
nilee was warm to the touch.

"I'm not feelin' good, Mum," the girl admitted.

"Come on, then. I'll get ye to bed and get ye some soup to warm ye," the
woman said, taking Brennilee by the wrist.

"But the chickens..."

"The chickens'll get theirs after ye're warm in yer bed," Merry
Cowsenfed started to say, turning back with a wide, warm smile for her
daughter.

Her smile evaporated when she saw on the little girl's arm a rosy spot
encircled by a white ring.

Merry Cowsenfed composed herself quickly for her daughter's sake, and
brought the arm up for closer inspection. "Did ye hurt yerself, then?" she
asked the girl, and there was no mistaking the hopeful tone of her question.

"No," Brennilee replied, and she moved her face closer, too, to see what
was so interesting to her mother.

Merry studied the rosy spot for just a moment. "Ye go to bed now," she
instructed. "Ye pull only the one sheet over ye, so that ye're not overheatin'
with the little fever ye got."

"Am I going to get sicker? " Brennilee asked innocently.

Merry painted a smile on her face. "No, ye'U be fine, me girl," she lied,
and she knew indeed how great a lie it was! " Now get ye to bed and I'll be
bringing ye yer soup."

Brennilee smiled. As soon as she was out of the room, Merry Cowsenfed
collapsed into a great sobbing ball of fear.

She'd have to get the Falidean town healer to come quickly and see the
girl. She reminded herself repeatedly that she'd need a wiser person than
she to confirm her suspicion, that it might be something altogether dif-
ferent: a spider bite or a bruise from one of the sharp rocks that Brennilee
was forever scrambling across. It was too soon for such terror, Merry
Cowsenfed told herself repeatedly.

Ring around the rosy.

It was an old song in Falidean town, as in most of the towns of Honce-
the-Bear.

It was a song about the plague.
Was the victory worth the cost?

It pains me even to speak those words aloud, and, in truth, the
question seems to reflect a selfishness, an attitude disrespectful to the
memory of all those who gave their lives battling the darkness that had
come to Corona. If I wish Elbryan back alive-and Avelyn and so
many others-am I diminishing their sacrifice? I was there with
Elhryan, joined in spirit, bonded to stand united against the demon
dactyl that had come to reside in the corporeal form of father Abbot
Markwart. I watched and felt Elbryan's spirit dimmish and dissipate
into nothingness even as I witnessed the breaking of the blackness, the
destruction of Bestesbulzibar.

And I felt, too, Elbryan's willingness to make the sacrifice, his desire
to see the battle through to the only acceptable conclusion, even
though that victory, he knew, would take his life. He was a ranger,
trained by the Touel'alfar, a servant and protector of mankind, and
those tenets demanded of him responsibility and the greatest altruism.

And so he died contented, in the knowledge that he had lifted the
blackness from the Church and the land.

All our lives together, since I had returned to Dundalis and found
Elbryan, had been one of willing sacrifice, of risk taking. How many
battles did we fight, even though we might have avoided them? We
walked to the heart of the dactyl, to Mount Aida in the Karbacan,
though we truly believed that to be a hopeless road, though we fully
expected that all of us would die, and likely in vain, in our attempt to
battle an evil that seemed so very far beyond us. And yet we went.
Willingly. With hope, and with the understanding that we had to do
this thing, whatever the cost, for the betterment of the world.

It came full circle that day in Chasewind Manor, when finally,
finally, we caught, not the physical manifestation of Kestesbulzibar, but
rather the demon's spirit, the very essence of evil. We won the day,
shattering that evil.

But was the victory worth the cost?

I look back on the last few years of my life, and I cannot discount
that question. I remember all the good people, all the great people,
who passed from this world in the course of the journey that led me to
this point, and, at times, it seems to me to be a great and worthless
waste.

I know that I dishonor Elbryan and likely anger his ghost with these
emotions, but they are very real.

We battled, we fought, we gave of ourselves all that we could and
more. Most of all, though, it seems to me as if we've spent the bulk of
time burying our dead. Even that cost, I had hoped, would prove
worthwhile in those few shining moments after I awakened from my
battle with the demon spirit, in the proclamations of Brother Francis,
of Brother Braumin, and of the King himself that Elbryan had not
died in vain, that the world, because of our actions, would, he a better
place. I dared to hope that my love's sacrifice, that our sacrifice, would
be enough, would turn the tide of humankind and better the world
for all.

Is Honce-the-Bear better off for the fall ofMarkwart?

With sudden response, the answer seems obvious; in that shining
moment of clarity and hope, the answer seemed obvious.

That moment, I fear, has passed. In the fog of confusion, in the
shifting and shoving for personal gain, in the politics of court and
Church, that moment of glory, of sadness, and of hope has diminished
into bickering.

Like Elbryan s spirit, it becomes something less than substantial and
drifts away on unseen winds.

And I am left alone in Palmaris, watching the world descend into
chaos. Demon inspired? Perhaps, or perhaps-and this is my greatest
fear-this confusion is merely the nature of humankind,, as eternal as
the human spirit, an unending cycle of pain and sacrifice, a series of
brilliant, twinkling hopes that fade as surely as do the stars at dawn.
Did I, and Elbryan, bring the world through its darkness, or did we
merely guide it safely through one long night, with another sure to
follow?

That is my fear and my belief. When I sit and remember all those
who gave their lives so that we could walk this road to its end, I fear
that we have merely returned to the beginning of that same path.

In light of that understanding, I say with conviction that the victory
was not worth the cost.

-JILSEPONIE WYNDON

CHAPTER 1

The Show of Strength

The mud sucked at his boots as he walked along the narrow, smoky
corridor, a procession of armored soldiers in step behind him. The
conditions were not to his liking-he didn't want his "prisoners"
growing obstinate, after all.

Around a bend in the tunnel the light increased and the air cleared, and
before Duke Targon Bree Kalas loomed a wider and higher chamber, its
one entrance securely barred. Kalas motioned to a soldier behind him, and
the man hustled forward, fumbling with keys and hastily unlocking the cell
door. Other soldiers tried to slip by, to enter the cell protectively before
their leader, but Kalas slapped them back and strode in.

A score of dwarvish faces turned his way, the normally ruddy-complexioned
powries seeming a bit paler after months imprisoned underground.

Kalas studied those faces carefully, noting the narrowing of eyes, a reflec-
tion, he knew, of seething hatred. It wasn't that the powries hated him par-
ticularly, but rather that they merely hated any human.

Again, almost as one, the dwarves turned away from him, back to their
conversations and myriad games they had invented to pass the tedious
hours.

One of the soldiers began calling them to attention, but Duke Kalas cut
him short and waved him and the others back. Then he stood by the door,
calmly, patiently letting them come to him.

"Yach, it's to wait all the damned day if we isn't to spake with it," one
powrie said at last. The creature removed its red beret-a cap shining
bright with the blood of its victims-and scratched its itchy, lice-filled hair,
then replaced the cap and hopped up, striding to stand before the Duke.

"Ye comin' down to see our partyin'? " the dwarf asked.

Kalas didn't blink, staring at the powrie sternly. This dwarf, the leader,
was always the sarcastic one, and he always seemed to need a reminder that
he had been captured while waging war on the kingdom, that he and his
wretched little fellows were alive only by the grace of Duke Kalas.

"Well?" the dwarf, Dalump Keedump by name, went on obstinately.

"I told you that I would require your services at the turn of the season,"
Duke Kalas stated quietly.

"And we're to be knowin' that the season's turned?" Keedump asked
sarcastically. He turned to his fellows. "Are ye thinkin' the sun to be ridin'
lower in the sky these days? " he asked with a wicked little laugh.

"Would you like to see the sun again?" Duke Kalas asked him in all
seriousness.

Dalump Keedump eyed him long and hard. "Ye think ye're to break us,
then?" the dwarf asked. "We spent more time in a barrelboat, tighter and
dirtier than this, ye fool."

Kalas let a long moment slip past, staring at the dwarf, not daring to blink.
Then he nodded slighdy and turned, leaving the cell, pulling its door closed
behind him as he returned to the muddy corridor with his soldiers. "Very well,
then," he said. "Perhaps I will return in a few days-the first face you will see,
I assure you. Perhaps after you have murdered some of your companions for
food, you will better hear my propositions." And he walked away, as did his
men, having every intention of carrying through with his threat.

He had gone several steps before Dalump called out to him. "Ye came all
the way down here. Ye might as well be tellin' us what ye gots in mind."

Kalas smiled and moved back to the cell door. Now the other dwarves,
suddenly interested in the conversation, crowded behind Dalump.

"Extra rations and more comfortable bedding," the Duke teased.

"Yach, but ye said we'd be walkin' free!" Dalump Keedump protested.
"Or sailin' free, on a boat back to our homes."

"In time, my little friend, in time," Kalas replied. "I am in need of an
enemy, that I might show the rabble the strength of the Allhearts and thus
bring them the security they desperately need. Assist me in this, and the
arrangements will be made for your release soon enough."

Another of the dwarves, his face a mask of frustration, rushed forward,
shouldering past Dalump. "And if we doesn't?" he asked angrily.

Duke Kalas' fine sword was out in the blink of a powrie eye, its point
snapping against the obstinate fellow's throat, pressing firmly. "If you do
not, then so be it," Kalas said calmly, turning to eye Dalump directly as he
spoke. "From our first meeting, I have been clear in my intentions and
honest in our dealings. Choose your course, Dalump Keedump, and accept
the consequences."

The powrie leader glared at his upstart second.

"Fairly caught," Duke Kalas reminded, rather poignantly, considering
that his sword was still out and the statement was true enough. Dalump and
his group had been fairly caught on the field of battle, as they had attacked
this city. Duke Kalas was bound by no codes or rules in dealing with the
powries. He could execute them openly and horribly in Palmaris' largest
square, or he could let them starve to death down here in the dungeons
beneath Chasewind Manor, forgotten by all.

Dalump shifted his gaze back and forth between Kalas and the upstart
powrie, his expression hinting that he wanted to choke them both-wanted
to choke anybody or anything-just to relieve the mounting frustration
accompanying this wretched situation. "Tell me yer stinkin' plan," he reluc-
tantly agreed.

Duke Kalas nodded and smiled again.

Duke Kalas walked onto the rear balcony of Chasewind Manor early in
the morning a few days later. The air was heavy with fog and drizzle, a per-
fectly miserable day, but one to Kalas' liking. It had turned warmer again,
though they still had more than a month before the winter solstice. The
remnants of the previous blizzard, winter's first blast, were fast melting, and
the reports Kalas had received the day before indicated that grass was
showing again on the windblown western fields.

That fact, plus the gathering storm clouds in the west threatening a
second storm, had prompted the Duke's action, and now, with the poor visi-
bility, he could not have asked for a better morning. He heard the door
open behind him, and he turned to see King Danube Brock Ursal step out
to join him.

He was a few years older than his dear friend Kalas, and rounder in the
middle, but his hair remained thick and black, and his beard, a new addi-
tion, showed no signs of graying.

"I hope to sail within the week," Danube remarked. Kalas was not sur-
prised, since Bretherford, Duke of the Mirianic and commander of the
King's navy, had indicated as much to him the previous evening.

"You will have favorable weather all the way back to Ursal," Duke Kalas
assured his beloved king, though he feared the decision to travel. If winter
weather came on again with the fleet still in the northern waters of the
Masur Delaval, the result could be catastrophic.

"So Bretherford believes," said Danube. "In truth, I am more concerned
about the situation I leave behind."

Kalas looked at him, his expression wounded.

"Brother Braumin seems formidable and, to the common man, likable,"
Danube elaborated. "And if the woman Jilseponie stands by him-along
with Markwart's former lackey Francis-then their appeal to the folk of
Palmaris will be considerable. I remind you that Brother Francis endeared
himself to the people in the last days of Markwart, when he served the city
as bishop."

Kalas could find little to dispute, for he and Danube had discussed the
situation at length many times since the fall of Markwart and the hero,
Elbryan, in this very house.
"Jilseponie has formally refused your offer, then?" Kalas asked.

"I will speak with her one last time," King Danube replied, "but I doubt
that she will comply. Old Je'howith has spent much time in St. Precious,
and has indicated to me that the woman is truly broken and without
ambition."

The mere mention of Je'howith, the abbot of Ursal's St. Honce and a
close adviser to Danube, made Kalas narrow his eyes suspiciously. It was no
secret among the court that Je'howith hated Jilseponie above all others. He
had been Markwart's man, and she and her dead lover had killed Mark-
wart, had turned his secure little church world upside down. Je'howith had
pushed King Danube to raise the woman to the position of baroness. With
Pony in secular circles, answerable to the King, her influence on the Church
would come from outside, far less dangerous, to Je'howith's thinking, than
from inside.

"Abbot Je'howith favors the appointment of Jilseponie as baroness,"
Danube pointedly reminded Kalas.

"Abbot Je'howith would more favor her execution," Kalas replied.

Danube gave a laugh at the irony. At one point, both Pony and Elbryan,
imprisoned in St. Precious, had been slated for execution by Father Abbot
Markwart.

Their conversation was interrupted by a tumult in the grand house
behind them.

"Reports of a powrie force outside the western wall," Duke Kalas
explained with a wry grin.

"You play a dangerous game," the King returned, then he nodded, for he
did not disagree with the necessity of the ruse. "I will not go to the wall," he
decided, though he and Kalas had previously spoken of his attendance.
"Thus will suspicions of any conspiracy be lessened."

Duke Kalas paused, staring thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded in
agreement.

The King's other close adviser-but one who was unaware of Kalas'
strategem, a lady of the court named Constance Pemblebury-came
through the balcony doors, her face flushed. "Bloody cap powries," she said
breathlessly. "There are reports that they are attacking the western gate!"

Kalas put on an alarmed expression. "I'll rouse the Allhearts," he said,
and he rushed from the balcony.

Constance moved beside the King, who draped an arm casually about
her and kissed her cheek. "Fear not, dear Constance," he said. "Duke Kalas
and his charges will more than meet the attack."

Constance nodded and seemed to calm a bit. She knew the proud All-
heart Brigade well, had seen their splendor on the field many times.
Besides, how could she be afraid, up here on the balcony of the magnificent
Chasewind Manor, in the arms of the man she adored?

She woke to the sounds of shouting, lifted her head from her pillow just
as a brown-robed monk ran by her small room, crying, "Powries! Powries
at the western gate!"

Pony's eyes popped open and she scrambled out of her bed. Not much
could rouse her from her grieving lethargy, but the cry "Powries," those
wretched and tough murderous dwarves, made her blood boil with rage.
She was dressed and out the door in moments, rushing along the dim corri-
dors of St. Precious, finally finding brothers Braumin Herde, Francis,
Anders Castinagis, and Marlboro Viscenti gathered together in the nave of
the abbey's large chapel-the same chapel wherein Pony had married
Connor Bildeborough all those years ago.

"Are they in the city? " she asked.

"We know not," said Francis, seeming calm indeed.

Pony spent a long moment studying him. Once she had considered
Francis a hated enemy, had watched Elbryan beat him senseless in the
bowels of St.-Mere-Abelle, but what a change had come over the man since
the revelations and subsequent fall of Father Abbot Markwart! Pony still
held no love for him, but she had come to trust him somewhat.

"They are out beyond the west wall, so say the reports," Brother
Braumin put in. "Whether they have breached the city-"

"Or even whether or not those reports are accurate," Brother Viscenti, a
nervous little man with fast-thinning light brown hair and far too many
twitches, quickly added. When Braumin looked at him hard, he continued.
"The people remain nervous. Are such frantic reports to be believed out of
hand?"

"True enough," said Braumin. "But, still, we must assume that the report
is accurate."

Another group of monks hustled in then, the lead brother waving a bag
in front of him.

Pony understood without even asking. They had brought gemstones-
mostly hematite, likely, that any wounds might be magically tended.

"Out to the wall we go," Brother Braumin said to her as the others
started away. "Will you join us? "

Pony thought on it for just a moment. She wanted nothing to do with any
battles, in truth, but neither could she ignore the responsibility laid before
her. If there were powries outside Palmaris' western gate, then likely there
would be fighting, and any fighting against powries would mean wounded
men. No one in all Corona could wield the gemstones as powerfully as
Pony. Was there a wound she could not heal?

One, at least, she reminded herself, the one in her own heart,

She followed Brother Braumin out to the city's western wall.
From an alley, Duke Kalas watched the bustle upon the western wall.
"There!" one man cried, and the city guardsmen nearly fell over themselves
trying to bring their bows to bear, letting fly a volley of arrows into the mist
that likely hit nothing but grass.

They were frightened, Kalas recognized, scared nearly witless. The
folk of Palmaris had been involved in more fighting than those of any
other major city in Honce-the-Bear during the war, and their city guard had
done themselves proud. But they had had their fill of it, Kalas knew, and no
one who had ever battled powries wanted another fight with the rugged
dwarves.

Unless, of course, they had made a previous agreement with the dwarves
concerning how that battle would go.

More cries arose and more arrows flew out from the wall. Then a large
group near the center of the crowd cried out and scrambled away, many
leaping the ten feet from the parapet back to the ground.

A moment later came a thunderous report as something heavy slammed
into the wall.

Kalas smiled; his gunners had spent the better part of the previous day
lining up that catapult shot perfectly so that it would hit the wall but do no
real damage.

In response, another volley of arrows went out from the wall into the
mist, and then a series of howls, shouts, and the gravelly voices of the
rugged powries came back at them.

Duke Kalas slipped back into the shadows as another group-Abellican
monks and the woman Jilseponie-rushed to join those soldiers and com-
moners at the wall. The Duke observed their arrival with mixed feelings.
He was glad that the monks had come, and especially thrilled that beautiful
Jilseponie would witness this moment of his glory. But he was also trepida-
tious. Might Jilseponie take up a gemstone and lay low the powries?

With that disturbing thought in mind, Kalas rushed back to the other
end of the alley and waved his arm, the signal to the trumpeters, then ran to
his large pony, the lead To-gai-ru pinto in the line of fifty armored Allheart-
knights.

From nearly every rooftop in the area, it seemed, the trumpets blared, the
rousing battle chorus of the mighty Allheart Brigade. All heads along the
wall turned at the sound and at the ensuing thunder of pounding hooves.

"Throw wide the gates!" came a commanding cry. The city guardsmen
rushed to pull wide the western gates, opening the path.

Out they went, bursting through the gate and onto the field, their silvery
armor gleaming despite the dim light of the drizzly day. With practiced pre-
cision, they brought their powerful ponies into a wedge formation, Duke
Kalas at the point.

The trumpet song continued a few moments longer, and then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. All on the wall hushed and gawked at the spectacle of the legendary Allheart Brigade. Even Pony, who had seen so much,could not miss the majesty of the moment, the King's finest soldiers in theirbright plate mail. Could any force in all the kingdom, in all the world, standagainst them?
At that moment, to Pony, who had felled giants with strokes of magical
lightning, who had witnessed Avelyn blasting away the top of a mountain
with an amethyst, it didn't seem so.

In a powerful swift motion, Duke Kalas brought his sword from its scab-
bard and raised it high into the air.

All was silent, the brief moment of calm before the battle.

From somewhere out in the mist, a powrie cursed.

The charge was on-the blare of trumpets, the thunder of horses, the
clash of steel, and the cries of battle.

From the wall, Pony and the others couldn't see much, just ghostly forms
rushing to and fro in the fog. But then one group of powries burst out of
the mist, charging for the wall. Before the archers could level their bows,
before Pony could even take the offered graphite stone from Brother
Braumin, Duke Kalas and a group of knights charged out behind the dwarves,
trampling and slashing, disposing of them in mere seconds, then whirling
their superb To-gai-ru ponies and thundering back across the field.

Some of those on the wall uttered a few prayers, but most remained
hushed in disbelief, for never had they seen a band of tough powries so
completely and easily overwhelmed.

Out in the mist, the sounds of battle began to recede, the powries obvi-
ously in flight, the Duke and his men giving chase.

The hundreds on or near Palmaris' western wall broke out into cheers
for the Duke, the new Baron of Palmaris.

"Pray they are not being baited," Brother Francis remarked, an obvious
fear given the ease of the rout.

Pony, standing quietly next to him, staring hard at the opaque veil that
had kept so much from her eyes, didn't fear that possibility. She simply had
a sense that it was not so, that Kalas and his Allheart knights had not gone
off into great danger.

Something about the whole battle hadn't seemed . . . right.

She thought about taking up a hematite then, and spirit-walking across
the field, through the veil of mist to watch the Duke's moves more closely.
But she dismissed the notion with a shake of her head.

"What is it?" the observant Brother Braumin asked.

"Nothing at all," Pony replied, running her hand through her damp mop
of thick blond hair. She continued to stare out at the mist, continued to
listen to the cries of battle and dying powries, continued to feel that some-
thing here was not quite right. "Nothing at all."
From a copse across the field, another set of eyes curiously watched the
spectacle of battle. Bedraggled, wet, and miserable with a scraggly beard,
his monk's robes long ago tattered by inner demons, Marcalo De'Unnero
could not understand how a substantial powrie force-and he figured any
force that would go so boldly against Palmaris had to be substantial-had
arrived on the field so suddenly without his noticing the approach. He
had been here for several days, seeking food and shelter, trying to stay alive
and stay sane. He had watched every movement of the few farmers who had
dared to come back out from within the walls of their city, to sit buttoned
down in their modest homes for the winter. He had spent long hours
studying the graceful movements of the skittish animals.

Mostly De'Unnero had watched the animals, his primary prey. He could
sense their moods now, could see the world as they did, and he had noted
no unusual smell of fear in the air that any approaching army, especially one
dragging machines as large as catapults, would likely provoke.

So where had the powries come from?

De'Unnero made his way back into the copse and through the trees, at
last sighting the catapult-just a single war engine-and its crew, its human
crew, in a small lea amid the trees. The gunners, as far as he had discerned,
had lobbed but a single shot and appeared in no hurry to load and fire
another.

"Clever Duke Kalas," De'Unnero, the former brother justice, remarked,
figuring out the ruse and the purpose behind it.

He hushed immediately, hearing the snap of a twig not so far away. Close
enough for him to smell the blood.

"Yach, damned swordsman," he heard a powrie grumble, then he
spotted the bloody cap dwarf, trudging along a path.

Then De'Unnero spotted the gash on the dwarf's shoulder, a bright line
of blood crystal clear to him despite the fog. Yes, he saw it and smelled it,
the sweet fragrance filling his nostrils, permeating his senses.

He felt the first convulsions of change an instant later, growled quietly
against the sudden, sharp pains in his fingers and toes, and then in his
jaw-the transformation of the jaw always hurt the most.

De'Unnero's shoulders lurched forward suddenly as his spine twisted.
He fell to all fours, but that was a more comfortable position anyway, as his
hips rotated.

Now he was a cat, a great orange, black-striped tiger.

"Damned," the approaching powrie cursed. "Said 'e wouldn't hit me so
hard!"

The last words vanished in the powrie's throat as the dwarf came on
guard, sensing suddenly that he was not alone. He started to turn back, but
swung in a terrified rush as the brush rustled and the great cat leaped over
him, bearing him to the ground with frightening speed and ease. The dwarf
flailed wildly and tried to call out, but the cat paws were quicker and
stronger, hooking leathery skin and forcing the powrie's arms away. The
powerful jaws clamped onto his throat.

A moment later, De'Unnero began his morning meal.

His keen senses soon discerned the sounds of others approaching-
horsemen and cursing dwarves-so he bit into the dead powrie's shoulder
and dragged the meal away.

"Ye kilt them to death in battle!" Dalump Keedump accused, spitting
with every word, waggling his stubby finger at Duke Kalas, who sat tall
astride his brown-and-white To-gai-ru pony, seeming unconcerned.

"I told you that several might die," Kalas replied.

"Too many!" grumbled another dwarf, the same one who had chal-
lenged Kalas in the dungeons of Chasewind Manor those days before.
"Ye're a lyin' bastard dog."

A single urging kick sent the Duke's well-trained pony into a leap that
brought him right by the powrie; and with a single fluid motion, Kalas, as
fine a warrior as Honce-the-Bear had to offer, brought his shining sword
out and swiped down, lopping off the powrie's head.

"You think this a game?" the Duke cried at Dalump, at all the remaining
powries. "Shall we cut you all down here and now and make our victory
complete? "

Dalump Keedump, hardly frightened by the death of several of his
kinfolk-in fact, a bit relieved that Kalas had finally disposed of the
loudmouth-hooked his stubby thumbs under the edges of his sleeveless
tunic and tilted his head, staring hard at the Duke. "I'm thinkin' that our
blood just bought us a boat fer home," he said.

Duke Kalas calmed, stared long at the dwarf, and then nodded his head.
"In the spring," he agreed, "as soon as the weather permits. And you will
be treated well until then, with warm blankets and extra food."

"Keep yer blankets and get us some human women for warmin',"
Dalump pressed.

Kalas nearly gave the command to slaughter the rest of the powries then
and there. He'd keep his word to let this group go free, back to their distant
homeland, and he would make sure that they fared better in the dungeons
over the winter, with more supplies. But if he ever saw a grubby powrie
hand anywhere near a human woman, even a lowly peasant whore, he'd
surely cut it off and then take the powrie's head, as well.

"Drag them back in chains tonight," he instructed one of his knights,
"as quietly as possible. Tell any city guards that the captured dwarves
will be interrogated and summarily executed, then put them back in their
cell."

Kalas spun his pony and started away, his closest commanders hurrying
to get their mounts at his side. The Duke stopped, and turned back.

"Count the dead and the living and scour the field," he instructed. "Every
powrie is to be accounted for."

"Ye think we'd stay in yer miserable land any longer than we're havin'
to?" Dalump Keedump asked, but Kalas simply ignored him.

His triumphant return into the city awaited.

They came out of the mist more gloriously than they had entered, the
Duke and his men, and the grime and blood of battle only made their
armor seem all the more brilliant.

Duke Kalas drew out his bloodstained sword and lifted it high into the
air. "Honor in battle, victory to the King!" he cried, the motto of the
mighty AUheart Brigade. Nearly every person on or near the western wall
was cheering wildly, and most were crying.

Duke Kalas soaked it all in, reveling in the glory of the moment, in the
triumph that would strengthen his, and thus, King Danube's, grasp upon
this fragile frontier city. He swept his gaze along the wall, taking in the
relieved and appreciative expressions but then lingering on one figure who
was neither crying nor cheering.

Still, Kalas was thrilled to see that beautiful and dangerous Jilseponie had
witnessed his glorious moment.

CHAPTER 2

Distant Voices

	We must stand united on this," the always excitable Brother Viscenti loudly insisted to Abbot Je'howith. "Would you prefer that King Danube insinuated himself into affairs of the Church?"

The way Brother Viscenti changed his inflection at the end of that ques-
tion altered it from rhetorical to skeptical, even to sarcastic, a point not lost
on brothers Francis and Braumin Herde, who were holding their own con-
versation a short distance away. All the important monks who were in Pal-
maris had gathered this morning in preparation for their final meeting with
King Danube before his departure from the city. Braumin Herde and his
trusted companions, Holan Dellman, Castinagis, and Viscenti, were there,
along with Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle, Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce in
Ursal, and a contingent of lower-ranking monks, the only remaining leaders
of the home abbey of St. Precious, led by Brother Talumus, a young but
eager man who had been instrumental in the momentous events of the pre-
vious months. All the Abellican Church owed a great debt to brave Brother
Talumus, in the estimation of many, Braumin Herde included.

"You think of the King as an enemy," Abbot Je'howith replied at length
to Brother Viscenti. "That is a mistake, and possibly a very dangerous one."

"Nay," Brother Braumin remarked, coming over to intervene. Brother
Viscenti would often lose his good sense in the throes of his agitation,
and any ill-considered retorts at that time would not bode well. Abbot
Je'howith, who had lived for so many years in Ursal, who had helped tutor
young Danube Brock Ursal upon the man's premature ascent to the throne,
held the base of his power in the secular rulers of Honce-the-Bear. " Not
as an enemy," Braumin Herde continued, pointedly moving in front of
Brother Viscenti, cutting him off from Je'howith. "But King Danube's
agenda is not our own. His is based in the worldly, while ours must ascend
to the spiritual."

"Pretty words," Je'howith said with more than a little sarcasm.

"But true enough," Master Francis was swift to respond, moving quickly
to Braumin's side.

Je'howith glared at the man; there was no love between them. Francis
had been Markwart's right hand. Markwart had even prematurely pro-
moted him to master, and then to interim bishop of Palmaris, and then to
the coveted position of abbot of St. Precious, though Francis had immedi-
ately resigned when Markwart died, after the revelations that the demon
dactyl had been guiding the Father Abbot. But Je'howith, too, had been
firmly in Markwart's court, and that court could have remained strong even
after the Father Abbot's demise. Indeed, if Francis and Je'howith had stood
unified then-with Elbryan the Nightbird dead in the other room and Jilse-
ponie unconscious-both the abbots might have taken up the reins of
power right where Markwart had left off, assuring Je'howith the position of
Father Abbot. He would have groomed young Francis to take his place
after his death, and he was not a young man. But, for some reason that
Je'howith could not understand, Francis would not play the political game.

Indeed Francis, citing Markwart's last words and drawing liberal infer-
ence from them, had called upon the Church to appoint Jilseponie Wyndon
as mother abbess!

"King Danube would take us in a direction that best suited him," the
Abellican Church's youngest master went on.

"And in these times of despair, when so many have died in the fighting,
when food is short in so many reaches, and illness is rampant across the
land, when so many are unsure in both their secular and spiritual concerns,
would not a joining of Church and Crown be seen as a reassurance that
they, the common folk, have not been abandoned?" Abbot Je'howith
recited with a dramatic flourish. "Would not the show of a bond between
beloved King Danube and the new leaders of the Church bring confidence
and hope to the despairing kingdom? "

"And there will be such a bond," Brother Braumin replied, "a partner-
ship, but we will not be subjugated to the King of Honce-the-Bear. While
our immediate goals of alleviating the ravages of war seem similar, our long-
term aspirations remain very different."

"Not so different," Je'howith insisted.

Brother Braumin slowly shook his head, making it clear to Je'howith and
all who were watching-and that included every monk in the room, by this
time-that he was not going to surrender this crucial point.

Everyone in the room understood that if King Danube tried to insinuate
himself into the Abellican Church now, it would be very difficult, given the
lack of experienced and charismatic leadership, for the Church to hold him
at bay.

"Father Abbot Markwart attempted such a joining," Master Francis
reminded them, referring to the fairly recent appointment of Marcalo
De'Unnero as bishop of Palmaris, a title that conveyed the power of both
Church leadership and secular control over the city. The city had been with-
out a baron since beloved Rochefort Bildeborough had been murdered on
the road to Ursal-and the subsequent evidence had implicated De'Unnero
and his preferred use of the tiger's paw gemstone as the killer-and Mark-
wart had tried to take advantage of the emergency.

But that action had only prompted Danube to come north, with his army
and his entourage, to protect his power base within the city.

"A complete disaster," Francis went on. "And so it will be again if the
King asserts his power and influence where they do not belong."

Brother Braumin looked over at Francis and nodded solemnly. The two
were not friends-far from it!-despite Francis' apparent transformation
since Markwart's death, but Braumin did appreciate his support at this cru-
cial time. AU the Church could crumble around them, Braumin under-
stood, if they did not act and choose wisely in the coming months.

Braumin looked back at Je'howith and saw clearly that the man could
become a difficult enemy. Je'howith had spent decades securing his com-
forts and his power, and both owed more to King Danube than to the Abel-
lican Order.

Braumin stared at Je'howith solemnly, then slightly nodded his head,
indicating a quiet corner of the room where they might negotiate this dis-
agreement less publicly.

She had a difficult time climbing out of bed that morning, as on almost
every morning. By Braumin Herde's estimation, the events of this day
would be more critical than any powrie attack that ended short of the
vicious dwarves conquering the whole of the kingdom. But to weary Jilse-
ponie, it was just another in an endless, and futile, stream of meetings.
Always they talked and organized, shifting the balances of power, but Pony
had come to believe that in the overall scheme of things, in the history and
the future of humanity and the world, all their little games would have very
little impact.

So many people viewed everything as momentous and important, but
was it really?

That question had haunted Pony since the death of Elbryan, had fol-
lowed her every step, had stilled her tongue during those meetings when
she knew the consensus was in error. In the end, what did it matter?

Even the war with the demon dactyl. They had gone to Aida and destroyed
its physical manifestation, but that seemingly important and heroic deed, in
which Avelyn and Tuntun the elf had given their lives, had only led to more
misery. Father Abbot Markwart, who was fearful of his power base, was on
the road to declaring Avelyn a heretic and had sent out brothers to murder
him. In Markwart's desperate search to find the new keepers of the stolen
gemstones-Elbryan and Pony-he had gone after Pony's adoptive family,
killing her stepbrother, Grady, on the road, and imprisoning Graevis and
Pettibwa in his dungeons, where they had died horribly.

That had only spurred more conflict that Pony had hoped would end it
all. And so it had-for Markwart and Elbryan-but they were hardly cold
in the ground before the bickering had begun anew, before new problems,
grave problems according to Brother Braumin, had reared up to threaten
the supposed fruits of all their sacrifices.

As she considered it all, Pony put her hand to her belly, to her womb,
which the demon Markwart had so violated, taking her child from her,
stilling the heartbeat that had found such rhythm with her own.

Now they were fighting again, and in her time of grieving, Pony could
not bring herself to believe that it would ever end. Without that optimism,
that flicker of hope, how could she leap out of bed with excitement to
attend to another of the so-called important meetings?

She did manage to rise, wash, and dress, though, for the sake of brothers
Braumin, Dellman, Castinagis, and Viscenti, who had stood strong beside
her and Elbryan in their time of need, who had refused to turn against them
despite their own imprisonment and the threat of torturous deaths at the
hands of Markwart. She had to do it for Brother Romeo Mullahy, who had
leaped from the blessed plateau at the Barbacan to his death rather than
surrender to Markwart. She had to do it for Avelyn, for the Church he had
envisioned-even though she was certain it would never come to fruition.

Her responsibilities enabled her to put one foot in front of the other
along the corridors of St. Precious.

When she turned the last corner into the hallway that ran in front of the
meeting room, she came upon another whose stride, markedly different
from her own, was full of eagerness and strength.

"Greetings, Jilseponie," Duke Kalas said, edging to walk close to her
side. "I would have thought that you would have been inside with the
brothers long before this, preparing for the King's visit."

"I have spoken with Brother Braumin many times," Pony casually
replied, her reference to Braumin only-and not the higher-ranking monks,
particularly Abbot Je'howith-speaking volumes about her stance on the
present issues.

Kalas remained quiet; the only sound in the corridor was the soft
padding of Pony's light shoes and the hard clacking of Kalas' military
boots.

Before they reached the door, the Duke strode ahead of her and then
turned back so that she had to look at him. "A difficult fight on yesterday's
morn," he said.

Pony chuckled at his abrupt subject change. "Not so, I would think," she
replied, "since so few were wounded."

"A testament to the power of the Allheart Brigade," the proud Kalas
quickly added. "The powries were many and were eager for battle, but our
precision formations and practiced coordination cut their ranks asunder
and sent them running."

Pony nodded despite her nagging suspicions. She had no hard proof,
after all, to dispute the Duke's words.

Kalas moved in front of her and forced her to stop abruptly. "I was
pleased to see you on the wall when I rode back into Palmaris," he said,
staring at her intently. "It is good that you should witness such a spectacle
as the Allheart Brigade in these troubled times, that you might gain confi-
dence that we, you and I, are fighting the same enemies."

It took all of Pony's considerable composure not to laugh in the man's
face. He was making a play for her-oh, not for the present-for he, like
everyone else, understood that she, less than four months widowed, was
still grieving for Elbryan. No, Kalas was being far more subtle and polite.
He was sowing seeds-she saw it so clearly. In truth, such occasions had
become quite common. She was able to easily put aside her vanity and
harbor no illusions that her beauty and charm were winning the hearts of
the visiting nobles of Danube's court. She knew she was a beautiful woman,
but so were many of those who had followed the King and his court to Pal-
maris, courtesans well versed in the arts of seduction. Pony understood the
truth behind Kalas' words. She was an important figure now, with more
potential for power within Church or State than any other woman in the
kingdom, including Delenia, the abbess of St. Gwendolyn, the highest-
ranking woman in the Abellican Church. Pony had been tentatively offered
the highest position in the Order by several of the monks in Palmaris and
certainly would have been given, at least, the Abbey of St. Precious as her
own with a mere word. And she had been offered Palmaris by Danube, to
serve him as its baroness.

If Pony was at all interested in this game of political intrigue, she could,
in a matter of days, step into the thick of the highest levels of power.

Duke Kalas, a political animal if ever Pony had seen one, understood
that, of course, and so he thought his charms well placed. Except that, to
Pony, those charms themselves were the most lacking.

"If injured upon the field, I would have insisted on Jilseponie for my
healer," the Duke went on; and it was obvious that he thought he was
paying her the highest compliment.

Again, Pony had to work hard not to laugh. She understood Duke Kalas
very clearly. The man could have nearly any woman in the kingdom; he
could snap his fingers or run them through his thick black mop of curly hair
and bat those pretty dark eyelashes of his and have the ladies of Ursal's
court fainting on the floor. Pony knew that, and didn't deny that the man
was physically handsome, beautiful even.

But how that image faded next to her Elbryan! Kalas was like a magnifi-
cently painted landscape of majestic mountains, an image of beauty, but
Elbryan's beauty went far deeper. Elbryan had been those mountains-
with the crisp, fresh air, the sounds, the sights, the smells, the exhilarating
and real experience. Kalas was mere swagger, but Elbryan had been the
substance; and this man, for all of his pride and puff, seemed a pale figure
beside the ghost of Nightbird.

She recognized that she wasn't keeping enough of her true feelings off
her face when Duke Kalas stiffened and moved aside suddenly, clearing his
throat.

Pony turned her head away from him, chewing her bottom lip, hoping
that she had not done too much damage to Brother Braumin's cause, and
hoping that she would not burst out into mocking laughter.

"The King was delayed," came a voice behind them, and they turned to
see Lady Constance Pemblebury moving fast to catch up to them. The
woman repeated her message, eyeing Pony directly as she spoke. Neither
Pony nor Kalas missed Constance's point: King Danube had been delayed
because of her.

Pony rolled her eyes, fighting the feeling of mocking helplessness in the
face of such abject stupidity. Constance-who, by all rumors, had been
seducing King Danube for years-saw the attractive Pony, ten years her
junior, as a threat and wanted to openly lay her claim to Danube.

How could Pony explain it to her? Could she grab the woman by the
shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled?

"He bids that we wait for him before entering the audience chamber,"
Constance went on, shifting her gaze to Duke Kalas. "Of course, you may
go," she said dismissively to Pony, who chuckled, shook her head, and
turned back for the door, acutely aware that Duke Kalas' eyes were fol-
lowing her every step.

She had rebuffed the man, perhaps had even embarrassed and insulted
him, but likely, she knew, he would take that as a challenge and would
come after her all the more blatantly in the days ahead.

A man like Kalas always had something to prove.

"It was only a year ago since the last College of Abbots was convened,"
Brother Braumin said to Abbot Je'howith when the two were alone at the
side of the large audience hall. "How much the world has changed since
then!"

Je'howith eyed the younger monk with suspicion. That last College of
Abbots had been a disaster, of course, considering all that had occurred
since then. Markwart had declared Master Jojonah a heretic and had used
the King's own soldiers-for some reason that even Je'howith had not
understood and still did not understand-to have the doomed heretic
dragged through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle village and then burned at
the stake. At that same College, Markwart had issued a formal declaration
of Brother Avelyn as a heretic; and now, it seemed as if the Church might
begin the process of canonizing the man!

Braumin read Je'howith's expression correctly, and he gave a helpless
chuckle to alleviate the tension. "We have learned much since then," he
said. "Hopefully, the Abellican Church can begin to mend the wounds it
has opened."

"By canonizing Avelyn Desbris?" Je'howith asked skeptically.

Braumin held up his hands. "In time, perhaps that process will find
enough support to begin," he said noncommittally, not wanting to start that
fight now. "But before we begin to discuss any such action, before we even
begin to determine who was correct-Father Abbot Markwart or Master
Jojonah and Brother Avelyn-we must, by the King's own command, put
our present house in order."

Je'howith's skeptical glare returned tenfold. "You have long ago decided
which of them chose the proper course," he said accusingly.

"And it is a case I intend to make against you, and strongly, should
you decide, after all that we have seen, to side with Markwart," Brother
Braumin admitted. "But, again, we have not the time, nor the folly, to begin
such a batde at this hour."

Je'howith backed off. "Agreed," he said.

"And we must quickly convene a College of Abbots to elect a new Father
Abbot," Brother Braumin went on, "and to secure the position of abbot of
St. Precious."

"Why, Brother Braumin, you are not yet even a master. As an immacu-
late, you would likely be invited to a College of Abbots, though you would
have no voice there. And yet you speak as if you personally intend to call
one."

"Master Francis will nominate me as abbot of St. Precious before King
Danube this very day," Braumin announced. "Brother Talumus and all
from St. Precious will second that nomination." He paused and looked at
the old monk directly. "And Jilseponie, who has refused the post, will act as
third."

"Children leading children!" Je'howith retorted, raising his voice in ire.
Braumin knew that the man's anger was born of frustration, for, in truth,
the old abbot would have little leverage in preventing the ascension of
Brother Braumin. "And," he sputtered, "that woman! Jilseponie! She is not
of the Order! She will have no say in any of this!"

"She is of the Order, my friend," Brother Braumin calmly replied. "Can
you doubt her prowess with the gemstones, a clear sign that she is in God's
favor? Can you deny Father Abbot Markwart's last words? "

"He was delirious," Je'howith insisted. "He was near death. And, besides,
he did not nominate Jilseponie-that was foolish Brother Francis' doing."
"It was the greatest moment of clarity our Father Abbot experienced
since long before the last College of Abbots," Braumin Herde replied.
"Since before he sent Brother Justice to hunt and kill Brother Avelyn. Since
before he abducted the poor Chilichunk family and let them rot in the dun-
geons of St.-Mere-Abelle. You know that my words are true and that they
will ring powerfully to the other abbots and masters, many of whom had
come to question Markwart long before the most recent revelations. Master
Francis followed Markwart along that dark road, and he has returned to the
light to tell the truth of it."

Je'howith spent a long while digesting Braumin's argument, seeking
some flaw. "I will not oppose your ascension to the position of abbot," he
conceded.

Braumin's smile was cut short as Je'howith pointed a long, thin finger at
him. "But only if Bishop De'Unnero does not return."

"He is discredited by his own actions even if he does," Braumin argued.
"We know that he stood with Markwart in the final battle."

"We know little of his role," Je'howith countered.

"He is implicated in the murder of Baron Bildeborough."

"Hardly," Je'howith scoffed. "He is implicated only in the eyes of those
who so hated Markwart that they saw his treachery in every event. There
has been no formal connection to the murder of the Baron, other than the
fact that Bishop De'Unnero is known to be proficient with the tiger's paw
gemstone. Hardly damning evidence."

"Then why has he run off?" asked Braumin.

"I will support your nomination if he does not return with some plau-
sible reason why he should reassume the leadership of the abbey, as Father
Abbot Markwart had determined," Je'howith said resolutely. Brother
Braumin, after a moment, nodded his concession.

From Je'howith's posture, though, Braumin soon came to realize that
there would be a price for that support. "What do you want?" the young
monk asked bluntly.

"Two things," Je'howith replied. "First, we will treat the memory of
Father Abbot Markwart gently."

Braumin's expression was one of sheer incredulity, fast transforming into
disgust.

"He was a great man," Je'howith insisted.

"Who culminated his life's work with murder," Braumin retorted qui-
etly, not wanting to draw anyone else into this particular phase of the
discussion.

Je'howith shook his head. "You cannot understand," he replied. "I'll not
argue concerning the final actions of Dalebert Markwart, but you cannot
judge the whole of his life on an errant turn-"

"A wrong choice," Braumin interjected.

Je'howith nodded, apparently conceding the point-but only for now,
Braumin understood.
"By either definition, an errant turn in his life's work," Je'howith said.
"And we would be in grave error to judge all he accomplished based on the
failings of his last days."

It was more than just "his last days," Braumin knew, and the whole
manner in which Je'howith was framing the discussion left a sour taste in
the idealistic young monk's mouth. "A man might lose sainthood over a
single indiscretion," he reminded him.

"I am not asking you to beatify Dalebert Markwart," Je'howith replied.

"Then what?"

"Let us honor his memory as we have his predecessors'," Je'howith
explained, "as we have for every father abbot, save the few who led the
Church far astray."

"As did Markwart."

Je'howith shook his head. "He was a man thrust into a difficult situation,
a position complicated by war and by the actions of those two men you so
dearly cherish. You may argue that he chose wrongly, but his reign as father
abbot was not one marked by controversy and terror. Indeed, under the
guidance of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart, the Church attained great
heights of power. Had there ever been such a cache of gemstones granted
in the most recent stone showers? "

"Avelyn's work," Braumin dryly put in; but Je'howith hardly seemed to
notice, so caught up was he in his mounting tirade.

"Under his leadership, we achieved the position of bishop of Palmaris.
Though that did not end well, the mere fact that King Danube allowed
such a maneuver speaks volumes for the Father Abbot's diplomacy and
influence."

Braumin started to shake his head, but merely sighed instead. He did not
want to allow any mercy into the discussions of the wretch Markwart; he
wanted the Father Abbot condemned throughout history as the downfallen
sinner that he had become. But there were practical considerations here.
Je'howith might well prove an unconquerable obstacle to any tributes, canon-
ization or otherwise, that Braumin and his companions tried to formalize for
Avelyn or Jojonah. Braumin held no love for Je'howith-he considered the
man a kindred spirit to Markwart-but he understood that Je'howith stood
at a crossroads now, that the man could either become a dangerous enemy or,
if Braumin managed to handle him properly, an inconsequential onlooker.

"And you should consider the emotions of the populace," Je'howith
went on. "They are nervous and hardly certain of whether good or evil tri-
umphed in Chasewind Manor that fateful day."

"Markwart had fallen long before that battle," Braumin Herde stated
flatly.

Je'howith nodded, his grin wry. "Perhaps, and perhaps the common folk
will believe that. But do understand, my young friend, that Markwart was
no enemy to the people of Palmaris."
"De'Unnero ..." Braumin Herde started to argue.

"Was not Bishop Francis," Je'howith replied. "Yes, they hated De'Unnero,
and they curse his name still, though I believe the man was misunderstood."

Braumin Herde nearly choked.

"But they were not so badly disposed toward Francis."

"Who speaks ill of Markwart," Braumin put in.

"Not so," Jo'howith replied, "not publicly. No, Brother Braumin, the
folk of Palmaris are nervous. They know the outcome of the battle at
Chasewind Manor, but they do not know what that means. They hear the
edicts of King Danube, proclaiming victory for all the folk, but they take in
those words but tentatively, recognizing the truth of the rivalry between the
two great men, Danube and Father Abbot Markwart."

Braumin Herde shook his head as if to dismiss the notion, but Je'howith
stared at him hard and paused there, allowing him time to let the words
sink in. The old abbot had a significant point here, Braumin had to admit.
When Pony had tried to assassinate Markwart the first time-and had, by
all appearances, succeeded-there had been open weeping in the streets of    ;

Palmaris. Markwart had done well in his last days to win over the folk, had    (
come to the city under flags of honor, with glorious trumpets blaring. He    |
had reconciled, through Francis, with the merchants by compensating them
for De'Unnero's confiscation of their magical gemstones. He had taken on
King Danube privately; the peasants knew little of that skirmish. Perhaps
old Je'howith was indeed speaking wisely, the young monk had to concede.
Perhaps treating Markwart's memory with a bit of mercy would serve them
all well in the coming days.

"What is your second demand?" Braumin asked.

Je'howith paused, a telling hesitation to perceptive Braumin. "There is a
vacancy within the Church, obviously," the old man began solemnly.

Braumin nodded for him to continue. Of course he knew what Je'howith
might be hinting at, but he wasn't about to make this any easier on the old
wretch.

"Master Engress is dead," Je'howith went on, "and while Father Abbot
Markwart might have desired to see young Master Francis as his heir, it is
obvious that such a thing cannot come to pass now. Never would so young
and inexperienced a man be accepted as father abbot. Many do not even
truly accept him as a master."

"He would have been eligible for the tide this coming spring," Braumin
replied. "His tenth year."

"And you?" Je'howith asked, his tone offering to Braumin a trade-off of
support. "A year ahead of Francis and not yet even a master. Have you
enough years, Brother Braumin, to be elected as an abbot of an abbey as
prominent and important as St. Precious? "

Braumin knew that Je'howith's words of opposition against him and
Francis would sound reasonable to any gathering of abbots and masters. If
Je'howith was to claim that Markwart, delusional and ill, erred in pro-
moting Francis prematurely, then how might Braumin and Francis, both
attempting to discredit Markwart on just those grounds, make the opposite
case? Despite that, Braumin remained steadfast and would not follow
Je'howith to that which he apparently desired. "No," he said simply. "You
are asking me to support you in a bid for the title of father abbot, but that I
cannot do."

Je'howith's eyes narrowed and his lips became very thin.

"Even Master Francis will not back you," Braumin said bluntly. "And as
he was deeply connected to the Father Abbot, as were you, his abandon-
ment of your cause will ring loudly in the ears of the other electors."

Braumin did not blink, matching the angry man's stare. "It will not be
you, Abbot Je'howith," he said. "Never were you prepared for such a posi-
tion, and your allegiance to the King in a time such as this-when the lines
between Church and Crown have been so blurred, when the people have so
turned against your former ally, Markwart-is not a desirable trait."

For a long while, Je'howith seemed to Braumin to be composing a retort,
perhaps even a tirade, but then there came a call that King Danube was in
the building, and the news seemed to calm the old abbot dramatically.
Braumin understood the change, for Je'howith had been put under great
pressure by King Danube to put the Abellican house in order, a demand
the King would not debate.

"Who then?" Je'howith asked sharply. "The woman? "

Braumin shrugged and wound up shaking his head. "IfJilseponie would
accept the nomination ..."

Je'howith began resolutely shaking his head.

"As your Father Abbot desired, by the interpretation of Master Francis,"
Braumin pointedly added. "Then I, and Francis and many others, would
back her with all our hearts."

"I am not so sure that Brother Francis' heart remains strong on this
issue," Je'howith said slyly.

"We could rally enough support without him," Braumin insisted; though
in truth, he didn't believe his declaration. He knew that Francis was indeed
leaning against Pony's nomination now, and that without Francis-or even
with him-selling the idea of a mother abbess at all, let alone someone not
even formally affiliated with the Church, would be no easy task!

"And you would tear the Abellican Church apart," Je'howith insisted.

"And better our Church of Avelyn might be for that!" Braumin snapped
back. "But no, fear not, forJilseponie has declined the offer. She will not be
the next leader of the Abellican Church."

"Who then?" Je'howith asked. "Does young Braumin reach so high?"

Indeed, Braumin had been considering that very thing, though while his
closest friends, Castinagis and Viscenti, had thought it a wonderful notion,
even Brother Francis had hesitated. Francis had been very blunt with
Braumin, telling him that he was too young and far too inexperienced to be
accepted by the other leaders, and far too naive to handle the realities of the
politics that would accompany such a position.

IfJe'howith had given him any hint of softening, though, Braumin might
have continued to consider the try.

"You are not nearly ready," Je'howith said, and Braumin recognized that
the man was speaking sincerely. "Perhaps if you backed me and I was
elected, I would consider taking you as my protege."

"No," Braumin returned without hesitation. "It will not be you, Abbot
Je'howith."

Je'howith started to say something, but paused and sighed. "There is
Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce in Entel."

Braumin bristled visibly, shaking his head.

"He will be a strong candidate," Je'howith replied.

"His ways are more attuned to those of Behren than those of Honce-the-
Bear," Braumin pointed out; and it was true enough, and everyone in the
Church knew it. Entel was Honce-the-Bear's southernmost major city, on
the coast in the northern foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle, a mountain range
that separated the kingdom from Behren. Entel's sister city was, in fact,
Jacintha, Behren's seat of power, located on the coast in the southern
foothills of that same range, a short boat ride from Entel.

"Even so, if we, who have witnessed the drama of the last weeks, do not
present a unified front, Abbot Olin will likely win the day," Je'howith
replied.

"But you-as I-do not think him a wise choice."

Je'howith shrugged.

"There are many masters of St.-Mere-Abelle qualified in experience and
in temperament," Braumin suggested. He saw that Je'howith was obviously
not enamored of the idea. "Fio Bou-raiy and Machuso."

"Bou-raiy is not ready, and is too angry; and Machuso spends his days,
every day, with peasants," Je'howith said. "Better another-Agronguerre of
St. Belfour, perhaps."

Braumin had no answer; he hardly knew the abbot of that northernmost
Honce-the-Bear abbey, St. Belfour in the wilds of the kingdom's Vanguard
region.

"Yes, Abbot Agronguerre would be a fine choice," Je'howith said.

Braumin started to ask why, but he stopped short, recalling an image
from the previous year's College of Abbots, the only time he had ever seen
Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour. The man had been sitting right beside
Je'howith, chatting easily, as if the two were old friends.

Only then did Brother Braumin appreciate that Je'howith had led him to
this point purposefully. Je'howith hadn't held serious thoughts of becoming
the next father abbot. Of course not, for his ties to the King were too great
and many of the other abbots, involved in continual power struggles with
regional dukes or barons, would outright oppose his ascent.

"There are other masters at St.-Mere-Abelle-" Braumin started.

"Who will not even attempt to gain the post if Brother Braumin and
his friends, the very monks who witnessed the demise of Markwart, were
to throw in their votes for an abbot of a different abbey," Je'howith
interrupted.

Brother Braumin chuckled at the absurdity of it all and admitted to him-
self that Francis had been correct in assessing that he, Braumin, was not yet
ready for the politics of the position of father abbot.

"Go and ask Master Francis, if you wish," Je'howith offered, "or any of
your other friends who might know of Abbot Agronguerre. His reputation
for fairness and gentility is without reproach. True, he is not a forceful man,
not a firebrand, as was the younger Markwart, but perhaps the Church is in
more need of stability now, of healing."

Braumin nodded as Je'howith played it out, as he came to understand the
man's interest in Agronguerre. For Agronguerre would undoubtedly sup-
port Je'howith, would protect the abbot of St. Honce's interests in the
coming years. Agronguerre was abbot of St. Belfour, after all, in wild Van-
guard, which was ruled by Prince Midalis, Danube Brock Ursal's younger
brother; and Braumin knew enough of that situation to recall that it was a
tight bond in the northland, a friendly camaraderie between Church and
Crown.

"He is a good man of sterling reputation," Je'howith insisted, "and he is
not a young man, not much younger than myself. Understand that I am
asking you for our mutual benefit. Even without your backing, or that of
Brother Francis, I could throw the College into turmoil by announcing my
intent to try for the office. Perhaps I would not command the votes to win,
but surely I could persuade many away from you-or whomever it is that
you choose to back-enough so that either Abbot Olin or the Abbot
Agronguerre would gain the position in any case."

"Then why do you speak to me of it? " Braumin asked.

"Because I fear that Olin will take the post, and will try to strengthen the
ties between the Abellican Church and the pagan yatol priests of Behren,"
Je'howith replied.

And Olin would not look so kindly on Je'howith and his close ties to the
King of Honce-the-Bear, Braumin thought.

"So allow the memory of Father Abbot Markwart its peace," Je'howith
said, "as it should have, given the man's decades of honorable service to the
Church."

Braumin's lack of retort was all the confirmation Je'howith seemed
to need.
"And support me as I support Agronguerre," the old abbot went on.

"And when he dies, if you have proven yourself in the position of abbot of
St. Precious-an appointment I will support-and if I am still alive, then I
give you my word now that I will back your own ascent to that highest level,
Brother Braumin."

"I will learn what I can of Abbot Agronguerre," Brother Braumin
agreed, "and if he is all you say, then I agree to your choice." He nodded
and bowed slightly, then turned to go and join his friends.

"One thing you should know as well, Brother Braumin," Je'howith
remarked, turning the younger monk back around. "At last year's College
of Abbots, Abbot Agronguerre did not agree with Father Abbot Markwart's
damning decree against Master Jojonah. He even expressed his concerns to
me that we might be too quick to condemn Brother Avelyn, given that we
did not know the extent of the man's actions in league with, or against, the
demon dactyl."

Braumin nodded again and began to consider that the meeting with
Je'howith had gone much better than he could have ever hoped possible.

Pony saw the final exchange between Braumin and Je'howith, the latter
surely no friend of hers! She had heard nothing of their discourse, though,
and so she watched Brother Braumin closely as he turned and started away,
noting the apparently satisfied spring in his stride, a gait that only increased
when he spotted Pony and headed straight for her.

"Jousting with the enemy? " she asked.

"Trying to smooth the trail," Braumin replied. "For surely it is filled with
deep ruts since Jilseponie will not heed our call."

Pony laughed at the man's unrelenting pressure. They simply could not
hold any conversation without Brother Braumin pushing at her to ally for-
mally and openly with the Church, with the new Abellican Church that he
and his companions had determined to bring into being. " If you believe
that the road would become smoother and easier if I accepted your invita-
tion to bid to become mother abbess, then you are a fool, Brother
Braumin," she replied.

"You have the deathbed blessing of a father abbot."

"A fallen father abbot," Pony reminded, "a man I brought to that
deathbed."

"One who found a moment of clarity and repentance in his last moments
of life," Braumin came back. "And that moment will be honored within a
Church that espouses penitence."

Pony chuckled again at the brother's unrelenting idealism. Could he not
see the fallacy of his own prediction, that the College of Abbots would
become so enmeshed in attempts at personal gain that Markwart's last
statement, and Francis' interpretation of it, would be viewed with skepti-
cism or even dismissed outright?
But they had already been through this argument a dozen times at least,
and Pony had no heart for it again. Nor the time, for a moment later, Duke
Bretherford entered the room and announced the arrival of King Danube
Brock Ursal.

Danube swept into the room, Constance and Kalas flanking him and a
line of Allheart knights in shining armor behind them.

"My time is limited, for the tides will soon be favorable," he said,
motioning at the large oval table set for the gathering. As one, the monks
and the nobles-and Pony, who still wasn't sure exactly how she fit in or
where she was supposed to sit-headed for their seats, then waited
patiently and deferentially as King Danube took his own.

"Grace us with the blessing," the King bade Abbot Je'howith, a slight
against Braumin, Talumus, and particularly Francis that was not lost
on Pony.

Je'howith gladly complied, calling for God's blessings in these troubled
times, for His guidance that His Church might put itself into proper order
to erase the errors of the past year.

Pony listened carefully and marveled at how well the old man avoided
specific judgments in his prayer, at how he gave no indication of who it was
he thought had made those vague mistakes. Yes, Je'howith was a crafty one,
she reminded herself. She-and, to her thinking, Braumin and the others
would do well to follow her lead-didn't trust him in the least.

"What are your plans? " King Danube asked immediately after the prayer
was ended. He looked to Braumin as he spoke, but his bluntness had obvi-
ously caught the monk by surprise, and Braumin quickly turned to Francis
for support.

"We will convene a College of Abbots as soon as it can be arranged,
obviously," Abbot Je'howith interjected, "perhaps in St. Precious rather
than St.-Mere-Abelle. Yes, that might prove wise in these troubled times."

The other monks around the table didn't seem to agree at all. "The Col-
lege is always held at St.-Mere-Abelle," Brother Viscenti pointed out rather
sharply.

"But, perhaps-" Je'howith started.

"We have not discussed the location," Brother Braumin put in, "and
now is not the time to announce any such change as you propose."

Brother Viscenti started to respond again, as did Brother Francis, while
Brother Talumus and some of his St. Precious entourage began talking
excitedly about the possibilities of such an honor. But then suddenly King
Danube slammed his fist on the table and leaped up from his seat.

"I have warned you!" he began. "All of you, to put your house in order.
Can you not see the fear on the faces of the people you pretend to
serve? Can you not understand that your foolish bickering will rip this
kingdom apart, spiritually at least? Well, I shall have none of it!"

"Brother Braumin and I have come to agreement concerning the next
father abbot," announced Je'howith, obviously uncomfortable at the start-
ling outburst and likely regretting his suggestion of a change of location for
the College.

King Danube settled back into his seat, staring at Braumin for confirma-
tion, as were many surprised Abellican monks.

"We have come to ... an understanding," Braumin began. "My choice,
and Father Abbot Markwart's-repentant Father Abbot Markwart's-
choice to lead our Church sits beside me," he explained, patting Pony's
shoulder. "But, alas, Jilseponie will not heed our call at this time, and so
Abbot Je'howith and I have found some common ground."

"And will the rest of us be enlightened concerning that ground?" a
scowling Master Francis put in.

"Of course," Brother Braumin replied. "We made no decisions-such
are not ours to make-but merely discussed the matter and tried to find
some agreement, a proposal shaped between us that I might bring to my
colleagues and Abbot Je'howith to his."

Francis nodded, indicating that Braumin should go on.

"We must speak privately about this," Braumin answered and turned to
the King. "But the College of Abbots will succeed in its task of appoint-
ment, and of the correct appointment for the times. I assure you, your
Majesty."

"As we have come to agree on the new abbot of St. Precious," Je'howith
added, surprising everyone. "Master Francis, with great generosity and
foresight, has abdicated the post, and plans to nominate ..." He paused
and motioned to Francis.

"I had th-thought that Brother Braumin," Francis stuttered, obviously
caught off his guard. "Once he has been formally proclaimed as master ..."

"Yes," they heard Brother Talumus say with enthusiasm.

"Immaculate Brother Braumin will become interim abbot of St. Precious
within the week," Abbot Je'howith insisted, "and we will formalize that
appointment as soon as we have heard any assenting or dissenting arguments."

King Danube looked at Braumin, and the monk shrugged. "If asked to
serve, I would not refuse," he said.

Danube nodded, apparently satisfied with that. He paused then and put
his chin in his hand, his gaze drifting off to nowhere in particular. All the
rest of the people around the table likewise quieted in deference to the
King, and Pony understood then that Danube was in control here and that
the brothers of the Abellican Church would do well to disturb him not at
all. The less King Danube needed to turn his gaze toward the Church, the
better the Church would survive.

Danube remained apparently distant for a long while-Pony got the dis-
tinct feeling that the man was testing the patience of those around him,
waiting to see if anyone would dare to speak. Finally, he sat up straight and
stared at Pony.

"And is your decision-or shall I call it your compromise?-Brother
Braumin, that it will be a man or a woman who heads the Abellican
Church? " Danube asked.

Pony, embarrassed as she was, didn't turn away but met Danube's stare.

"Unless Abbess Delenia of St. Gwendolyn makes a bid for the position
of mother abbess, it will be a man," Braumin answered.

"And Abbess Delenia would have no chance of assuming leadership of
the Church, even should she so desire it," a bristling Abbot Je'howith was
quick to add.

The man's tone made Pony glance his way, trying unsuccessfully to deter-
mine whether he was upset because of the mere suggestion that a woman
might head the Church or because King Danube had asked the question of
Brother Braumin instead of him.

"So you have refused the offer, then," Danube said to her as she turned
back to him. "The Abellican Church hands you one of the most powerful
positions in all the world, and you turn it down? "

"Brother Braumin and others offered to sponsor me as a candidate for
mother abbess," Pony corrected, "but many others within th^e Church
would have rejected such a proposal. It is a fight I choose not to wage, and
the leadership of the Church is a position I do not feel that I have earned."

"Well said," said Je'howith, but Danube cut him short with an up-
raised hand.

"You underestimate your charisma, Jilseponie," the King went on, "and
your accomplishments and potential accomplishments. I doubt not at all
that the Abellican Church would fare well under your guidance."

Pony nodded her thanks for the somewhat surprising compliment.

"But perhaps Je'howith's and the others' loss might become my gain,"
the King went on. "Since you have chosen to reject the offer of the Church,
I ask again if I might somehow persuade you to accept the barony of
Palmaris."

Pony looked down and sighed. Everybody wanted her in his court. She
understood the attention-she was a hero among the common folk now,
and those common folk had been doing more than a litde grumbling about
the King, and especially about the Church, of late-but she could not
believe how much faith these leaders were willing to place in her. "What
would I know of ruling a city, my King? "

Danube burst out into laughter-too much so, it seemed to Pony and to
several others who, she noticed, were glancing nervously around, particu-
larly Duke Kalas and Constance Pemblebury, who were both scowling.

And when she thought about it, Pony wasn't surprised. Kalas, after all,
had hinted at some amorous feelings for her, and Constance was the King's
favorite. Had Danube's exaggerated laughter just put Pony into the middle
of some intrigue with those two?

She sighed and looked away, back at Brother Braumin, who was staring
at her nervously.

Pony gave in and started laughing as well.

"So you agree that your statement was absurd?" Danube was quick to
ask. "What would Jilseponie know of leadership indeed!"

"No, your Majesty," Pony replied. "I laugh because I cannot believe ..."
She stopped and just shook her head helplessly. "I am not suited to be
baroness, or for any other rank you wish to bestow upon me," she said, "as
I am not suited to be mother abbess of a Church whose policies and intrica-
cies I hardly understand."

"Nonsense," Danube declared, but Pony was shaking her head even as
he barked out the word. "Nobility runs in your blood," the King went on,
"if not in your lineage, and your ascent to the court of Honce-the-Bear
would prove most beneficial."

Still she shook her head.

The King stared at her long and hard then, another uncomfortable
moment, and then he gave a helpless sigh. "I see that I shall not convince
you-no, Jilseponie Wyndon, you are one of extraordinary character and
determination."

"Stubborn," Brother Braumin dared to interject, breaking the tension.

Again the King laughed. "But in a manner suited to heroes," he said. "A
pity that you'll not change your mind, and truly a loss for both of us, eh,
Abbot Je'howith?"

"Indeed," the old abbot said unconvincingly.

Pony continued to alternate her gaze between the King and his two secu-
lar advisers, and neither of them stopped staring at her for one moment.

"Palmaris will be in firm and fine control," the King went on, addressing
the whole of the gathering again. "Duke Kalas will stay on as ruler, for as
long as he feels necessary. Also, because of the continuing hostilities outside
of Palmaris' wall with the powries, goblins, and even reports of giant bands
roaming the region, he will keep half the AUheart knights. That should suf-
fice to allow the folk of Palmaris some peace of mind."

Pony glanced at Francis and Braumin and the other young monks, their
distress showing her that they understood well the meaning of the King's
decision. Danube didn't fear any goblins or powries or giants, for Palmaris'
garrison had proven itself time and again in the war against them. No, when
the King spoke of potential enemies, he was subtly referring to those ene-
mies Duke Kalas might face from within, particularly from St. Precious.
The Allheart knights would make Chasewind Manor a veritable fortress
and would strengthen Duke Kalas' influence tremendously.

At first, Pony, too, was more than a little distressed by the news. Pri-
vately, at least, she found herself siding with Brother Braumin; she did
believe in the man and his cause. That admission nearly made her speak up
then, announcing that she had changed her mind and that she would accept
an offer to join the Church, not for the position of mother abbess but as an
adviser to Brother Braumin in his new position of abbot of St. Precious.
Almost-but even as she considered the action, Pony thought of Elbryan
and her lost child, thought of the futility of it all, the waste of effort to battle
enemies that seemed to her, at that moment, eternal.

She kept silent; indeed, she turned inward through the rest of the
meeting. No further surprises came forth, from either Danube or the
monks, and their business was quickly concluded. Pony did note the glare
that Constance Pemblebury bestowed on her as they were leaving the audi-
ence hall, a scowl that deepened tenfold when King Danube took Pony's
hand and kissed it, expressing his gratitude yet again for her actions and
her sacrifice and proclaiming that Honce-the-Bear was a better place by
far because of Jilseponie and Elbryan, Avelyn Desbris and the centaur,
Bradwarden, Roger Lockless, and-to Pony's and everyone else's absolute
surprise-because of the quiet working of the Touel'alfar.

And then Danube and that moment of gratitude were abruptly gone; the
King, Constance Pemblebury, and Duke Bretherford rode forth to the
docks and the waiting ships. The reality of the still-gloomy day settled over
St. Precious.

A temporary moment of truce, Pony thought as she considered the
King's last words to her. A brief shining moment, unlasting in the gloom.
Like all such moments.

Pony was on the roof of St. Precious's highest tower again later that day.
The spectacle over at the dock section-with the tall ships unfurling their
sails, the crowds cheering, the trumpets blaring-did not hold her attention
for long. Rather, she found herself looking north, beyond the city's great
wall, beyond the farmhouses and the rolling hills. Looking in her mind's eye
to Dundalis and her past-and perhaps, she thought seriously, her future.

CHAPTER 3
Joined by War

Hie icy rain drummed heavily against the bare trees, blowing in
sheets through the forest, soaking Prince Midalis and his army.
They had hoped for snow, a great blizzard as so often blasted Van-
guard, a storm gathering strength over the Gulf of Corona, drawing up
the water and then dumping snow thigh deep throughout the region. But it
was just rain this time: icy rain, and miserable to be sure, but nothing that
would drive the goblin horde from their entrenched positions around the
large, solitary stone structure, St. Belfour, on the small, bare hill amid the
trees.
The cowls of their cloaks pulled as low as they could go, the young
Prince and his closest adviser and confidant, Liam O'Blythe, the Earl of
Tir-Mattias, made their cautious way to the rocky ridgeline that afforded
them a view of the abbey and of the monstrous army firmly encamped
about it.

"There's two thousand o' the skizzes if there's a dozen," Liam remarked,
surveying the scene before them. He was a thin fellow, all gangly arms and
legs, freckle faced with red hair and gray eyes, as was common among the
Vanguardsmen. "They got us five to one, even countin' that them monks'll
come out and give a hand."

"A bolt of lightning would be better welcome," Midalis replied with just
a hint of the Vanguard brogue creeping into his Ursal court-trained dic-
tion. His crystal blue eyes peeked out from under the edge of the hood,
sparkling brightly despite the dullness of the day. When he stood in a room
with native Vanguardsmen, it was obvious that Midalis was not from the
region. He was of medium height and build, but with a darker complexion
and dark brown hair. Anyone who saw Midalis standing beside the older
Danube would guess that they were brothers.

"If they got any o' the magic left to 'em," said Liam, and he pulled off his
soaked hood and shook his unruly mop of red hair, running his hand
through it to get it out of his eyes. "They ain't tossed a bolt or a burst o' fire
out at the goblins in a fortnight."

"They've got it left," Midalis answered with confidence. "But they know
that if they use their magic, they'll just bring the goblins on in full against
them. The goblins understand how much the monks have got to throw, and
if those in the abbey grow weary from using their magic, they will find a dif-
ficult task in holding back the horde."

Liam nodded, but his expression remained doubting and grim. "Well,
they better have a bolt or two for throwin' when we go against the horde, or
we'll be chased off or cut down."

Prince Midalis did not doubt the man's observations. Vanguard was
having a much harder time in the aftermath of the war than the rest of
Honce-the-Bear, because in Vanguard, the war wasn't over. The minions of
the demon dactyl had hit the region hard, both along the rocky coast and
with a force marching across the land. South and west of the Gulf of
Corona, the lands were cultivated, and much more heavily populated; and
there, the King's army had been able to push the hordes away. But here,
where the land was much wilder, where forests predominated over farm-
land and the population of humans was measured in hundreds instead of
tens of thousands, the powries and goblins had not so readily retreated.
Always, Vanguard had been the roughest region of Honce-the-Bear, its
forests full of huge brown bears and hunting cats, its northern border con-
tinually crossed by the warlike barbarian tribesmen of Alpinador. The folk
of Vanguard had known goblins and powries as more than fireside tales to
scare children long before the demon dactyl had awakened to remind the
more civilized regions that such monsters did exist.

And though they were certainly outnumbered by their monstrous ene-
mies in the region, the people of Vanguard knew how to fight such foes.

Still, this was a battle that Midalis did not want; this particular army of
goblins was too large and too skilled, and the ground around St. Belfour of
Tir-Mattias was too rugged for the Prince's troops to fully utilize their
greatest advantage: horses. Thus, Midalis had hoped the dark clouds they
had seen gathering over the gulf would bring a killer blizzard, a storm that
would weaken the goblins' resolve to continue their siege.
"The weather won't be holdin' so warm much longer," Liam remarked.
Midalis shook his head, his expression grim. "The monks haven't got
much longer," he explained. "The goblins have held them in there for near
to two months now, and with all the folk who came running before the
horde, they've not the food to hold on." He paused there and stood staring
long and hard at the windswept rain slashing against the abbey's stone walls
and at the dozens and dozens of sputtering, smoking campfires of the
goblin army encircling the place.
"Ye're to go to him, ain't ye? " Liam asked.
Midalis turned to regard him. "I see no choice," he answered. "Abbot     |
Agronguerre came to me last night, in my dreams, begging for our help.     I
They've a day more of food, and then they'll be going hungry. We cannot     j
wait any longer."                                                       J

Liam's expression showed that he was less than enthusiastic about the     j
prospects.                                                               |

"I'm no more happy about the possibilities than you," Midalis said to     J
him. "In another time, we'd be fighting the barbarian savages, and now I
am asking them for help."

"Help for the Abellican Church," Liam reminded him, which only made
the prospects darker still.

"Aye, there's no friendship between the barbarians of Alpinador and the
Church," Midalis agreed; for indeed, the Church had made many forays
into the wild northern kingdom, usually with disastrous results, particularly
one not so distant memory of slaughter in a small town called Fuldebarrow.
"But I've got to try, for the abbot and his brethren."

"And I'll try with ye, me Prince," Liam said with a nod. "And all yer
men'11 fight beside the demon hisself, if Prince Midalis' naming him an
ally!"

Midalis put his hand on Liam's elbow, grateful, as always, for the un-
yielding loyalty of his hardy men and women. The folk of Vanguard had
survived all the trials, the killer storms, and now the invasion, by standing
united behind their beloved Prince Midalis, younger brother of King
Danube Brock Ursal. And Midalis' loyalty was no less heartfelt and intense.
As Danube's brother, he could have ruled whatever duchy he chose. He
could have taken the Mantis Arm and its prosperous trade, or the Yorkey
region between Ursal and Entel, with its gentle climate and rolling farm-
lands. He could have even been named Duke of Ursal, as was usual for a
lone sibling prince, ruling the mighty city beside his brother in the luxury of
Ursal's bountiful court.

But Vanguard had held Midalis' heart ever since his childhood, when his
father had sailed with him into the Coastpoint Guard fortress of Pireth
Vanguard on a trip to hunt the huge northern elk. Something about the
nature of the place-untamed, seemingly unconquerable-had touched a
spiritual chord within young Midalis, had shown him an alternative to the
bustle and the dirt of the cities. His brother had been leery about letting
Midalis come up to this wild land-would the nearly autonomous people
accept him? Or might he meet with an "accident" on a hunting trip?

Those fears had been dispelled the moment Midalis had stepped off the
boat onto the low dock of Pireth Vanguard, when a host of folk from all the
neighboring communities had arrived to set out a huge feast of venison and
fowl, with pipers playing tunes both melancholy and joyous all through the
day, and all the young ladies of Vanguard taking turns dancing with their
new Prince.
Truly, Midalis had found his home, and so when the minions of the
demon dactyl had arrived in force, Midalis had not only called out the
militia and sent a message to his brother for aid but he had personally led
the Vanguard forces. Never could it be said of Prince Midalis that he sat on
a horse in safety at the back of the battlefield, commanding his troops into
action.

Thus, when the barbarian Andacanavar had come to Midalis' camp that
night a week before and Midalis had agreed to meet with him, other Van-
guard men and women, traditional enemies of the barbarians, had deferred
to the judgment of their heroic Prince without complaint.

Still, it was with great trepidation that Midalis and Liam made their quiet
way over the forested hills to the field where Andacanavar and his fellows
had set up camp. Might the huge barbarian have baited him, feigning
friendship so that he could decapitate the Vanguard forces?

Midalis swallowed that distrust and forced himself to focus instead on
poor Abbot Agronguerre and the other forty monks of St. Belfour and the
three hundred commoners holed up within the abbey's walls.

At the edge of the field, the pair were met by a trio of huge muscled men,
the shortest of whom stood nearly half a foot taller than the nearly six-foot
Midalis. Huge spears in hand, the barbarians walked right up before the
horses of the visitors, one going to each horse and grabbing the reins just
below the beasts' mouths, pulling down forcefully.

"Which is Midalis?" the third of the group, standing back a couple of
steps, asked.

The Prince reached up and pulled back his hood, shaking the wet-
ness from his straight brown hair. "I am the Prince of Honce-the-Bear," he
said, noting that all three of the barbarians narrowed their eyes at the
proclamation.

"Your leader bade me to come to him," Midalis went on, "under a
banner of alliance."

The barbarian in the back nodded his head quickly to the side, indicating
that the pair should dismount; then, while his two companions walked the
horses away, he motioned Midalis and Liam to follow him.

"They should be unsaddled and brushed down," Prince Midalis
remarked.

The barbarian turned back on him skeptically.

"They're not knowin' much about horses," Liam whispered to his com-
panion. "The folk of Alpinador ain't much for ridin'."

"But we have eaten more than a few," their huge escort promptly added.
He looked at Liam and snickered, for Liam's voice, like his frame, was quite
delicate.

Midalis and Liam exchanged skeptical glances; this wasn't going to
be easy.

They were led to a large tent in the middle of the encampment. Both
noticed that few eyes were upon them throughout the march, and when
their escort pulled aside the flap, they understood why.

More than three hundred barbarian warriors-all tall and most with long
flaxen hair, some with braids, others with ornamental jewelry tied in-filled
the tent, hoisting great foaming mugs and making such a general ruckus
that Midalis was amazed that he and Liam hadn't heard them a mile away
or that the goblins outside St. Belfour hadn't taken note and sent scouts to
investigate.

Or maybe they had, Midalis realized, when he looked to the side and saw
a row of goblin heads staked out like macabre party decorations.

"Tunno bren-de prin!" their escort cried above the tumult in his native
tongue, a rolling, bouncing language that the Vanguardsmen jokingly referred
to as "bedongadongadonga."

Almost immediately, the hall quieted, all eyes turning toward the two
smaller men at the entrance. The Prince heard Liam swallow hard, and he
shared that nervous sentiment completely. Though it was late fall, and cold,
most of the barbarians were wearing sleeveless tunics, revealing their huge,
muscled arms, as thick around as Midalis' thigh.

The barbarian ranks slowly parted then as an older man, his face weath-
ered by more than fifty winters, scooped up an extra pair of goblets and
started to walk slowly across the tent. He was huge, his muscles taut despite
his age; and though there were others his size or even larger, and though
most of the men in the hall weren't half his age, from his balanced gait and
stern visage, from the obvious respect he commanded from everyone in the
hall, Midalis understood that this man Andacanavar could best any two of
the others, perhaps any three, in batde.

Without a word, without a blink, he strode toward the pair of visitors,
but stopped some dozen paces away. He lifted his own flagon and drained
it in one huge swallow, then took the other two, one in each hand, and
came forward slowly, the rustling of his deerskin breeches the only sound in
the hall-other than the heavy breathing of both Midalis and Liam.

Right before the pair, Andacanavar stopped again and slowly brought his
arms out wide and high above his head.

And then he closed his eyes and howled, turning it to a roar, primal and
feral and as frightening a sound as either of the Vanguardsmen had ever
heard.

And all the others took it up with vigor, a deafening communal roar that
shook the tent walls and sent shivers coursing down the spines of the two
visitors.

Continuing to roar, Andacanavar now opened his eyes and winked to the
two, a signal that Midalis did not miss. Up went the Prince's arms, and he, too,
loosed a tremendous bellow; and Liam, after an incredulous glance, did like-
wise, though his sounded more like a squeak. That only seemed to spur the
barbarians on to greater heights, their shouts reaching a thunderous crescendo.
Andacanavar dropped his arms suddenly, foam flying everywhere, and all
cut short their howls-except for Midalis and Liam, who didn't understand
the game and kept howling a few embarrassing moments longer. Both met
the powerful gaze of Andacanavar, and the three stared at one another a
few moments longer, before the imposing barbarian came forward and
thrust the mugs into their hands, then reached back and called for another
drink.

Liam started to bring the mead-filled mug to his lips, but Midalis,
catching on, held him.

Then Andacanavar had a mug of his own, presenting it to the pair. "Ah,
but we have a bunch of goblins to kill, now don't we?" the barbarian
ranger asked.

Midalis took a chance. He raised his mug above his head-even splash-
ing some mead on Andacanavar, though the man hardly seemed to notice-
and shouted, "To the death of the goblins!"

Andacanavar slapped his mug against Midalis' and held it there, both
men eyeing Liam, who quickly smacked his mug up there, too, while all the
gathering took up the toast, "To the death of the goblins!"

Andacanavar drained his mug, as did Liam, for none in Honce-the-Bear
could outdrink a born-and-bred Vanguardsman, and Midalis got his close
enough to empty to call for more.

"Drink hearty, my friends," said Andacanavar.

"But not too much so," Midalis replied. "We've important business."

Andacanavar nodded. "But my men are wishing to see the truth of you
both," he explained. "When you have taken enough of the mead, you will
wag your tongues honestly, and let us see if we have a bond that can be
forged."

Midalis considered the words and glanced to his friend, and then both
held their flagons out as younger barbarians, barely more than boys, rushed
about with bulging waterskins, refilling each mug in turn.

"This is Bruinhelde, who leads Tol Hengor," Andacanavar explained,
holding his arm back and sweeping forward another imposing, stern-faced
man, his blond hair tied with feathers and ornaments, his jaw square and
strong. It occurred to Midalis that if he ever punched that jaw, he'd do
more damage to his hand than to Bruinhelde's face. His eyes were the
typical Alpinadoran blue, burning with inner fires.

"Your closest neighbors, they are," Andacanavar continued. "Far past
the time for you two to meet as friends, I say."

From the expression on Bruinhelde's face, Midalis wasn't sure that the
man agreed with the ranger's assessment. But the powerful barbarian leader
did nod slightly and did present his flagon to Midalis for a clap of mugs.
Liam started to add his, but Bruinhelde wilted him with a glare.

"Have we?" Midalis asked bluntly.

Bruinhelde looked at him curiously, then turned to Andacanavar.
"Met as friends," Midalis clarified. "For so many years, our two peoples
have had little contact, and rarely has that contact been on friendly terms."

"And you place the blame for this on my people? " Bruinhelde, obviously
an easily agitated fellow, roared in reply; and all the Alpinadoran warriors
bristled, and poor Liam seemed as if he would simply melt away.

But Midalis kept his eyes firmly on the imposing Bruinhelde. "Blame?"
he asked with a chuckle. "I would not presume to blame anyone-likely,
there is enough of that to go around, and each of the disastrous meetings
would have to be judged on its own circumstance. But, no," he continued
as Bruinhelde's look softened somewhat, "I seek not to place blame, nor to
take blame upon my own shoulders, but rather to accept that which has
happened and hope to learn from it, that it never happens again. Good
Bruinhelde, if the invasion by the minions of the demon dactyl brings a new
understanding and alliance to our peoples, then there is a bright edge to the
dark cloud. Far too long have we skirmished, to the detriment of both our
peoples. Let this night of Hengorot"-Bruinhelde and the others were
obviously caught off guard that Midalis knew their name for the mead hall
celebration-"forge a new bond between us, one for benefit and common
good." As he finished, he held his mug aloft.

A long and uncomfortable moment slipped past, with Bruinhelde
glancing once at Andacanavar, then fixing his stare on Midalis. Another
moment slipped by, the mead hall perfectly silent, every man holding his
breath waiting for Bruinhelde's answer.

He clapped his flagon hard against Midalis'. "We could not have picked
a better common foe than the smelly goblins!" He roared, and so, too, did
every man in the hall, a thunderous battle cry, full of excitement, full of
rage. The sheer enthusiasm and volume of that barbarian war cry weakened
Liam's knees, and when Prince Midalis looked at his companion he knew
that Liam was thinking the same thing as he: they were glad that the
Alpinadorans were on their side!

Though he had to go to rally his troops for the morning's battle, Prince
Midalis did not leave the mead hall early that night. Nor was he able to
escape until after Bruinhelde had poured a dozen flagons of drink down his
throat.

"I'm not sure we're better with 'em as friends or enemies," Liam
remarked as the two made their way through the forest, each man as groggy
and drunk as his companion. "Oh, but me head's to hurt tomorrow, before
any goblin even clunks me with its club."

"They'll all awaken with sore heads and tongues of cloth," Midalis
agreed. "Likely, it will only make them more fierce."

The mere thought sent a shudder along Liam's spine.

Midalis stopped then and stood with a curious expression upon his face.

"What's it about, then? " Liam asked.
Midalis held his hand up, motioning for the man to wait. A sensation had
washed over him, much like the night before, a silent, spiritual cry for help.
Abbot Agronguerre, he knew, using the hematite gemstone to reach out to
him. It was a subtle call, nothing distinct, an imparting of emotion, of need,
and nothing more. Midalis concentrated with all his willpower, trying to
reciprocate the call, hoping that Agronguerre, who was floating spiritually
about him, would sense his reply. "In the morning," he said aloud, for he
was unsure of how the gemstone magic worked, unsure of whether the
abbot could physically hear him in his spiritual form. "We will come on
against the goblins in the morning."

"As we already said," a confused Liam answered, and again, Midalis held
up his hand for the man to wait. But the sensation passed, the connection
broke, and the Prince could only hope that his friend in the abbey had
heard.

"It was Agronguerre," he explained to Liam. "He came to me again."
Liam held up his hands, seeming unnerved. "The magic again? " he asked,
and Midalis nodded. "What're ye thinkin' our new barbarian friends'11
think o' them monks and their magic?" he asked, for it was common
knowledge among the Vanguardsmen that, while the monks considered the
magical gemstones the gifts of God, the Alpinadorans mistrusted the
powers completely, even spoke of the monkish magic as the work of Fen-
nerloki, the god of their pantheon representing the powers of evil.

"We start the fightin' and the monks loose a fireball from their stone
walls, and then Bruinhelde and his boys turn against us and pull St. Belfour
down around Agronguerre," Liam reasoned.

Midalis blew a sigh as he considered the words, but then shook his head.
"The ranger, Andacanavar, knows of the magic," he explained. "And so
Andacanavar will warn Bruinhelde and the others. They know that we
march against goblins besieging the abbey, and yet they join with us
anyway."

"Andacanavar," Liam echoed with obvious respect.
The Prince did not sleep at all the rest of that night. He had seen battle
many times in the last months, but always against smaller groups of mon-
sters and always upon a field of his own choosing. This time, he had a large
portion of his total army with him, more than three hundred men, and all
of the monks in Vanguard were bottled up in St. Belfour. If the goblins won
this day, the results for the region would be devastating-it was possible
that those remaining men and women here would have to retreat to Pireth
Vanguard, perhaps even board the few ships there and sail south across the
gulf, surrendering the region altogether.

With the dawn, all weariness left the Prince, and the surge of excitement
he found in organizing his soldiers erased his sore head from the night
before.
"None to be seen," Liam O'Blythe reported a short while later. "Not
a barbarian in the area, by what our scouts're sayin'. Not even their
campground."

Midalis stared out into the forest. "Are they sure? "

"Can't find them," Liam confirmed sourly. "Might be that they changed
their minds and went away."

"Or that they're preparing an attack from a concealed position," Midalis
said hopefully.

"And are we to wait? "

Midalis spent a long while considering that. Should he wait for Anda-
canavar and Bruinhelde? Or should he trust them, and begin the attack
now, before the sun had climbed into the sky, as he and Andacanavar had
discussed? He recalled Abbot Agronguerre's spiritual plea and knew that
those within the abbey were going hungry this day. He and his men had to
go against the goblins soon or lose the abbey, but with so much at stake...

"We go," he said firmly.

"We'll be outmatched if Andacanavar-"

"We go," Midalis said again. He flattened the parchment map of the
region, which lay on the small table in his tent. Midalis had trained in tac-
tics with the Allheart Brigade during his days in Ursal, had learned to rec-
ognize his strengths and his enemies' weaknesses. He knew that his men
could outfight goblins two to one-more than that if they could bring their
horses into play. But the numbers today were far less favorable than that.

Midalis studied the map, focusing on the clear area around the abbey
and on the rocky, forested hills to its west. At the least, he and his men had
to get some supplies into the abbey.

The Prince nodded his head, settling on a plan. He called together all of
his commanders, and within the hour, the Vanguard army was on the move.

"He heard yer call, did he?" the nervous young Brother Haney asked
Agronguerre, joining the old abbot in St. Belfour's bell tower, which
afforded them a view of the area. The rain had stopped, the stars fading
away as the eastern horizon began to lighten with the coming dawn, but the
air had turned much colder, leaving an icy glaze on the grass and trees.

Abbot Agronguerre stared out past the goblin campfires. He understood
the depth of the disaster here; they were out of food, already with growling
bellies, and they needed Midalis to come on in force. But Agronguerre
knew well the limits of the Prince's army and knew that, even if Midalis
attacked with every available soldier, the odds were against them. Even
worse, Agronguerre couldn't honestly answer Brother Haney, for he simply
did not know.

"We must pray," he replied, and he turned to regard the young man,
barely into his twenties.
Brother Haney shook his head. "They must," he insisted. "If they do
not-"

"If they do not, then we shall find our way out of St. Belfour with the fall
of night," Agronguerre replied.

Brother Haney nodded, obviously taking some strength from the deter-
mination in Agronguerre's voice.

But they both knew the truth of their desperate situation, both knew that
this time, it seemed, the goblins had won.

"They're keeping it quiet, then," Liam O'Blythe remarked to Prince
Midalis shortly before the dawn. They sat on their horses on the wooded
trail behind St. Belfour, all the forest about them deathly silent. The scouts
had just returned, though, with news that the goblins were beneath the
shady boughs, in great numbers.

Midalis looked back over his line of riders, each horse sporting bulging
saddlebags. They had to get to the abbey wall, at least, and heave the sup-
plies in to the monks and common folk trapped within. And so they would,
Midalis understood, but he knew, too, that getting back away from the
abbey would prove no easy task.

"How long are ye planning to stay and fight? " Liam asked him, appar-
ently reading his thoughts.

"We rush the northeastern corner," Midalis explained, pointing in that
direction. St. Belfour was situated with its northern wall near a wooded
hillock. That hillock, unfortunately, was thick with goblins, but Midalis
believed that he and his riders could get past them to reach the abbey. The
other three sides of the rectangular stone structure faced open fields, thirty
yards of cleared ground in every direction. Beyond those fields loomed
more thick woodlands-thick with brush and trees and goblins. While the
Eelds offered Midalis and his men the best advantage, using their horses to
trample enemies and within easy magical support from the monks, he
understood that they'd have a difficult time if a retreat became necessary,
scrambling their ranks back into the thick brush helter-skelter, with goblins
coming at them from every angle, separating them and pulling them down.
The Vanguardsmen had survived the war by picking their battlefields care-
fully; this was one the Prince did not see as promising.

But they had to go, had to get the supplies to their starving kinsmen.

"The fight will come to us quickly, I believe," Midalis remarked, "pursuit
following our line and goblins rushing from the brush on all sides."

"How many might them monks be killin'? "

Midalis shrugged; he knew not the extent of Abbot Agronguerre's magi-
cal resources, though he understood that they would not be significant for
long. "If we can get to the wall and away without a fight, then that is our
best course," the Prince said. Several men around him, grim-faced warriors
thirsty for goblin blood, groaned. "Let winter break the siege-if the
monks are supplied they might hold out until the first deep snows," Midalis
explained.

"Too many goblins," Liam agreed, speaking to the others.

"Ah, but they'll be on us afore we get near to the wall," one man in the
ranks behind remarked, and Midalis noted that there was indeed a hopeful
tone to his voice. In truth, the Prince could not argue the assessment.

"Then we fight them as hard as we can, and for as long as we can," he
replied. "Our valor and the magic thrown from the abbey walls may scatter
them quickly to the forest, where we can hunt the smaller bands down one
by one and eliminate them."

He spoke with conviction, but the seasoned men of his fighting force
understood the truth of the situation, and so did Midalis. The goblins
would indeed come at them, and hard, and the ugly little creatures wouldn't
be quick to retreat. Midalis and his men had one other gambit: The Prince
had sent his archers around to the south with orders to hold their shots until
the situation turned grim, then to concentrate their fire on the weakest sec-
tion of the goblin line, hoping to give the riders a breakout route.

It was a plan of retreat and of loss, of salvage and surely not of victory.

"Comes the dawn," Liam remarked, looking to the east, where the red
curve of the sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon.

Midalis shared a grim look and a strong handshake with his dear friend,
and he led on, slowly down the trail at first, but gaining speed with each
loping stride.

In the bell tower of St. Belfour, Abbot Agronguerre breathed a profound
sigh of relief when he heard the cries, "Riders to the south," and turned to
see the dark shapes moving along the path toward the back corner of the
abbey.

"Catchers to the rear corner!" the old abbot cried to Brother Haney, and
then he hustled, huffing and puffing, toward the front wall, for he knew
that Midalis and his brave men would soon need his assistance.

He heard the cries and shrieks echoing through the forested hillock,
heard his own men crying out, predictably, "Goblins!"

Abbot Agronguerre resisted the urge to rush toward the back wall and
offer magical support there. Prince Midalis and his riders would simply
have to outrun the pursuit!

Agronguerre was inside then, scrambling down the spiral stairs. He met
Brother Haney on the lower landing, then they ran through the tunnel that
brought them to the parapet along the front wall. Several monks were
already there, as they had been ordered, holding gemstones-the few
graphite stones within St. Belfour-and peering out, pointing to the thick
forest beyond. Agronguerre joined their ranks and produced his own
stones, serpentine and ruby, while Brother Haney did likewise, taking the
most potent graphite stone of all the abbey's inventory from his pouch.

Cheers arose inside the abbey courtyard behind them as Midalis and his
men swooped past the rear corner, slowing only enough to toss saddlebags
up to eager hands.

"Eyes ahead!" Brother Haney scolded another of the front wall contin-
gent, as the errant monk turned to view the scene. "Keep watch on the
forest, to the true enemy we know will come forth."

"Goblin!" another monk at the wall yelled, pointing to the thicket across
the field and to the right. The young brother lifted his hand and gemstone,
as if preparing to loose a stroke of lightning, but Abbot Agronguerre
quickly brought his hand to the younger man's arm, bringing it down.

"Let them swoop out in full," the abbot explained, understanding the
limitations of their magic and knowing that they had to make use of the
stones for emotional as much as physical effect. "When the goblins charge
out in force, and before the battle is joined, we hit them quickly and hard.
Let us see if they have the stomach for the fight."

The lead riders came around the southeastern corner then, across the
front of the abbey, with Prince Midalis and Liam O'Blythe leading the
charge.

The Prince slowed enough to share a salute with Abbot Agronguerre and
a smile.

And then the goblins came on-a hundred goblins, a thousand goblins-
swarming from every shadow.

In a matter of a few seconds, Midalis understood the dire trouble. Gob-
lins rushed from the south and west, ringing the field in deep ranks; and
more goblins came behind them, charging down the hillock, blocking the
trail and throwing spears at the trailing riders of the Prince's line.

Then came the barrage, boom, boom, boom!, of lightning strokes
flashing out from the abbey's walls, dropping lines of goblins, and then
another flash from Abbot Agronguerre, a line of fire spurting forth from his
serpentine-shielded hand, to immolate the largest goblin as it barked orders
to its ugly kin. Shrouded in fire, the creature's commands became high-
pitched squeals and it ran wildly, flapping its arms. The abbot wasted no
time, shifting the flow of flames to engulf the next creature in line.

But for all the sudden shock-the fast-flashing, brutal, and thundering
retort-very few goblins went down and stayed down. After the initial
moment of terror, in which half the goblin force turned as if to flee, the
creatures came to understand the truth-that a dozen well-placed archers
could have done as much damage-and quickly tightened their ring.

Another report thundered out from the abbey walls as Midalis pulled his
ranks into a tighter defensive formation, boom, boom, boom! as Agronguerre
sent forth another line of flame, but again to minimal real damage.
And even Midalis noticed that those lightning bolts didn't thunder quite
as loudly.

The call came up that the last of his line, with goblins on their tails, had
delivered their saddlebags, and the Prince and his men formed a tight
wedge and charged into the closing goblin ranks. And from the abbey walls
came another volley, this one of arrows and quarrels, and the goblins scat-
tered before the charging horses.

And those goblins behind, trying to catch up, got hit from behind, as
Midalis' archers slipped over the back of the hillock, replacing the charging
monsters.

"Break to the back!" came the cry, and the Prince swung the wedge
around-swords slashing, spears stabbing, hooves trampling-thinking to
flee back along the trail.

Or did they even have to flee? Prince Midalis wondered, for if they could
destroy the goblin pursuit, opening the way back around the hillock, they
could make a stand on the field, slaughtering many; and as long as they
didn't allow the goblins to flank them they could retreat if necessary.

Midalis brought his men back around the southeastern corner. Many of
the goblins in pursuit, having a wall of horses suddenly turned back against
them, skidded to a stop and whirled to retreat.

Right into a wall of arrows.

Cheers rent the air from Midalis' men, the monks with their magic and
bows joining in from the abbey walls. The goblin ranks along the eastern
wall of St. Belfour quickly thinned.

And for a moment, just a moment, the Prince and his men thought the
day was theirs.

A scream from atop the hill showed them the truth: another goblin force
had swung around the back of the hill, pressing the archers. Now those
men came running down, stumbling and sliding, some crashing headlong
into trees or tearing through brush. Before Midalis could react, the crucial
high ground was lost. Now he and his horsemen worked furiously to scatter
those goblins who remained by the side of the abbey, so that the archers
could join them.

More thunderous reports issued from in front, and those were followed
by a host of screams and fierce goblin war cries. When Midalis glanced
back over his shoulder at the abbey's wall, he was dismayed, for many,
many spears and arrows arced over the front wall or flew away into the air, a
tremendous barrage.

The Prince turned his force yet again, spearheading the wedge, putting
the infantry archers in the second line with a wall of horsemen behind, to
fend off the goblins regrouping atop the northern hillock. They could not
slip into the forest from this area, for too many enemies had come to the
hillock, so around to the front of the abbey they went, hoping for some
break in the goblin line.
And when they came around that corner, when they saw all the field
before them thick with goblin masses, when they saw a hundred spears and
arrows flying against the abbey walls for every one the monks could throw
down, the Prince knew the grim truth. He thought of charging the abbey
door, of calling for it to open that he and his men could seek refuge within.

But who, then, would break the siege? And would they even hold out
through the morning from inside those stone walls?

"Fight on, for all our lives!" he cried. "For the lives of those in St.
Bdfour and for the memory of those who this morn will fall!"

The magic coming from the abbey showed weaker now, one lightning
bolt hitting a goblin squarely in the chest and not even dropping the crea-
ture. That fact did not go unnoticed among the enemies, and the goblins,
no ragtag band, howled and pressed even farther.

Midalis and his front riders plunged into the goblin line, swords slashing,
spears piercing goblin chests. But the goblins swarmed around them in a
rush as strong as the tide, filling every channel, every opening. One man
was pulled down from his mount, a host of ugly creatures falling over him,
dashing and stabbing; another had his horse slashed out from under him
and died before he even hit the ground.

The archers in the second rank kept firing their bows, most behind at the
pursuit from the hillock; but within moments, they, too, found themselves
hard-pressed, with many using their bows as clubs, smashing goblin heads.

On the field, Prince Midalis knew it; on the wall, Abbot Agronguerre, his
magical energy expended, knew it. St. Belfour was doomed. The Prince of
Honce-the-Bear was doomed. The Vanguard army would soon be shattered
and the region would know only blackness.

Another mountain of shadow flowed through the forest, another legion
of goblins, the Prince assumed, and he could only wonder in blank amaze-
ment at how many had come to destroy his homeland.

Out of the trees came the forms, screaming and howling, a primal, feral
cry that sent shivers through the spines of all who heard it, that froze the
battle for a long, horrifying moment.

Wearing browns and greens that rendered them practically invisible, the
barbarian horde swarmed onto the field. The front line came on fast but
stopped almost as one, pivoting, then launching heavy stones from the ends
of swinging chains into the closest goblin ranks, opening holes, knocking
monsters back into their wicked kin.

Again came that unified war cry, drowning all other sounds, bringing
shivers to the goblins and hope to Midalis and his valiant men. And
through the ranks of the hammer throwers stormed Andacanavar, his

mighty claymore cleaving down goblins three at a swing. Like a gigantic

wedge, the hardy Alpinadoran barbarians of Tol Hengor drove on.
"Fight on!" Midalis cried, but this time, hope replaced resignation. Now

for the first time, the goblins seemed unnerved. The Prince seized the
moment to pull his cavalry back together, to begin the determined march
that would get his vulnerable archers to the abbey's front gate.

He signaled to Agronguerre on the wall, and took hope that the wise old
man would understand his intent and begin calling to his monks to secure
the portal.

With sheer determination, Midalis got there, the horsemen shielding the
running archers from monstrous goblin spears, the monks pulling wide the
doors and battling those few goblins nearby until the archers could get
inside.

The battle threatened to disintegrate into chaos again, except that the
barbarians, the great warriors of the north, followed Andacanavar with
fanatical bravery, keeping fast their lines of defense as the mighty ranger
plowed on. Midalis and his horsemen would have been overwhelmed right
there at the wall, goblins coming at them from every angle, but then the
ranger broke through, his elven-forged claymore cutting a goblin in half at
the waist right as the Prince raised his own sword to strike at the creature.

Before Midalis could begin to thank Andacanavar, he stabbed his sword
into the ground before him and gave a howl, lifting his arms above his head
and putting his fingertips together, his arms mirroring the barbarians'
wedge formation. Then Andacanavar slid the fingers of his right hand down
to his left elbow, and the right line of the formation followed the command,
turning with practiced efficiency, so that Andacanavar was now the trailing
man on the new right flank, and Bruinhelde, the man who had taken the
rear position on the initial left flank, was now the spearhead.

Prince Midalis understood the beautiful maneuver, the brilliant pivot,
and knew the role that his men must now play. He swung away from the
mighty ranger, charging his horse along his ranks, then, when he reached
the midpoint, breaking out onto the field, his men flowing behind him, left
flank and right.

And by then, the rescued archers had gained the abbey's parapets and
their bows began to sing anew, leading the Prince's charge.

From the wall of St. Belfour, Abbot Agronguerre watched with tears
welling in his gentle eyes. He had been in Vanguard for three decades and
knew well its history-knew of the massacre at Fuldebarrow, where his
Church had tried to establish a monastery. He knew of the many skirmishes
between the men of Honce-the-Bear and the hardy Alpinadorans, knew the
prejudice that lingered on both sides of the border.

But now, apparently, both the men and women of Honce-the-Bear and
of Alpinador had found a common enemy too great to be ignored; and if
this enemy, these minions of the demon dactyl, could bring these peoples
together-could get the Alpinadoran barbarians to fight for the sake of St.
Belfour of the Abellican Church!-then perhaps the light had begun to
shine through the darkness.

The old abbot could hardly believe it, and the emotions of the moment
lent him new strength. He took the graphite from Brother Haney, lifted his
hand, and let fly the most powerful lightning stroke of the morning, a
searing blast that blew aside a score of goblin spearthrowers, the monsters
dying with their weapons still in hand.

"Ring the bells!" the invigorated old abbot cried, and he let fly another
thunderous bolt. "To arms! To arms!"

The tide had turned, the appearance of the powerful Alpinadorans
lending strength and courage to the besieged men of Honce-the-Bear and
shattering the previous discipline of the goblin attackers. As many monsters
turned and fled as remained to do battle, and those that did remain caught
arrows from above or lightning from the abbot, or they were trampled
down by horses and barbarians alike.

Within a matter of minutes, the only goblins that remained alive on the
field were on the ground and squirming in agony. Some begged for mercy,
but they would find none, neither from Midalis and his men nor from the
fierce barbarians.

The day was won, the siege broken, the goblin army scattered and run-
ning, and Prince Midalis trotted his mount across the field to meet with
Andacanavar and Bruinhelde, each with their respective forces lining up
behind them.

"A great debt we owe you this day," the Prince graciously offered.

Andacanavar looked to Bruinhelde, but the stoic chieftain did not reply
to the Prince in kind, nor did he offer any hint of where his heart might be.
He did glance up at the abbey wall, though, his face stern and set, and
Midalis followed that gaze to the reciprocal look of Abbot Agronguerre.

The abbey doors had opened again, and monks were fast exiting, many
carrying bandages, some with soul stones in hand. Their line bent to the
right, Midalis noted with distress, toward the wounded warriors of Van-
guard, and not at all to the left, where lay the wounded Alpinadorans.

The day was not yet won.

CHAPTER 4

Harsh Reality

Winter had found the mountain passes west of Honce-the-
Bear, with snow falling deep about the elven valley of Andur'-
Blough Inninness, strong winds piling it up into towering
drifts. That hardly proved a hindrance to Belli'mar Juraviel, though, the
nimble elf skipping across the white blanket, leaving barely a trace of his
passing. For the Touel'alfar of Corona did not battle the moods of nature,
as did the humans. Rather, they adapted their ways to fit the seasons outside
their protected valley, and they reveled in each season in turn: a dance of
rebirth each spring, of excitement and play in the lazy summer heat, of har-
vest and preparation in the autumn, and of respite in the winter. To the
Touel'alfar, the harshest winter blizzard was a time of snow sculpting and
snow-throwing games, or a time to huddle by the fire.

Prepared, always prepared.

This blizzard had been just that type, with stinging, blowing snow; and
though it had abated greatly, the snow was still falling when Juraviel left the
cloudy cover of the sheltered elven valley.

But, despite the storm, he had to get out, to be alone with his frustra-
tions. Again Lady Dasslerond had refused his request to parent the young
child of Elbryan and Jilseponie, the babe the lady had taken from Pony on
the field outside Palmaris, when Markwart had overwhelmed the woman
and left her near death. In the ensuing months, Lady Dasslerond had kept
Juraviel very busy, had sent him running errand after errand; and while he
had suspected that she was purposefully keeping him away from the babe,
he could not be certain.

Until that very morning, when he had asked her directly, and she had
refused him directly.

So Juraviel had run out of the valley, up onto the slopes, to be alone with
his thoughts and his anger, to let the quiet snow calm his frustration.

He skittered up one drift, using the piled snow as a ladder to get him to
the tip of a rocky overhang, and there, in the wind, he sat for a long, long
while, remembering Elbryan and Pony, remembering Tuntun, his dear
dven friend who had given her life in the assault on Mount Aida and the
demon dactyl.

Gradually, like the storm, his angry energy flowed out, and he was sitting
quite comfortably when he saw another form rise out of the low clouds of
Andur'Blough Inninness. He looked on curiously for a few moments,
thinking that another of the Touel'alfar had decided to come out to enjoy
the storm or to see if it had completely abated yet or perhaps to check on
Juraviel's well-being. But when the new-come elf turned his way, stared at
him from under the cowl of the low-pulled hood, Belli'mar Juraviel recog-
nized those eyes and that face and was surprised-indeed, stunned-to dis-
cover that Lady Dasslerond herself had come out to find him.

He started to move down to her, but she motioned for him to stay and
scampered up the snowbank at least as easily as he had, taking a seat on the
stone beside him.

"You were correct in your guess," she informed him. "Tien-Bryselle returned
this morning with information concerning Tempest and Hawkwing."

Juraviel breathed a sigh of sincere relief. Tempest and Hawkwing had
been the weapons of Elbryan. The elven sword Tempest had been forged
for the ranger's uncle Mather and won by Elbryan in honest duel with the
dead man's spirit; and Hawkwing had been crafted by Juraviel's own father
specifically for Elbryan the Nightbird. Both weapons had been lost when
Elbryan had been captured by Father Abbot Markwart. Juraviel, convinced
that they were in St. Precious in Palmaris, had tried to find them.

But then had come the confrontation between Elbryan and Markwart in
Chasewind Manor, a battle that the elf could not ignore, and Juraviel had
run out of time. Thus had Dasslerond sent another to find the weapons, fol-
lowing a report that they had gone with Elbryan back to Dundalis, his final
resting place.

"Bradwarden confirmed their location," she explained, "and took Tien-
Bryselle to them."

"He is a fine friend," Juraviel remarked.

Lady Dasslerond nodded. "A fine friend who came through the trials of
the demon dactyl, and who came through the responsibilities of calling
himself elf-friend."

Juraviel narrowed his eyes, easily catching the not-so-flattering reference
to both Elbryan and Jilseponie. Lady Dasslerond had not been pleased to
kam that Elbryan had taught Jilseponie the elven sword dance, bi'nelle
iasada, nor had she been happy with many of Jilseponie's choices during
the final days of conflict with Father Abbot Markwart.

"But we are glad to know that the weapons are safe," she quickly
idded-for his benefit, Juraviel knew, "guarded by the spirits of two
; lingers. Perhaps they will belong to yel'delen one day."
;   Yel'delen, Juraviel echoed in his mind, so poignantly reminded that Lady
Dasslerond had not even yet named the baby; for in the elvish tongue,
yel'delen meant simply "the child."

"Jilseponie did not fight the return of the weapons," Juraviel dared to
remark.

"She is in Palmaris still, and likely knew nothing of their return to the
north," she answered, "nor that we went to find them."

Juraviel looked at her curiously, hardly agreeing with her first claim. If
Tempest and Hawkwing left Palmaris with Elbryan's caisson, then they did
so on the instructions of Jilseponie. "But she would not have fought the
interment of the elven weapons even if she had known," Juraviel insisted,
"nor would she argue if we decided to take them back."

Dasslerond shrugged, apparently not prepared to argue the point.

"You underestimate her," Juraviel went on boldly, "as you have from the
very first."

"I judged her by her own actions," the lady of Caer'alfar replied firmly.
She shook her head and chuckled. "You cloud your memories with friend-
ship, yet you know that your friend will be cold in the ground centuries
before your time has passed."

"Am I not to befriend those of like heart? "

"The humans have their place," Dasslerond said somewhat coldly. "To
elevate them beyond that is a dangerous mistake, Belli'mar Juraviel. You
know that well."

Juraviel looked away, feeling the tears beginning to rim his golden eyes.
"And is that why?" he asked, and then he blinked away the tears com-
pletely, replacing them with resolve, and looked at her squarely. "Is that
why you deny me the child? "

Dasslerond didn't blink, nor did she shrink back an inch. "This child is
different," she said. "He will carry the weapons of Nightbird and Mather,
the Touel'alfar weapons of a true ranger."

"And a glorious day it will be," Juraviel put in.

"Indeed," she agreed, "even more so than you understand. The child will
become the purest of rangers, trained from birth to our ways. He will hold
no allegiance to the humans, will be human in appearance only."

Juraviel considered the words and her determined tone very carefully for
a long moment. "But is not the true power of the ranger the joining of the
best that is human and elven? " he asked, thinking that his beloved Lady
Dasslerond might be missing a very important point here.

"So it has been," she replied, "but always I have understood that it is the
joining of the elven way with the human physical form and the impatience
that is human. This child will have physical strength beyond that of even
its father, a strength fostered by the trials we shall place upon him and
the health that is Andur'Blough Inninness. And we will foster, as well, the
understanding of mortality, the short life which he can expect, and thus, the
sense of immediacy and impatience so crucial for warriors of action.''
Juraviel looked at her, not quite understanding her reasoning behind this
talk-words he almost regarded as nonsense. Understanding the source,
though, the lady of Caer'alfar, the leader of his people, Juraviel looked past
the words to the hopes and the fears. She had taken the child and had flatly
refused to return him to his mother, even now that the darkness of Mark-
wart and Bestesbulzibar had passed. Indeed, it seemed to Juraviel that Lady
Dasslerond had claimed the child for Andur'Blough Inninness.

And then he understood those hopes of his lady even more clearly. This
child, perhaps, so true of bloodline, so strong of limb and of thought,
would have the power to heal Andur'Blough Inninness. This child of the
ranger might aid Lady Dasslerond in her defense against the spreading rot,
the stain the demon dactyl had placed upon the elven valley.

"He will be strong and swift, as was Elbryan," Juraviel remarked, as
much to measure the response as to speak the truth.

"More akin to his mother," Lady Dasslerond replied.

Juraviel cocked an eyebrow in surprise that she would offer such a com-
pliment to Jilseponie.

''Jilseponie is strong and swift with the sword, strong in bi'nelle dasada,
as was her teacher," Dasslerond explained. "And though she was not as
strong in the dance as Nightbird, she was the more complete of the parents,
powerfully versed in the gemstone magic, as well. The complete human
warrior. This child will be all that his mother was and is and more-for he
will have the guidance of the Touel'alfar throughout his journey."

Belli'mar Juraviel nodded, though he feared that Lady Dasslerond might
be reaching a bit high here in her expectations. The child was but a few
months old, after all, and though his bloodlines seemed as pure as those
of any human-and Juraviel, who had loved both Elbryan and Pony,
understood that more clearly than did Lady Dasslerond!-that was no
guarantee of anything positive. Furthermore, Juraviel, apparently unlike
Lady Dasslerond, appreciated that bringing up the infant in Andur'Blough
Inninness was an experiment, an unknown.

''Jilseponie made mistakes that we cannot tolerate," Lady Dasslerond
stated flatly, a sudden and stern reminder to Juraviel of her feelings toward
the woman, "as Elbryan, our beloved Nightbird, erred in teaching her
bi'nelle dasada. And do not doubt that we will continue to watch her from
afar."

Juraviel nodded. On that point, at least, he and his lady were in agree-
ment. If Pony started sharing the elven sword dance, became an instructor
in the finer points of bi'nella dasada, then the Touel'alfar would have to
stop her. To Juraviel, that would have meant taking her into their homeland
and keeping her there; but he held no illusions that Lady Dasslerond,
whose responsibility concerned the very existence of the Touel'alfar, would
be so merciful.

"Yet that was Nightbird's error," he replied, "and notJilseponie's."
"Not yet."
Again, Juraviel nodded, taking well her point. He wasn't sure that he
even agreed with his own last statement-that Elbryan's tutoring of Pony
was a mistake at all. Juraviel had watched them fighting together, each
sword complementing the other to the level of perfection, a weaving of
form and of weapons so beautiful that it had brought tears of joy to the
elf's eyes.

How could such a work of art be a mistake?

"You trust her," Lady Dasslerond stated.

Juraviel didn't disagree.

"You love her as you love Touel'alfar," she went on.

Juraviel looked at her but said nothing.

"You would have us forgive her and return to her the child."

Juraviel swallowed hard. "She would have made a fine ranger, had she
been trained in Andur'Blough Inninness," he dared to remark.

"Indeed," she was quick to reply, "but she was not. Never forget that,
my friend. She was not.

"I'll not deny, diminish, or refute your feelings for the woman," Lady
Dasslerond went on. "Indeed, your faith in her gives me hope that Night-
bird's error will not lead to disaster. However, Jilseponie's role was in
bearing the son of Elbryan. Understand that and accept it. He is ours now.
Our tool, our weapon. He is our repayment for the sacrifice that we made
to help the humans in their struggle with Bestesbulzibar, and our way to
minimize the lasting effect of that sacrifice."

Juraviel wanted to argue that the war against the demon dactyl was for
the sake of elves as well as the humans, but he held his words.

"And thus, and because of your honest feelings, understand that you are
to have no contact with the child," she went on, and Juraviel's heart sank.
"He is not Nightbird-we will name him appropriately when he has shown
to us the truth of his soul. But Belli'mar Juraviel will learn that truth in
time, through the work of others more suited to the task."

Juraviel was not happy at all with the news, but neither was he surprised.
Through all these months, he had been complaining, and often, about the
lack of interaction with the child, by him or by any other Touel'alfar, and
complaining that what interaction there was came more often in the form of
testing, and hardly ever the simple act of sharing a touch or a smile. That
had bothered Juraviel profoundly, and he had spoken rather sharply to
Lady Dasslerond about his fears.

And his words had not been met with sympathy.

So he was not surprised now, not at all.

"You know of the other? " Lady Dasslerond asked him.

"Brynn Dharielle," Juraviel replied, naming the other human currently
under Touel'alfar tutelage, a young orphaned girl from To-gai, the western
reach of the kingdom of Behren, the land of the greatest human horsemen
in all the world.

"You will enjoy her," Lady Dasslerond assured him, "for she is possessed
of more spirit than her little frame can contain, a creature of impulse and
fire much akin to young Elbryan Wyndon."

Juraviel nodded. He had heard as much concerning Brynn Dharielle. He
hadn't yet met the novice ranger, for though Brynn had been in the care of
the Touel'alfar for almost a year, and though Andur'Blough Inninness was
not a large place, Juraviel's business had been elsewhere-his eyes, his
heart, in the paths of Elbryan and Pony, his concern in the fate of the
demon dactyl and Markwart and the turn of the human world. Those in the
valley who knew of Brynn Dharielle had spoken highly of her talents and
her spirit. Dare the Touel'alfar believe they had another Nightbird in
training?

"I give you her charge," Lady Dasslerond went on. "You will see to her
as you saw to Nightbird."

"But do you not believe that I failed with Nightbird? " Juraviel dared to
ask, "For did he not fail in his vow as ranger, in teaching bi'nelle dasada^ "

Lady Dasslerond laughed aloud-for all of her anger at Elbryan and his
sharing of the elven sword dance with Pony, she knew, as all the elves
knew, that he had not failed. Not at all. Nightbird had gone to Aida and
battled Bestesbulzibar; and when the demon had found a new and more
insidious and more dangerous host, Nightbird had given everything to win
the day, for the humans and for all the goodly races, Touel'alfar included,
of the world.

"You will learn from your mistakes then," Lady Dasslerond replied.
"You will do even better with this one."

Now it was Juraviel's turn to chuckle helplessly. Could his lady even
begin to appreciate the standard to which she had just set Brynn Dharielle?
Would his lady ever see past her immediate anger to the truth that
was Elbryan the Nightbird, and the truth that remained in the heart of
Jilseponie?

Or was he wrong? he had to wonder and to fear. Was he too blinded by
friendship and love to accept the failings of his human companions?

Belli'mar Juraviel blew a long, long sigh.
CHAPTER 5

Diplomacy

Constance Pemblebury watched the docks of Palmaris recede into
the morning fog. She was glad to be away from the city, away from
 dead Markwart and his all-too-complicated Church, away from a
populace so on the edge of hysteria and desperation, and, most of all, away
from Jilseponie. Even thinking of the woman made her wince. Jilseponie.
The heroic Pony, the savior of the north, who defeated the demon dactyl in
Aida and in the corporeal vessel of Markwart. Jilseponie, who could
become abbess of St. Precious with but a word and could cultivate that into
something much greater, perhaps even become mother abbess of the entire
Abellican Church. Jilseponie, the woman to whom King Danube had
offered the city of Palmaris. Baroness, governess. What other title might she
choose? What other title might King Danube bestow upon her?
Jilseponie hadn't been at the dock when the River Palace, the royal barge,
and its fifteen escort warships had left the city. She hadn't shown herself to
the royal entourage at all since the final meeting in St. Precious.

Constance was glad of that.

In truth, Constance admired the woman-her fire, her efforts-and she
could not deny the value of Jilseponie's actions in the war and in the even
more dangerous aftermath of the war. In truth, Constance recognized that,
had the situation been different, she and Jilseponie might have become the
best of friends. But that was a private truth Constance would not admit to
anyone but herself.

For the situation was different; Constance had not missed the looks King
Danube had bestowed on Jilseponie.

Beautiful and heroic Jilseponie. A woman who had, in the eyes of the
majority of the kingdom, raised herself above her commoner birth to a posi-
tion of nobility. Nobility of deed and not blood.

And how King Danube had stared at her, fawned over her with a sparkle
in his tired eyes that Constance had not seen in years. He would make no
move toward Jilseponie yet-not with her husband, Elbryan, barely cold in
the ground. But Constance didn't doubt the length of Danube's memory or
the magnetism of his charms. Not at all.

When she looked atJilseponie, then, was she seeing the next Vivian? The
next queen of Honce-the-Bear?

The thought made her clench her jaw and chew her lower lip. Yes, she
admired the woman, even liked the woman, and, yes, Constance had under-
stood for some time now that while she might share Danube's bed, he
would not take her as his wife. But, still, to have the door-through which
she understood she could never walk-so obviously closed before her,
offended her. She was in her mid-thirties now, a decade older than Jilse-
ponie, and she was starting to show her age, with wrinkles about her eyes-
eyes losing the luster of youth-and a body that was just beginning to lose
the war against gravity. Measured against Jilseponie's smooth skin and
sparkling blue eyes, her strong muscles and the spring in her youthful
stride, Constance understood that she would lose.

Thus she had taken Danube the previous night, and the night before
that, seducing him shamelessly, even coaxing him with drink so that he
would not ignore her obvious advances. Thus she would take him again
this night on the ship, and every night all the way to Ursal, and every night
after that.

Until she became great with his child.

Constance hated her actions, her deception, for Danube believed that
she was taking the herbs-as per the arrangement with every courtesan-
that would prevent pregnancy. She hated more the thought of serving
Queen Jilseponie. How many years had she worked by Danube's side,
easing him through crises, serving as his best adviser? How many years had
she stood by him against all his enemies, and quiedy reinforced his better
qualities to his allies? To Constance's thinking, she had been serving as
queen ever since Vivian had died, in every capacity except that of the
King's constant bed partner and the mother of his children.

Now she meant to remedy that situation. He wouldn't marry her, likely,
but he would sire her children; and in the absence of another wife, he might
grant one of them the status of heir to the throne. Yes, she could get that
concession from him. His other bastard children-and there were two at
least-were grown now and had never been trained for the crown, had
never been as sons to Danube; and he held little love for his lone sibling, his
brother, Midalis, a man he had not seen in years. Constance believed with
aH her heart that he would come to love their child and would train the
child, boy or girl, as he had not trained the others and could not train
Midalis, to serve as heir to the throne of Honce-the-Bear.

Constance recognized the unlikelihood that she would ever be queen,
but she realized that she would be more than pleased with the title of queen
mother.

Still, she wished it could be different, wished that she could inspire an
honest love in Danube. She had hoped that the situation in Palmaris, the
greatest crisis in Danube's reign, would provide opportunity for her to raise
her station through deed; and indeed, by Danube's own accounting, she
had performed admirably over the weeks of trial. But how her efforts paled
against those ofJilseponie! As her fading beauty paled beside that woman's
luster!

"It is, perhaps, time to relax," came the voice of Abbot Je'howith behind
her, startling her. When she glanced at him and followed his gaze to the
taffrail, she understood the source of his comment, for she was uninten-
tionally clutching the railing so tighdy that all blood had gone from her
knuckles.

"The trials are behind us," Constance agreed, letting go of the rail and
self-consciously hiding her hands within the folds of her thick woolen cloak.

"Most, perhaps," said old Je'howith, his expression pensive. "For the
Crown and court, at least, though I fear that I've many trials ahead of me."
The old man walked up beside Constance, gripping the rail and staring out,
as she had been, at the receding shapes of Palmaris' dock.

Constance eyed him curiously; never had she and Je'howith been on
good terms, though neither had they been openly hostile toward each
other, as was the case between the elderly abbot and Duke Kalas.

"They are so young and idealistic," the abbot continued, and he glanced
over at Constance. "The young Abellican brothers, I mean, who take the
downfall of Father Abbot Markwart as a signal that it is their time to step to
the forefront of the Abellican Church. They believe they have seen the
truth; though the truth, you and I both understand in our wisdom of expe-
rience, is never as simple as that. They will overreach, and pity the Church
if we older abbots and masters cannot tame the fire of youth."

Constance's expression turned even more curious and skeptical; she
wondered why old Je'howith was confiding in her, and she trusted him not
at all. Was he, perhaps, using her ear to get his seemingly sincere feelings
whispered to King Danube? Was he seeking an unspoken alliance with the
King by using the mouth of an unwitting third party? Though, of course,
Constance Pemblebury was hardly that!

"The young brothers now leading St. Precious are nearly my own age,"
she reminded Je'howith; and it was true that Braumin, Marlboro Viscenti,
and Francis were all near their thirtieth birthdays.

"But how many of their years have been spent within the sheltered con-
fines of an outland abbey?" Je'howith asked. "The other houses of the
Abellican Church are not as St. Honce, you see. Even great St.-Mere-
Abelle, with its seven hundred brothers, is a secluded place, a place of few
viewpoints and little understanding of anything that is not Abellican. We of
St. Honce have the advantage of the city of Ursal about us, and of the
wisdom of the King and his noble court."

Constance's expression betrayed her skepticism, particularly given the
recent battles between Church and Crown. If Je'howith meant to call her
on that point, though, he did not do so immediately and lost the opportu-
nity as another voice piped in.

"Farewell, Palmaris," King Danube said with a chuckle, "and good luck
to you, my friend Duke Kalas! For your task, I know, is the most wretched
by far!" He walked up to Constance and Je'howith, his smile wide and sin-
cere, for it was no secret among them that King Danube was glad indeed to
be sailing for home.

"My King," said Je'howith, dipping a bow.

"Ah, so you remember? " Danube replied slyly. Behind the old abbot,
Constance smiled widely, barely suppressing a laugh.

"Never did I forget," the abbot insisted seriously.

Danube looked at him doubtfully.

"Can you doubt the influence of the Father Abbot? " Je'howith asked,
and Constance did not miss the fact that a bit of the cocksureness seemed
to dissipate from King Danube's serene face.

"Will the new father abbot prove so influential, I wonder?" Danube
retorted, his voice thick with implication. He narrowed his eyes as he
spoke, and Constance understood him to be signaling the influential abbot
of St. Honce in no uncertain terms that he had tolerated about all that he
would from the troublesome Abellican Church.

"A gender man, whomever it might prove to be," Abbot Je'howith
replied calmly. "And fear not for Duke Kalas, my King. The Duke of
Wester-Honce, the Baron of Palmaris, will find the brothers of St. Precious
accommodating."

"Somehow I doubt that," said Danube.

"At the least, they will come to understand that they are not enemies but
allies in the war to reclaim the souls of Palmaris," Je'howith went on.

"For Church or for Crown? " Constance asked.

Je'howith glanced back at her, and, surprisingly, he appeared wounded
by her attitude. What was he about? she wondered. Did he seek alliance
with her, and, if so, to what advantage for her?

"I must go and see about my duties, my King," Je'howith quickly said. "I
must begin the letters to summon the College of Abbots." He bowed again
and, with no objections forthcoming, hustled away.

Danube watched him go, shaking his head. " Never am I quite certain
where that one stands," he remarked to Constance, moving close beside her
It the taffrail, "for Church or for Crown."

'   "For Je'howith, more likely," said Constance. "And with his mentor,
- Markwart, dead, and the Church turned hostile to his old ways, that path, it
: would seem, now lies with the Crown."

Danube stared at her, nodding, admiring. "You always see things so
; dearly," he complimented, and he draped his arm about her shoulder. "Ah,
' my Constance, whatever would I do without you? "
The woman nudged closer, liking the support from the strong man. She
knew the rules, knew that by those rules she was not fit to be queen.
She trusted that Danube cared for her deeply, though, and while it was
friendship more than love, she could be satisfied with that.

Almost satisfied, she reminded herself, and soon after, she led the King to
his stateroom belowdeck.

Prince Midalis watched the hefty Abbot Agronguerre come bounding
out of the gates, huffing and puffing and wiping the sweat from his brow
with a dirty kerchief. The man shook his head repeatedly, muttering
prayers. He brought his right hand up before his face, then swept it down
to the left and back up, then down to the right and out, the sign of the ever-
green, an old, though now seldom used, Church gesture.

Glancing around at the carnage on the field, the Prince understood.
Many goblins were down, most dead and some squirming and crying. And
many men had fallen as well, the Prince's brave soldiers, most to Midalis'
right, and some of the Alpinadoran barbarians, over on the field to the left.
Those monks who had come out before the Abbot, had gone to the right
almost exclusively, moving to tend their own countrymen.

Abbot Agronguerre surveyed the situation briefly, then looked at
Midalis, who caught his attention with a quick wave of his hand. The abbot
nodded and rushed over.

"We have allies," Prince Midalis remarked gravely, "wounded allies."

"And will they accept our soul stones?" the abbot asked in all serious-
ness. "Or will they see our magic as some demonic power to be avoided?"

"Do you believe-" the Prince started incredulously.

Agronguerre stopped him with a shrug. "I do not know," he admitted,
"nor do the younger brothers, which is why they instinctively went to the
aid of the Vanguardsmen."

"Bring some, and quickly," the Prince instructed, then he turned his
mount and started at a swift trot to the left toward the barbarian line. The
bulk of the Alpinadorans were on the edge of the field now, and many had
gone into the shadows beneath the boughs in pursuit of the fleeing goblins.
Several others had been left behind on the open field, wounded.

"Where is Andacanavar? " the Prince called out, then, trying to remem-
ber his bedongadongadonga, he translated. "Tiuk nee Andacanavar?"

A couple of whistles were relayed along the line, and the giant ranger
appeared from the brush, mighty Bruinhelde at his side. The pair spotted
Midalis at once and strode over quickly.

"Our debt to you this day is great," Midalis said, sliding down from his
horse and landing right into a respectful bow. "We would have been lost."

"Such debts do not exist between friends," Andacanavar replied, and
Midalis did not miss the fact that the man glanced to the side, and some-
what unsurely, at Bruinhelde as he spoke.
"We did not know if you would come," Midalis admitted.
"Did we not share drink in the mead hall? " Bruinhelde asked, as if that
alone should explain everything and should have given Midalis confidence
that the barbarians would indeed appear.

The Prince, taking the cue, nodded and bowed again. "I feared that per-
haps you were delayed by yet another goblin force," he answered, "or that
our agreement on this morning's tactics had not been clear."
Bruinhelde laughed. "No agreement," he started to say, somewhat sharply.
"We could not have hoped to sort through coherent plans," Anda-
canavar cut in; and Midalis understood and appreciated the fact that the
ranger was trying to keep things calm between the leaders. "We know little
of your fighting tactics, as you know little of ours. Better that we watch you
take the field, then find where we best fit in."

Midalis looked around the field, taking note of the scores of goblin dead,
and he smiled and nodded.

He noted, too, that Abbot Agronguerre and several brothers were fast
approaching, the abbot looking somewhat tentative.

"You have wounded," the Prince said to Bruinhelde. "My friends are
skilled in the healing arts."

Bruinhelde, his expression unyielding, glanced over at Andacanavar; and
the ranger moved past Midalis, sweeping the Prince and Bruinhelde into his
wake, heading quickly for the nearest fallen Alpinadorans.

"Bandages alone," the worldly ranger said quietly to Abbot Agronguerre.
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, and then the abbot
nodded, Agronguerre turned and motioned to his brethren, assigning each
a fallen Alpinadoran, and then moved for the most grievously wounded
man, who already had a couple of Alpinadoran women working hard to
stem the flow of his lifeblood.

Andacanavar, Midalis, and Bruinhelde met him there, the Prince
bending low beside the abbot.

"They are leery of magic," he whispered to his monk friend. "Better that
we use conventional dressings."

"So said the large one," Abbot Agronguerre replied, indicating Anda-
canavar. He ended his sentence with a grunt as he pulled tight the bandage
crossing the man's chest, shoulder to rib cage, trying hard to stop the
crimson flow. "For the others, perhaps, but this one will not live the hour
without the use of the soul stone, and may not live even if I employ one."

Both Vanguardsmen looked up then to see Andacanavar and Bruinhelde
looking down at them, the ranger seeming somewhat unsure but Bruin-
s; hddewith a determined stare upon his face.

|   "The bandage will not stem the blood," Abbot Agronguerre remarked
| calmly, and he reached into his belt pouch and produced the gray soul
s Stone, the hematite, and held it up for the two Alpinadorans to see. "But I
| have magic that-"
" No!" Bruinhelde interrupted firmly.

"He will die without-"

"No," the barbarian leader said again, and his look grew ever more
dangerous-so much so that Midalis grabbed Agronguerre by the wrist and
gently pushed his hand down. The abbot looked to his Prince, dum-
founded, and Midalis merely shook his head slowly.

"He will die," Agronguerre insisted to Midalis.

"Warriors die," was all that Bruinhelde replied; and he walked away, but
not before bringing over two of his other warriors and issuing instructions
to them in the Alpinadoran tongue.

Midalis understood enough of the words to know that Bruinhelde would
not bend on this matter, for he told his two warriors to stop Agronguerre,
by whatever means, if the monk tried to use the devil magic on their fallen
comrade. The Prince fixed Agronguerre with a solid look then, and, though
it pained Midalis as much as it pained Agronguerre to let a man die in this
manner, he shook his head again slowly and deliberately.

The abbot pulled away, glanced once at the two imposing barbarian
guards, then pocketed the gemstone and went back to work with conven-
tional means upon the fallen warrior,

The man was dead within a few minutes.

Abbot Agronguerre wiped his bloody hands, then rubbed them across
his cheek, brushing away his tears, unintentionally leaving light bloody
smears on his face. He rose in a huff and stormed away, to the next brother
in line working upon a wounded Alpinadoran, and then the next. Midalis
and Andacanavar, and the sentries, followed him all the way.

Without a word to his unwelcome entourage and growling with every
step, Abbot Agronguerre stalked across the field back toward the fallen
Vanguardsmen, pulling out his soul stone as he went, showing it, as an act
of defiance, to the Alpinadoran guards.

The barbarian warriors bristled, and Prince Midalis worried that his
friend's anger might be starting even more trouble this dark morning; but
Andacanavar dismissed the two others with a wave of his hand, then
motioned for Midalis to wait with him.

"The monk errs," the ranger remarked quietly.

"It does not set well with Abbot Agronguerre to watch a man die,"
Prince Midalis replied, a harsh edge to his voice, "especially when he
believes that he might have saved that man's life."

"At the expense of his soul? " Andacanavar asked in all seriousness.

Midalis blinked and backed off a step, surprised by the stark question.
He studied the ranger for a long while, trying to get a measure of the man.
"Do you truly believe that?" he asked.

Andacanavar shrugged his huge shoulders, his expression vague. "I have
lived for many years," he began. "I have seen much that I would not
have believed possible. Monsters, magic, and, yes, the demon dactyl. I have
learned of several religions, your Abellican one included, and I know
well the premise of the Abellican Church that the gemstones are the gifts of
their god."

"But your people do not view them that way," Midalis reasoned.
Andacanavar chuckled, showing the Prince that his words were a bit of
an understatement. "My people do not believe in magic," he said. "Those
practices that transcend the bonds of the elements-the magic of Abelli-
cans and of elves, of demons and of yatol priests-are all the same to us, all
wrought in the mystical world of illusion and deceit."

"And how does worldly Andacanavar view the use of such gemstones? "
Prince Midalis dared to ask.

"I was raised outside of Alpinador," the man answered. "I understand
the differences between the various forms of magic."

"And yet you let the man die," the Prince remarked, his words an accusa-
tion though his tone surely was not.

"Had your Abbot Agronguerre tried to use the soul stone upon fallen
Temorstaad, Bruinhelde and his warriors would have stopped him, and vio-
lently, do not doubt," the ranger explained. "They are a simple folk, a
people of honor and resolute principles. They do not fear death, but they
do fear the realm of the mystical. To them, it was a choice of Temorstaad's
body against the price of his soul, and to them, that is not so difficult a
choice."

Prince Midalis shook his head and sighed, showing that he was not
impressed.

"Understand that this alliance is a tentative one yet," Andacanavar
warned him. "Your fears that Bruinhelde and his people would not come
to the field this day were justified-for, indeed, had the majority of his war-
riors been given the choice, they would have turned north for their homes,
trying to beat the onset of the winter winds. But Bruinhelde is a wise leader,
a man looking past the immediate comforts and to the future welfare of his
people. He desires this alliance, though he'll hardly admit it openly. Yet if
you or your Abellican companions try to force your ways upon us, if you
insist upon foisting the realm of the mystical upon Bruinhelde's warriors-
even if you believe you are doing so for the good of those warriors-then
know that the goblins will become the least of your troubles."

"It pained me to watch a man die," Midalis replied, "a man who could
have been saved."
Andacanavar nodded, not disagreeing.

"And it pained Abbot Agronguerre," Midalis went on. "He is a good and
gentle man, who battles suffering."
"But does he fear suffering? "
Midalis shook his head.
"And does he fear death?"

Midalis snorted incredulously. " If he does, then his title of abbot of the
Abellican Church is misplaced, I would say."

"Neither Bruinhelde nor any of his warriors fear death," Andacanavar
explained, "as long as they die honorably, in battle."

Prince Midalis considered the words for a long while, even glanced back
over his shoulder to the fallen Temorstaad. The Alpinadoran women were
working on him now, taking his valuables and wrapping him in a shroud.
Midalis wasn't thrilled with Andacanavar's explanation or the reality
of the situation, but he knew that he had to accept it. This alliance
with the Alpinadoran barbarians wasn't going to be easy, he recognized.
Their customs and those of the Vanguardsmen were too disparate. Midalis'
gaze drifted about the field to the slaughtered, hacked goblins, to those
Alpinadoran women walking among the goblin bodies, mercilessly slashing
any that moved, even sticking knives into a few that did not move, just to be
sure. A shudder coursed down the Prince's spine. Not an easy alliance but
a necessary one, he realized. He certainly didn't want Bruinhelde and his
bunch as enemies!                     c

"And you brought your womenfolk along for battle," Andacanavar
remarked, noting that many women were also among Midalis' ranks. "Never
would Bruinhelde accept women as warriors. Their tasks are to comfort the
warriors, to tend the wounded, and to kill the fallen enemies."

Prince Midalis couldn't hide the grin finding its way onto his face. "And
does Andacanavar believe this as well? " he asked slyly, for, while the ranger
had made another good point concerning the differences between the two
peoples, he had pointedly spoken for Bruinhelde and not for Andacanavar.

"I was raised among the Touel'alfar, and had more than one of the
diminutive creatures-females and males alike-put me to the ground," the
ranger replied, and he returned the smile. "I speak for Bruinhelde and his
followers because I understand them. Whether I agree with them or not,
whether you agree with them or not, is not important, because they are as
they are, and you'll not change that. Nor will your Abellican companions,
and woe to them if they try."

Midalis nodded, and was glad for these few moments alone with the
insightful ranger. He knew well the story of Fuldebarrow, where an Abel-
lican church, established to convert Alpinadorans to the faith, had been
burned to the ground and all of the missionary brothers slaughtered.

"It might be that I can get them to look past your faults-and that
you can get your friends to look past theirs-long enough for the two
sides to see the common ground instead of the differences," Andacanavar
said. Then he patted Midalis on the shoulder and headed back for the
Alpinadoran lines.

Midalis watched him for a moment, further digesting the words-wise
words, he understood. Then he turned to find Abbot Agronguerre hard at
work over one of the fallen archers, and he went to speak with the man, to
smooth the hard feelings from the morning's disagreements, to remind the
abbot that he and his brethren would still be besieged within the abbey-
and that Midalis and his followers would be trapped in there as well, if they
had been lucky this morning-had not Bruinhelde and his proud warriors
come to their aid.

Yes, it would be a difficult alliance, but the ranger's observations gave
Prince Midalis hope that Vanguard and Alpinador might use this time of
war to begin a lasting understanding.

"Common ground," he whispered, reminding himself.

"I trust that your day was enjoyable," Abbot Je'howith remarked to Con-
stance Pemblebury when he found the woman again standing alone at the
taffrail, gazing wistfully at the waters of the great Masur Delaval.

Constance turned a sour look upon him, not appreciating his off-color
attempt at humor.

"So do tell me," the abbot pressed, "did King Danube remember your
name?"

Constance stared at him hard.

"In his moments of passion, I mean," the surprising old abbot continued.
"Did he call out 'Constance'? "

"Or 'Jilseponie'?" the woman finished sarcastically and bluntly, wanting
Je'howith to understand in no uncertain terms that he was not catching her
by surprise.

"Ah, yes, Jilseponie," Je'howith said, rolling his eyes and sighing in a
mock gesture of swooning. "Heroine of the north. Would any title do jus-
tice to her actions? Baroness? Duchess? Abbess? "

Constance gave him a skeptical look and stared back out at the waters.

"Mother abbess?" the old man continued. "Or queen, perhaps? Yes,
there would be a title befitting that one!"

Je'howith's wrinkled face erupted in a wide grin when Constance
snapped a glare over him. "Have I hit a nerve? " he asked.

Constance didn't blink.

"You saw the way King Danube looked at her," Je'howith continued.
"You know as well as I that Jilseponie could find her way to his bed, and to
the throne beside his own in Ursal, if she pursued such a course."

"She would not even accept the barony of Palmaris," Constance reminded
him, but her words sounded feeble even in her own ears.

Now it was Je'howith's turn to stare skeptically.

"She grieves for the loss of Nightbird, a wound that may never heal,"
Constance said.

"Not completely, perhaps," Je'howith agreed, "but enough so that she
will move on with her life. Where will she choose to go? I wonder. There is
no road she cannot walk. To the Wilderlands, to St.-Mere-Abelle, to Ursal.
Who in all the world would refuse Jilseponie? "

Constance looked back at the water, and she feltJe'howith's gaze studying
her, measuring her.

"I know what you desire," the old abbot said.

"Do you speak your words to wound me? " Constance asked.

"Am I your enemy or perhaps your ally? "

Constance started to laugh. She knew the truth, all of it, and understood
that old Je'howith was taking great amusement from this posturing because
he figured that he could win in any event. If Danube married Constance,
or at least sired her children and put them in line for the throne, then
Je'howith would be there, ever attentive. That did not make him an ally,
though, Constance realized, for Je'howith's greatest concern was to keep
Jilseponie out of his Church, away from the coveted position of mother
abbess; and what better manner for doing that than to have her marry
the King?

"Jilseponie intrigued Danube," she admitted, "as her beauty and strength
have intrigued every man who has gazed upon her, I would guess." She
turned and fixed the old abbot with a cold and determined stare.

"Beautiful indeed," Je'howith remarked.

"But she is a long way from Ursal, do not doubt," Constance went on, "a
long way, down a road more perilous than you can imagine."

Old Je'howith returned her stare for a long moment, then nodded and
bowed slightly, and walked away.

Constance watched him go, replaying his words, trying to find his intent.
Obviously, the wretch did not want her to fall under Jilseponie's charm and
ally with the woman. Je'howith was trying to sow the seeds of enmity
against Jilseponie, and she had readily fallen into his plan.

That bothered Constance Pemblebury profoundly as she stood there at
the taffrail, staring at the dark water. She had liked Jilseponie when first she
had learned of the woman's adventures, had admired her and had cheered
her in her efforts against Markwart's foul Church. In Constance's eyes,
Jilseponie had been an ally-unwitting, perhaps, but an ally nonetheless-
of the Crown, of her beloved King Danube. But now things had changed.
Nightbird was dead, and Danube was smitten. Jilseponie had gone from
ally to rival. Constance didn't like that fact, but neither could she deny it.
Whatever her feelings for Jilseponie Wyndon, the woman had become a
danger to her plans for herself and, more important, for her children.

Constance didn't like herself very much at that moment, wasn't proud of
the thoughts she was harboring.

But neither could she dismiss them.
CHAPTER 6

Season's Turn

Abbot Braumin walked through the great gates of Chasewind
Manor humbly, his brown hood pulled low to protect him from
the light rain, his arms crossed over his chest, hands buried in the
folds of his sleeves. He didn't glance up at the imposing row of Allheart
knights lining both sides of the walk, with their exquisite armor, so polished
that it gleamed even on this gray day, and their huge poleaxes angled out
before them.

He understood the meaning of it all, that Duke Targon Bree Kalas had
offered to meet him on the Duke's terms and in the presence of his power.
The battle between the two was just beginning, for the city hadn't really
settled down after the fall of Markwart until after King Danube had
departed. Then winter weather had minimized the duties of both Church
and Crown. Now, the King was back in Ursal and most of the brethren
from St.-Mere-Abelle had returned, or soon would, to that distant abbey.
For the first time in more than a year-indeed, for the first time since the
coming of the demon dactyl and its monstrous minions-the common folk
of Palmaris were settling back into their normal routines.

He was let in immediately, but then he spent more than an hour in the
antechamber of Kalas' office, waiting, waiting while it was reported to him
several times that Kalas was attending to more pressing matters.

Abbot Braumin recited his prayers quietly, praying mostly for the
patience he would need to get through these trying times. He wished again
that Jilseponie had agreed to accompany him-Kalas would never have
kept her waiting!-but she would hear none of it, claiming that her days of
meetings and political intrigue had reached their end.

Finally, the attendant came out and called for the abbot to follow him.
Braumin noted immediately upon entering Kalas' office that several other
men stood about-bureaucrats, mostly-shuffling papers and talking in
whispered, urgent tones as if their business were of the utmost importance.
Duke Kalas, Baron of Palmaris, sat at his desk, hunched over a parchment,
quill in hand.

"Abbot Braumin Herde of St. Precious," the attendant announced.

Kalas didn't even look up. "It has come to my attention that you have
put out a call for craftsmen, masons, and carpenters," he remarked.

"I have," Braumin agreed.

"To what end?"

"To whatever end I desire, I suppose," the abbot replied-and that
brought Kalas' eyes up, and halted every other conversation in the room.

Kalas stared hard at him for a long and uncomfortable moment.
"Indeed," he said at length, "and might those desires entail the expansion
of St. Precious Abbey, as I have been told? "

"Perhaps."

"Then save time," Kalas said sternly, "both for yourself and for the
craftsmen. There will be no such expansion."

Now it was Braumin's turn to put on a steely expression. "The land
about the abbey is Church owned."

"And no structures may be built within the city walls, Church or other-
wise, without the express consent of its baron," Kalas reminded him. He
looked to one of the bureaucrats at the side of the room, and the mousy
man rushed over, presenting Abbot Braumin with a parchment, signed and
sealed by Baron Rochefort Bildeborough and by Abbot Dobrinion Calislas,
that seemed to back up Kalas' claims.

"This refers to structures built by 'common men,' " Braumin noted,
pointing out the phrasing,

Kalas shrugged, not disagreeing.

"This text was written to prevent the influx of Behrenese," Braumin rea-
soned, "to prevent every open space within the city walls from becoming
even more crowded. Common men, which includes neither the Church nor
the nobility."

"That is one way to interpret it," Kalas replied. "But not the way I
choose."

Abbot Braumin tossed the parchment to the desk. "You obscure mean-
ings and pervert intentions, then," he said. "This parchment is irrelevant to
any construction upon St. Precious Abbey, upon lands owned by the Abel-
lican Church."

"No, my good Abbot," Kalas said, rising up ominously and matching the
monk's unblinking stare with one of equal determination. "It is perfectly
relevant. It is the written law, endorsed by your own beloved former abbot,
which I can use to arrest any who work upon your abbey, the written law I
can use to confiscate tools and materials."

"You risk angering the populace."

"As do you, good Abbot," Kalas snapped back. "You offer work to
craftsmen who already have much work to do in the aftermath of the war.
They do not need your work at this time, Abbot Braumin, but they do need
their tools. Who will they come to hate? I wonder. The lawful baron, acting
according to law, or the presumptuous new abbot of St. Precious?"

Braumin started to answer, but stuttered repeatedly, having no appro-
priate reply. He understood the bluff-Kalas would be starting a battle for
the hearts of the Palmaris citizenry that could go either way. But was
Braumin ready to join such a battle? He knew the fights he would soon face
within his own Church; would he be able to withstand those inevitable
challenges if the people of Palmaris turned against him?

A smile found its way onto Braumin's face, an admission that, for the
time being at least, Kalas had outmaneuvered him. He chuckled and
nodded, then turned and walked briskly from the room and out of the man-
son, this time leaving his hood back despite the rain. The Allheart knights
remained in position along the walk to the gates, and the nearest soldier
moved over and pulled them wide for the abbot's exit.

"Your workers did an excellent job in repairing them," he remarked
loudly, noting the gates, "after Jilseponie so easily threw them aside, I mean,
as she threw aside your brethren who tried to stand before her."

He heard the bristling behind him as he walked out and took some com-
fort, at least, in that minor victory.

He smelled it, so thick in the air that he could almost taste the sweet
liquid on his feline tongue. The young girl had hurt her arm, scratching it
CO a branch, and now she was coming his way, calling for her mother,
holding the arm up, the line of red, sweet red, visible to the weretiger.
: De'Unnero turned away and closed his eyes, telling himself that he could
| oat do this thing, that he could not leap out and tear her throat. He had
t IdUed only once throughout the harsh winter, an old lecherous drunk who
| had not been missed by the folk of the town of Penthistle.
I i Tie scent caught up to him, and the tiger's head shifted back toward the
jSlpproaching girl.

1^ She would be missed, De'Unnero reminded himself, trying to make a
'logical argument to go along with his moral judgment. These people, who
|bd taken him in during the early days of winter, after he had devoured the
linwrie and run away from the fields west of Palmaris, had accepted him
; Wth open arms, glad to pass an Abellican brother from house to house. He
i offered to work for his food, but never had the folk of Penthistle given
Q any truly difficult jobs, and always had they given him all that he could
, and more.

. Hus, De'Unnero had run off into the forest whenever the tiger urges
id called to him, too great to be withstood. He had feasted many times
in deer, even on squirrel and rabbit, but he had killed a person only that
WR time.
I'But now the winter had passed. Now it was spring and with the turn of
the season, the folk were again active outside their homes. De'Unnero had
come out in search of conventional prey, hopefully a deer, but he had found
this child instead, far from her home. As soon as he had spotted her, he had
managed to turn away, thinking to run far, far into the forest, but then she
had cut her arm, then that too-sweet scent had drifted to his nostrils.

Hardly even aware of it, he gave a low growl. The girl tensed.

De'Unnero tried to turn away, but now he could smell her fear, mingling
with that sweet, sweet blood. He started forward; the girl heard the rustle
and broke into a run.

One leap and he would have her. One great spring would put him over
her, would flatten her to the ground at his feet, would lay bare that beau-
tiful little neck.

One leap . . .

The weretiger held his place, conscience battling instinct.

The girl screamed for her mother and continued to run.

De'Unnero turned away, padding into the darker thicket. The hunger
was gone now, for the girl, even for a deer, and so the creature settled down
and willed himself through the change, bones popping, torso and limbs
crackling and twisting.

It hurt-how it hurt!-but the monk pressed on, forcing out the tiger,
fighting the pain and the killing instinct resolutely until a profound black-
ness overtook him.

He awoke sometime later, shivering and naked on the damp ground, the
cold night wind blowing chill against his flesh. He got his bearings quickly
and found his brown robes, then donned them and headed for Penthistle.

As chance would have it, the first person he encountered within the small
cluster of farmhouses was the same little girl he had seen out in the forest,
her arm now wrapped in a bandage.

"Ah, but there ye are," said her mother, a handsome woman of about
forty winters. "We were needin' ye, Brother Simple. Me girl here lost her
fight with a tree!"

De'Unnero took the girl's hand and gently lifted her arm up for inspec-
tion. "You cleaned the wound well? " he asked.

The woman nodded.

The monk lowered the girl's arm, let go, and patted her on the head.
"You did well," he told the mother.

The monk headed for the house now serving as his home. He stopped
just a few steps away, though, and glanced back at the little girl. He could
have killed her, and, oh, so easily. And how he had wanted to! How he had
wanted to feast upon her tender flesh.

And yet, he had not. The significance of that hit De'Unnero at that
moment, as he came to understand the triumph he had found that day. Fear
had forced him out of Palmaris after the fight in Chasewind Manor, after he
had been thrown out the window by Nightbird.
It was not fear of Nightbird or of the King or of the reprisals from the
victorious enemies of Markwart, the monk realized. No, it was fear of him-
self, of this demanding inner urge. Once he had been among the most cele-
brated masters of St.-Mere-Abelle, the close adviser of the Father Abbot,
the abbot of St. Precious, and then the Bishop of Palmaris. Once he had
been the instructor of the brothers justice and had been touted as the
greatest warrior ever to walk through the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, the
epitome of the fighting tradition of the Abellican Order. In those days,
Marcalo De'Unnero had relied heavily on the use of a single gemstone, the
tiger's paw; for with it, he could transform a limb, or perhaps two, into
those of a great cat, a weapon as great as any sword. During Markwart's rise
to unspeakable power, the Father Abbot had shown De'Unnero an even
stronger level of the stone's transformational magic, and with that increase
of intensity, the young master had been able to transform himself totally
into the great cat, an unprecedented accomplishment.

But then something unexpected had happened. De'Unnero had lost the
gemstone, or rather it seemed to him as if he had merged with the gem-
stone, so that now he could transform himself into a tiger without it-and
often against his will.

That was really why he had run away from Palmaris. He was afraid of
himself, of the murderous creature he had become.

It had been a wretched existence for the man who had once achieved
such a level of power, despite the hospitality of the folk of Penthistle.
Marcalo De'Unnero had feared that he would be forever doomed to travel
through the borderlands of civilization, running from town to town when-
ever the killing urge overpowered him. He pictured himself in the not too
distant future, fleeing across a field, a host of hunters from half the kingdom
in close pursuit.

But now . . .

The ultimate temptation had been right before him-the smell of fear
and blood, the easy, tender kill-and he had battled that temptation, had
overcome it. Was it possible that De'Unnero had gained control over this
disease?

If he could control it, then he could return to Palmaris, to his Church.

De'Unnero pushed the absurd notion away. He had murdered Baron
Bildeborough, after all, and his escorts. He had wounded Elbryan, which
had sent the man, weakened, into battle with Markwart, the wound that, as
much as the Father Abbot's efforts, had truly killed the man. If he went
back to Palmaris, what trial might await him?

"What trial indeed?" De'Unnero asked aloud, and when he considered
it, his lips curled up into the first real smile he had known in more than half
a year. There was no evidence implicating him in Bildeborough's murder,
nothing more than the speculation of his enemies. And how could he be
held accountable for anything that had happened at Chasewind Manor?
Was he not merely performing his duty of protecting his Father Abbot?
Were not Elbryan andJilseponie, at that time, considered criminals by both
Church and Crown?

"What's that, Father? " the girl's mother asked, not really catching his
words.

De'Unnero shook himself out of his thoughts. "Nothing," he replied. "I
was only thinking that perhaps it was time for me to return to my abbey."

"Ah, but we'd miss ye," the woman remarked.

De'Unnero merely nodded, hardly hearing her, too lost in the intrigu-
ing possibilities his victory over the weretiger urge had presented to him
this day.

"The Saudi Jacintha will take me," Brother Dellman reported to Abbot
Braumin, the younger monk entering the abbot's office at St. Precious to
find Braumin talking excitedly with Brother Viscenti. "Captain Al'u'met
plans to sail within the week, and he was excited to be of service, so
he said."

"And you discussed the price? " the new abbot asked.

"Captain Al'u'met assured me that the price has been paid in full by
the new brothers of St. Precious, that our actions against the evil that
was Markwart and our defense of the Behrenese of the docks more than
suffice."

"A wonderful man," Brother Viscenti remarked.

"You understand your duties? " Braumin asked.

Dellman nodded. "I am to observe first, to try to get a feeling for the
intentions of Abbot Agronguerre," he replied, "and then, on my instinct
and judgment, I may inform the man that you and others plan to nominate
him at the College of Abbots that will be convened in Calember."

"You are a messenger first, bringing word of the College and of the
events in Palmaris," said Braumin.

"Likely, he has already heard," Viscenti put in, shaking his head. "Who
in all the world could not have heard? "

Abbot Braumin smiled and let the point go to his excitable friend,
though in truth he doubted that anyone in Vanguard had heard of the
events in Palmaris in any more detail other than the unexpected death of
Father Abbot Markwart. The Abellican Church would have been the only
real messenger to that distant place; and even if St.-Mere-Abelle had sent a
courier, no one there truly fathomed the implications of the events, and cer-
tainly no one there would have been so bold as to take sides in the budding
philosophical war. But that was just what Braumin had instructed the wise
and trustworthy Brother Holan Dellman to do: to take the side of the vic-
tors, to show that the good had won out over the cancerous evil.

"Treat Markwart's memory gently," Braumin urged Dellman yet again,
"but foster no doubts concerning the fall of the Father Abbot-the fall
from grace before the fall from life."

Dellman nodded, then turned as Brother Talumus entered the room.

"Go and accept the passage from Al'u'met," Braumin instructed
Dellman. "Extend to him our profound thanks, and then prepare your
thoughts and your belongings. Go with the blessings of Avelyn."

That last line, spoken so casually, raised Talumus' eyebrow.

As soon as Dellman had exited, Braumin motioned to Viscenti, and the
man quickly closed the door.

Talumus glanced around, seeming suspicious.

"St. Precious is not nearly as strong as it will have to be, if we are to with-
stand the continuing assault by Duke Kalas," Braumin remarked to
Talumus. Indeed, many times over the course of the winter, Kalas and
Braumin had argued over policy, over minor issues, mostly, but ones that
perceptive Braumin understood might well grow in importance now that
winter had relinquished its grasp and the folk were out and about the city.

"Jilseponie is leaving," the younger monk reasoned.

"Very good, Talumus," Braumin congratulated, and he raised a finger
into the air. "Keep vigilant, and pay attention to every clue."

"She said she would leave when the roads were clear," Talumus
explained. "Many times has she met with Belster O'Comely these last days,
and I have heard that it is his intent, with prodding from Jilseponie, to
return to the northland."

"She will indeed take her leave of us, though truly it pains my heart to let
her go," Braumin confirmed. "What an ally she has been to the Church, a
force to counter any potential intrusions on our sovereignty by the aggres-
sive Kalas. But she has her own path to follow, a road darkened by grief and
anger, and I cannot turn her from that path, whatever our needs.

"To that end," he continued, "we must bolster the strength of St. Pre-
cious." As he spoke, the abbot turned his gaze over Brother Viscenti.

"A promotion," Brother Talumus reasoned.

"From this day forth, Marlboro Viscenti will be known as a master of St.
Precious," said Braumin, and the nervous little Viscenti puffed out his
chest. "Master Francis, who departs this very day for St.-Mere-Abelle, will
see that the promotion is approved at every level; and even if some wish to
argue the point, which I cannot fathom, I am certainly within my rights as
abbot of St. Precious to make the promotion unilaterally."

Talumus nodded and offered a smile, somewhat strained but more
genuine than not, to Viscenti. Then he looked to Braumin, his expression
turning curious. "Why tell me now, and why behind a closed door?" he
asked.

Braumin chuckled and walked around his desk, sitting on its edge right
before the other monk, removing the physical barrier between them as he
hoped to remove any possibility of insincere posturing. "The risks you took
and your actions in the last days of Markwart speak highly of you," he
began. "Had you more experience, there is no doubt that Talumus, and not
Braumin, would have become the abbot of St. Precious, a nomination that I
would have strongly supported. In the absence of that possibility, it has
occurred to me that Talumus, too, should soon find his way to the rank of
master. Yet, in that, too, you've not enough years in the Order for such a
promotion to be approved without strong opposition-and, in all honesty,
it is not a battle I choose to fight now."

"I have never asked-" Talumus began to protest, but Abbot Braumin
stopped him with an upraised hand.

"Indeed, I will support your nomination to the rank of master as soon as
it is feasible," he explained. "As soon as you have enough time-and I do
not mean the typical ten years as the minimum. But that is a matter for
another day: a day, I fear, that will be long in coming if St. Precious is to
withstand the intrusions of Baron Kalas. We need more power and more
security, supporters of my-of our-cause, in line to take the helm in the
event of unforeseen tragedy."

His words obviously hit a strong chord within Brother Talumus, who had
recently witnessed the murder of his beloved Abbot Dobrinion Calislas.
The man stiffened and straightened, his eyes unblinking.

"Thus, there must be others, like Master Viscenti, who will ascend above
you within the Order at St. Precious," Braumin explained. "I will need
voices to support me at the College of Abbots, as well as against Duke
Kalas. I wanted to tell you this personally, and privately, out of respect for
your service and loyalty."

He stopped, tilting his head and waiting for a reply, and Brother
Talumus spent a long while digesting the information. "You honor me," he
said at length, and he seemed genuinely content. "More so than I deserve, I
fear. I was not enamored ofJilseponie and Elbryan. I feared ..."

"As we all feared, and yet you certainly took the right course of action,"
Braumin interjected, and Viscenti seconded the remark.

"Very well," Talumus replied. "I understand now the implications of the
battle within Chasewind Manor. My path is obvious to me, a shining road
paved with all the glories of the true Abellican Church. My voice will not
ring out with the commands of a master at this time, but it will be no less
loud in support of Abbot Braumin Herde of St. Precious and of Master
Viscenti."

The three men exchanged sincere smiles of mutual appreciation, all
of them relieved that their team was forging strong bonds now for the
fights-against Kalas and against those within the Abellican Church who
feared any change despite the momentous events-they believed they would
soon find.
Francis had thought that the road ahead would be an easy one. He
started with his stride long and full of conviction. But as he considered the
reality he now faced, Francis began to recognize that this journey might
prove as troublesome and dangerous, to the Church at least, as the one that
had brought him to Palmaris in the first place. For he was walking a deli-
cate line, he came to understand, stepping between the future Church
he envisioned and the past one he had served. He believed in Braumin's
cause, in the cause of Master Jojonah, burned at the stake for his convic-
tions, and in the cause of Avelyn Desbris, who had flown in the face
of Markwart's Abellican Church and had, subsequently, destroyed the
physical form of the awakened demon.

Yes, Master Francis had come to accept the truth of many of the expla-
nations that Braumin and the others were according the actions of Jojonah
and of Avelyn, and he had come to recognize that Jilseponie and Elbryan
were indeed heroes to both Church and Crown. But Markwart's last words
haunted the man: Beware that in your quest for humanism you do not steal
the mystery of spiritualism.

There was a threat to all mankind in sharing the mysteries of the gem-
stone magic with the common folk-not of war or of uncontrolled power,
but a threat of secularizing the spiritual, of stealing the mysteries of life and
the glory of God. What good would the Church do the world, Francis won-
dered, if, in its quest to become more compassionate, it took from the
populace the one true inspiration of faith, the promise of eternal life? Soul
stones or not, everybody would one day die, and how much darker that
moment would be, to the one whose life had come to its end and to those
loved ones left behind, if there was no faith in life eternal. Men who entered
the Abellican Order trained for years before entering St.-Mere-Abelle or
any of the other abbeys, and then they trained for many more years before
learning the secrets of the gemstones. The Abellican monks understood the
reality of the gemstones, the orbiting rings and the stone showers, but they
could place that reality within the cocoon of their greater faith as inspired
by the years of study. But what of the common man, the man not privy to
the days, weeks, months, years of meditation? Might that man come to see
the soul stones, the very fabric of the Abellican religion, as a natural occur-
rence, no more mysterious than the fires he kindled for warmth or the cata-
pults the King's army used to batter the castles of enemies?

Francis didn't know, and he feared that it would take a wiser man than
he to comprehend the implications of Markwart's final warning.

What he did know, however, was the reality of the situation in St.-Mere-
Abelle; and even beyond his private doubts about how far Braumin and his
friends should be allowed to open the Church, the young master under-
stood that they would find more enemies than allies at the prime abbey.
Thus was Francis, so close an ally to the demon that Markwart had become,
walking a delicate line. If he strayed too far against Markwart, he would, in
effect, be implicating himself, thus diminishing his own voice. And yet, he
could hardly support the dead Father Abbot. He knew now that Markwart
had been very wrong; and even aside from that truth that was in his heart,
Francis knew that the Church would be inviting disaster if it continued to
follow Markwart's path, that the populace would turn against it, and that
Braumin and his followers would successfully establish the church of
Avelyn Desbris.

It was all too troubling for the young master, the former bishop of Pal-
maris, the former lackey of Markwart-positions all, he feared, far beyond
his abilities and experience.

Now the road to St.-Mere-Abelle lay before him, the road to the past and
the future, the road to the wounded masters-such as gentle Machuso, no
doubt-who would need reassuring, and to the more volatile and confident
masters-the names Bou-raiy and Glendenhook stood out most promi-
nently in his thinking-who would resist change and would likely resist
demeaning the memory of Father Abbot Markwart, a man whom they had
gladly served.

Yes, Bou-raiy, Francis told himself; and an image of the man, holding a
burning branch in one hand and cheering as the pyre around the heretic
Jojonah caught flame, rattled him.

He heard the door open behind him and turned to see Abbot Braumin
entering.

"So you have not yet departed," said the abbot. "I had hoped to see you
before you began your journey."

Francis nodded, though he hardly saw any point to Braumin's seeing him
off. The two did not see things eye to eye, as Braumin painted the world, it
seemed to Francis, too much in black and white. Though Braumin had not
been pleased when Francis had retracted his support of Jilseponie for
mother abbess, they had come to an understanding.

"Did you find any time alone with Abbot Je'howith before he departed?"
Braumin asked.

Francis chuckled. "Do you fear that I did? "

"Fear?"

Francis chuckled again. "I did speak to him, and he told me, I expect,
exactly what he told you that morning before the final meeting with King
Danube," said Francis. "Abbot Agronguerre seems a fine choice, a man
possessed of a healing soul. Exactly what is needed within the Church, I
would say."

"So you support his nomination?"

"I would like to learn a bit more about Agronguerre, but from what I
already know, yes," answered Francis.

"And was that all Abbot Je'howith expressed to you?" asked Braumin.

Francis looked at the man hard, tried to get a feeling for the trouble
about which his words were hinting. "The memory of Markwart," he stated
more than asked.

Braumin nodded slightly, his expression grim.

"Believe me, brother, I am more confused by that issue than are you,"
Francis assured Braumin.

"But you know the evil that Markwart had become?" Braumin pressed.

"I know the mistake the man made," Francis pointedly answered.

"You step backward," Braumin accused.

Francis thought about that for a moment, and almost agreed. "Side-
ways," he corrected. "There was error in Father Abbot Markwart's rea-
soning, to be sure, but there was also a ring of truth that Abbot Braumin
would do well to hear."

Francis saw the man's face get very tight.

"We have been through this before," Francis remarked, holding up his
hands as a peace gesture. "We are not of so different beliefs that you should
fear me, Abbot Braumin. I go to St.-Mere-Abelle to speak the truth of the
events in Palmaris."

"Which truths? " the skeptical Braumin demanded.

Francis chuckled yet again. "You-we-are both too young for such
cynicism," he said. "The painful events in Palmaris brought resolution,
though at a price too high for any of us to be satisfied. Markwart was
wrong-he admitted as much to me before he died-and so I threw my
support behind Braumin Herde andJilseponie."

"But not enough to nominate her, as you said you would," Braumin
reminded him.

" Not enough to destroy that which is left of the most stable institution in
all the kingdom," Francis corrected. "We will find our common way, I
believe, but by small steps and not ground-shattering leaps. The people are
confused and frightened, and it is our duty to comfort them, not to provide
more confusion." He fixed Braumin with a determined stare. "I am not
your enemy," he declared. "And neither need be the memory of Father
Abbot Dalebert Markwart."

Braumin asked, "What ofJojonah? What ofAvelyn?"

"Resurrect those memories in the light of our recent revelations," Francis
answered without hesitation, "bring them up beside Elbryan the Nightbird
as victors over the darkness. Yes, I intend to work to those very ends, my
brother. Master Jojonah forgave me, though he knew he was a doomed
man-no small feat! And I will see him properly interred in consecrated
ground, his good name fully restored."

"And Avelyn? " the abbot prompted.

"Avelyn must be investigated . . . honestly," Francis replied. "I will
second the nomination to beatify Brother Avelyn, should you begin the
canonization process at the College of Abbots. I will second it with all my
heart and with my voice strong and full of conviction. But that does not
mean that I believe him to be a saint. It means only that I believe him
worthy of the investigation that might lead us to that end. Let us see what
the man truly espoused and accomplished. Let us decide rationally if
Avelyn truly saw a better course for the Church or a path that would lead to
our destruction."

"Do you mean to balance his canonization on a matter of philosophy?"
Abbot Braumin asked, shaking his head, his eyes wide.

"Not his sainthood, no," answered Francis, "but rather, his belief. I may
be willing to vote for his sainthood without necessarily believing that his
methods would be the appropriate course for the Church. It is his intent
that will determine the decision of the canon inquisitors. But neither will
my support for his canonization be wholly based upon the man's intentions
for the Abellican Church, if he even had any such intentions."

He paused and watched as Abbot Braumin digested the words, the man
finally coming to nod his head in agreement.

"Travel your road carefully and wisely, brother," Braumin said. "I
expect that you will find fewer brothers of like heart than those opposed."

"The Church changes slowly," Francis agreed, and Braumin took his
leave.

Master Francis Dellacourt, thirty years old and feeling as if he had the
weight of the world on his shoulders, left St. Precious soon after, an escort
of nearly a score of monks, brothers who had come to Palmaris in the
procession that had brought Father Abbot Markwart to this fated city,
beside him.

"What is left for us here?" Pony asked in all seriousness, curling her lips
into an obviously manipulating pout. She was in Tomnoddy's, a bustling
tavern that reminded her, somewhat painfully, of Fellowship Way in its
best days.

"What isn't? " Belster O'Comely responded, smiling as he asked the ques-
tion and without any sharpness in his tone. He was glad to see Pony excited
about something again-about anything-even if that happened to be a
decision that the portly innkeeper did not necessarily agree with. Also, Bol-
ster was happy that Pony had come to him, begging him to go north. They
had been through a fair amount of arguing in the last days of the struggle,
when Pony had laid bare Bolster's prejudice against the dark-skinned Behre-
nese. "We've got our friends, after all, bonds made fast in the turmoil."

"Prym O'Brien's going north," Pony reminded him.

"He's been saying that every fair day since last summer," Belster replied.
"Doubt that he'll ever do it."

"It is time to go home, Belster," Pony said seriously. "I know that, and so
I'll be leaving in two days. I hope that you will share my road to Caer
Tinella and to Dundalis, for there I will need you, I fear."
"To do what, girl?" Belster asked.

"To rebuild," said Pony without the slightest hesitation. "To put up a
new Howling Sheila on the very spot of the previous, on the stone founda-
tion that had once served as the base for Elbryan's home."

"Probably a house there already," Belster mumbled, reaching for his
foaming drink and draining half the mug.

"Tomas assured me that the place would be mine, should I ever return,"
Pony said. "I mean to hold him to that promise, even if it means tearing
down his own house in the process!"

"Bringing some of them gemstones with you, are you?" Belster snipped,
and he wanted to take back the words as soon as he spoke them, seeing the
cloud suddenly cross Pony's fair face.

"I will raise the tavern," the woman said quietly, "the Howling Sheila, or
perhaps I shall call it Fellowship Way in honor of the Chili chunks. More
enjoyable will the task be if Belster O'Comely walks the road with me, but
even if you do not, I leave in two days."

"You mean to run a tavern?" Belster asked skeptically. "After all that
you have seen and done? You're not thinking that to be a bit of a boring
task, girl?"

"I mean to run a tavern," Pony replied sincerely. "I mean to sit with
Roger on a hillock at sunset and hear the piping of Bradwarden as it drifts
through the forest. I mean to tend the grove. ..." Her voice trailed off, and
Belster turned a sympathetic gaze on her.

"Are you sure that you're not just running away? " he asked her bluntly.
"Haven't you tasks left unfinished right here?" Even as he spoke the
question-a question that he knew Pony would not answer-Belster con-
sidered her last statement more carefully and found the insight that con-
vinced him of her convictions. Pony had chosen not to go north with
Elbryan's caisson, had chosen not to be present when the ranger was low-
ered into the cold ground. How could he refuse her request now? Pony and
Elbryan had saved his life, and the lives of all his friends, during the days of
the dactyl and in the troubled times immediately following the demon's fall.
Pony and Elbryan had stood beside Belster and all the others, at great per-
sonal peril; and the innkeeper had no doubt at all that if the demon had
captured him and put him in the very pits of blackness, Pony and Elbryan
would have come for him, would have given their very lives to save him.

"Two days?" he asked. "Have you talked to Dainsey?"

"Dainsey is staying," Pony replied, referring to the woman who had
served the Chilichunks at Fellowship Way before Markwart had taken
them hostage, and then had served as Bolster's companion in the tavern
when he had reopened it at Pony's request. "She has become sweet on a
particular young man, and never would I take her from that."

"The poor girl's deserving some happiness," Belster agreed, for Dainsey
Aucomb had indeed lived a trying life. The innkeeper gave a belly laugh
and emptied his mug, then wiped the foam from his lips and glanced a
Pony-to find her staring at him hard.

"Two days?" he asked again.

Pony's stern look melted into a smile. "Meet me at the front doors o
St. Precious," she instructed. "And don't you be late! I want an early stai
and a long day's ride."

"Well, bring a horse for me, then," Belster said with a resigned sigh. "I
I'm to go back to that wilderness, I'm planning to spend all my fund
beforehand." He finished and turned to the barkeep, motioning for thi
man to refill his mug.

Pony kissed him on the cheek and rushed out of Tomnoddy's, heading
straight for St. Precious and a meeting with Abbot Braumin that she knev
would pain her friend profoundly.

She found him in his office, the same office that had served for Abbo
Dobrinion Calislas, and for Bishop Francis. Brother Anders Castinagis
arguably the most fiery of the followers ofJojonah, was there with Braumin
and Pony heard his agitated voice long before she entered through the
room's open door.

"Come in, come in!" Braumin said to her, motioning to a chair at the
left-hand side of his desk. Castinagis was standing, Pony noted, his big
hands planted on the front of the desk, his eyes locked on the new abbot
of St. Precious. "We were just discussing Master Francis' departure,"
Braumin explained. "He set out this day for St.-Mere-Abelle, to bring the
word to our brethren and to confirm the appointment of Brother Viscenti
to the rank of master."

That last statement caught Pony by surprise, and her blue eyes widened.
"So soon?" she asked. When her words brought a somewhat crestfallen
look to Braumin, she quickly added, "Well, never was there a man more
deserving."

"So I believe," said Braumin. "And Brother Viscenti will soon enough
pass the minimum time required by our Order, so there should be no
serious complaints."

"Unless the messenger presents the nomination in an unfavorable
manner," Brother Castinagis remarked, and then Pony understood the
reason for their apparent argument.

"You do not trust Master Francis? " she asked the towering man.

"Should I?" Castinagis replied.

"Yes," she answered simply, and the brevity other pointed response put
Castinagis on his heels.

"As I was just saying," Abbot Braumin added. "Brother Castinagis
wished to accompany Master Francis, but I have been trying to explain to
him that we who follow Avelyn's beliefs are more vulnerable here in Pal-
maris than perhaps anywhere else in the world. With Brother Dellman
leaving for Vanguard and with Master Francis gone, we of expressed con-
viction number only five, including us three and Brothers Talumus and Vis-
centi. We must rally the flock of St. Precious behind us," he went on,
aiming his words now at Castinagis and not Pony, "first and foremost, if we
are to hold ground with Duke Kalas."

"You are soon to be four," Pony interrupted, drawing the attention
of both men. "Belster O'Comely has agreed to accompany me," she
explained. "I leave for Caer Tinella in two days."

Abbot Braumin seemed to sink back into his chair, and Brother Casti-
nagis just stood there, shaking his head. The news was not completely unex-
pected, but Braumin had hoped to keep Pony in Palmaris at least through
the first half of summer.

"And how long will you remain in Caer Tinella? " the abbot asked.

"A few days, no more," Pony replied. "I hope to be in Dundalis before
summer proper, that I might establish my home fully before the onset of
next winter."

My home. The words echoed as a bell of finality in the head of Abbot
Braumin. "Be not so quick to tie yourself to the place," he advised.

"You may find your road turning back to Palmaris," Brother Castinagis
added. "This is the center of the world at this time, for the future of the
Church, at least." He continued, gaining volume and momentum with each
passing word. "How might the memory of Master Jojonah, and that of
Brother Avelyn-" Abbot Braumin stopped him by clearing his throat
loudly. When Castinagis turned to regard the man, the abbot nodded
toward the door, and Castinagis took that as his cue to leave.

"He is an excitable fellow," Braumin said to Pony as soon as the brother
had departed.

"And he overestimates our importance, I fear," she replied,

"Does he?"

Pony just smiled.

"Or is it, perhaps, that you, in your grief, have come to underestimate
everything else in all the world? " Abbot Braumin asked.

"Perhaps I have come to see the truth of the material world," Pony was
quick to answer, "the truth of the folly and of false hopes. Are you then to
promise me eternal life? "

Braumin stared at her hard, his expression a cross between anger
and pity.

"If I accept your Church's definition of eternal life, then I say again that
Brother Castinagis overestimates our importance," Pony declared, "because
no matter what we do here, we will all die. True? "

The abbot continued to stare, to chuckle helplessly, and, in the end, to
merely shake his head. Yes, Pony had lost her way, had given up, he knew;

and he understood, as well, that there was nothing he could do to persuade
her differently, to show her the error of her despair.

Pony came around the desk, then, and hugged the abbot. "You are my
friend, Braumin Herde," she declared, "a true friend to me and to Elbryan,
a kin in heart and soul. You stood with us in the darkest hour, and better is
all the world for your efforts."

Braumin pushed her back to arm's length. "If you truly believed that-"
he started to argue, but Pony put her finger over his lips.

"The road to Caer Tinella and the Timberlands will be well traveled over
the next seasons," she said. "I promised you that I would attend the
opening of the chapel of Avelyn in Caer Tinella, should that come to pass.
Send word and I will be there."

"But that will be years hence," the abbot protested.

"And we are both young, my friend," Pony said. She bent low and
hugged Braumin again, then kissed him on the cheek and walked out of his
office.

When he heard the door close behind her, Abbot Braumin felt as if his
heart would break. Suddenly he felt very alone and very afraid. He had
allowed his hopes to soar, despite his pain, after the battle at Chasewind
Manor. Francis had declared that he would nominate Pony as mother
abbess, and Braumin had dared to hope that this woman, his hero, would
stand tall at the front of his straying Church and, through sheer determina-
tion and willpower, put them back on the proper course. Even after it
became obvious that Pony would not so ascend within the Church,
Braumin had thought his position solid, and the ascension of the followers
ofJojonah and Avelyn certain.

But then Francis had withdrawn his support for Pony, and-despite the
man's continuing opposition to Abbot Je'howith-Braumin wondered now
how much trust he could put in Francis.

And now Pony was leaving, and though he still had Castinagis and Vis-
centi supporting him, and though he understood that Brother Talumus and
several other minor-ranking monks of St. Precious had given themselves to
his cause, Braumin remained afraid. Because now he was in charge of it all.
His would be the primary voice battling stubborn Duke Kalas; he would be
the one answering any questions that came to St. Precious from St.-Mere-
Abelle; he would be the one fronting the cause of Master Jojonah at the
College of Abbots. And that cause, he knew, would not be an easy one to
sell to many of the Abellican leaders, including many of the masters whom
Braumin had served at St.-Mere-Abelle less than a year ago.

Only then, with the sound of that closing door, did Abbot Braumin come
to realize the truth of it all: he had depended upon Pony to protect him
and bolster him, to fight the battle for Avelyn and Jojonah from the lead
position.

He was very afraid.

On a drizzly spring morning two days later, the small wagon bearing
Pony and Belster O'Comely rolled through Palmaris' northern gate,
bouncing along the road that would take them to Caer Tinella. Many heads
turned to regard them as they crossed the city and then the rolling farm-
lands just north of Palmaris, and the departure of this most notable woman
sparked many whispered conversations.

In a copse of trees on a hill just beyond those farmlands, Marcalo
De'Unnero, too, noted their passing. From the farmers, he had heard that
Pony meant to leave Palmaris, and now he was very glad to see that the
rumors were true. De'Unnero didn't want to face Jilseponie now, for he
believed that any such encounter would end in violence, a battle that would
prove disastrous for him, whether he won or lost.

He waited for more than an hour after the wagon had rolled out of sight,
considering his course. Many times during that hour, the former bishop
reminded himself that he had controlled his inner beast, despite the ulti-
mate temptation. He had defeated the demon within, and thus was ready to
take his rightful place back in the Abellican Order.

Though what that place might now be, the man could not be sure.

Marcalo De'Unnero had never marked the days of his life with fear or
lack of confidence, and would not do so now. He jumped up from his
mossy seat and trotted down the face of the hill onto the road, turning
south for Palmaris. The same heads that had regarded Jilseponie's depar-
ture turned to mark his approach, but they seemed not to care.

And why should they? De'Unnero asked himself. He hardly resembled
the man they remembered as their bishop, the man who had fled Palmaris
months before. He was leaner now, a thick beard upon his face, his black
curly hair hanging several inches longer, bouncing at the base of his neck.
Indeed, the guards at the open north gate hardly seemed to pay him any
notice at all and didn't even ask his name.

He felt even more invisible as he moved unrecognized along the busy
streets of the city, and he found that he did not enjoy that anonymity. Ratio-
nally, he knew it to be a good thing-he had not left the folk of Palmaris on
good terms, after all!-but still he did not like it, did not like blending into
a crowd of people he recognized as his inferiors.

Soon enough, he came to the front door of St. Precious Abbey, and he
paused there, staring at the structure with his emotions churning. The
farmers had told him the name of the new abbot, and that alone made him
want to spit at the place. Braumin Herde? When De'Unnero had fled the
city, the man wasn't even formally a master! And though De'Unnero knew
that Markwart had once meant to promote Herde, it was only for political
reasons, to quiet the other side, and certainly not the result of anything
Braumin Herde had ever accomplished in his mediocre existence.

De'Unnero stood there, outside the door, for a long time, playing
through his emotions and his anger, throwing the negativity aside with con-
scious reminders that he would have to find a way to fit into the new order
of his Abellican brotherhood.
"May I help you, brother?" came a question from a monk approaching
De'Unnero from the side, a monk whom the former bishop did recognize.

De'Unnero pulled back his hood and turned a hard stare on the man.

"Brother? " the oblivious monk asked again.

"Do you not recognize me, Brother Dissin?" De'Unnero asked rather
sharply.

The younger man glanced up, scrutinizing the speaker, and then his eyes
widened.

"B-bishop De'Unnero," he stammered. "But I-I-had thought-"

De'Unnero waved at him to stop his blabbering. "Lead me in," he
instructed. "Announce me to the new abbot of St. Precious."

CHAPTER 7
Brynn Dharielle

She edged closer, closer, and the biggest challenge to her, it seemed,
was trying hard not to giggle. For though this was considered one of
the prime tests of her training, to Brynn Dharielle it was just a game,
and an easy one! She blew a strand of her long black hair-hair so dark that
it seemed to show all the colors of the rainbow within its depths-from
in front of her equally dark eyes and chewed her lip, again to prevent the
giggle.

She saw the white-tailed deer, and it saw her, and it believed her no
enemy. As long as she made no sudden movements, no sudden sounds . ..

As long as she continued the quiet humming, the song of grazing that she
had learned as a very little child, before she had ever come to the land of the
Touel'alfar. . .

The young girl crouched lower, slowly and deliberately placing one foot
ahead and twisting it gently into the moist grass, shifting her weight for-
ward, slowly, slowly.

Another step. The deer seemed frozen in place now, staring at her
intently, and so the girl likewise stopped all movement, even keeping her
jaw set, though she continued to hum that coaxing, calming song. The
moment of tension passed, and Brynn began to lift her hand, opening it
palm up to reveal the sweet, crushed pulossa cane.

The deer caught the scent, its ears popping straight up, its nose twitching.

Brynn Dharielle took a slow deep breath, holding her patience, though
she wanted to run right up to the beautiful animal. She continued to move
delicately and unthreateningly, her hand out. And then, almost anticlimac-
tically, she was there, beside the deer, letting it lap the pulossa cane from
her hand while she lovingly stroked its sleek, strong neck and rubbed it
behind the ears.

She knew that she was being watched, monitored, and measured, but she
didn't care at that moment. All that mattered was the deer, this beautiful
creature, this new friend she had just made.
What a wonderful spring day in the most wonderful place in all the
world.

Over in the thicket not so far to the side, Belli'mar Juraviel put his head
in his hands and groaned. Did this spirited young lady do anything by the
rules? Ever?

But Juraviel was chuckling, too-and not out of helpless anger, not even
out of frustration-but out of sheer surrender. Brynn Dharielle had
charmed him, he had to admit. Never had the elf encountered a human
female quite like her. She seemed possessed of two spirits: the warrior
intensity of the To-gai-ru-the fierce nomadic riders of the steppe region of
western Behren-combined with a level of playfulness and impertinence
beyond anything Juraviel had ever seen, even in an elf! Her given name was
Dharielle Tsochuk, but Lady Dasslerond had quickly added the name
Brynn, in honor of the ancient elven heroine credited with aiding in the cre-
ation of Andur'Blough Inninness by relinquishing her life and soul to the
spirit of a tree that became the heart of the enchanted valley. In the tongue
of the Touel'alfar, brynn meant "butterfly," and ironically, there was an
elven word very similar to dharielle which meant a bee stinger. So Brynn
Dharielle could be translated into "butterfly with a bee stinger," and how
appropriate a description Juraviel thought that to be for this little one!

"You were supposed to be hunting the deer, not befriending it," Juraviel
scolded, walking up to Brynn and her newfound pet-and the creature
seemed quite relaxed, licking the last remnants of the pulossa cane from the
girl's hand.

"You instructed me to touch the deer," the kneeling Brynn Dharielle
replied, looking up at Juraviel, her smile gleaming brightly against her
brown skin.

She was indeed a paradox, Juraviel recognized, both physically and emo-
tionally. Her eyes were so bright, yet her irises so black. Her skin, typical
of the To-gai-ru, was much darker than that of the people of Honce-the-
Bear, and certainly darker than the smooth and delicate golden-hued skin
of the Touel'alfar; and yet on Brynn Dharielle it seemed as if possessed of
an inner glow. Inside she was the gentle huntress, the friend of deer and
rabbit, and yet she was also a savage warrior, able to turn on primal
instincts for survival when the elves brought her out for training in bi'nelle
dasada.

So complex and yet so simple, and so possessed of the finer qualities of
both human and elf. This one would do well, Juraviel knew, and he was
glad that Lady Dasslerond had given him this task.

"The point of the lesson was for you to move up to the deer unnoticed,"
Juraviel tried to explain. "The silent hunter."

"Is it not better to befriend your enemies or your prey?" Brynn asked
innocently. "An easy kill," she said, looking into the deer's huge eyes.
Juraviel doubted that claim, doubted if he could ever get Brynn to actu-
ally kill a deer unless-or perhaps even if-she was starving.

"That is not the way we intended the lesson," Juraviel tried to explain.

"And did you not tell me that I should develop my own style?" Brynn
asked without hesitation. Surely Juraviel wanted to drop his head into
his hands yet again. The deer turned and started to wander away, and
Brynn slapped it on the rump to get it moving more quickly. "Am I to
be the imitation of every other ranger, then?" the girl asked, wiping her
hands and standing up-and she was almost as tall as Juraviel. "Am I to
be Andacanavar the strong, cleaving goblins with my great sword, or
Nightbird, perhaps-the great Nightbird who went to Mount Aida to wage
battle against the greatest enemy of all?" Her voice trailed away and she
looked down.

For a cloud had crossed over Juraviel's fair face.

"I am sorry," Brynn offered.

Juraviel held up his hand, then lifted his face and managed a smile.
"No," he said. "No need for any apology; and no, you are not to be an imi-
tation of any other ranger. In the case of the two you just named, though, I
assure you that some imitation would not be a bad thing."

"Mostly of Nightbird, right?" Brynn asked. "Tell me about him again."

"There is so much to tell," Juraviel replied.

"And we have all the day!" Brynn said happily. "You thought it would
take me all day to pat the deer and yet it is still not midmorning and I have
passed the test."

Juraviel wanted to dispute that, but he found, against the girl's disarming
smile, that he could not. He suspected that Brynn had asked him about El-
bryan the Nightbird only to heal any wounds she might have caused by her
mentioning the dead ranger, but when he saw the joy and eagerness on her
face and that dazzling and innocent-and yet he knew not so innocent!-
smile, he could not resist.

And so he led her to a mossy bank, sat her down, and told her of
Elbryan, the lost boy who had watched his town of Dundalis sacked by
goblins; of Elbryan, the impetuous youngster, headstrong and prideful,
who had so frustrated Tuntun of the Touel'alfar. And he told her of Night-
bird, the man Elbryan had become, as mighty a ranger as Andur'Blough
Inninness had ever produced; of Nightbird, who had gone to Aida to battle
the demon dactyl and who had traveled back to the civilized lands to con-
tinue the battle against the demon's eternal spirit. With tears filling his eyes
Belli'mar Juraviel told her of Nightbird, who had given his life to save thi
world.

Juraviel closed his eyes and described how Nightbird's caisson wa
pulled by the centaur and then by Symphony, the most wondrous horse i:

all the world, through the streets of the great city of Palmaris, through th
farmlands, and to the north to the town that had been his home.
When he finished, Juraviel opened his eyes, to find Brynn standing right
before him, her expression full of sympathy and sadness. "Thank you," she
said and she gave her elven mentor a hug.

Juraviel led the girl away, along the spring-blossoming slopes and
wooded thickets of the elven valley of Andur'Blough Inninness, back
toward the heart of the enclave, the deepest part of the forest, sprinkled
with tree houses and low, unobtrusive cottages. This was Caer'alfar, the
home of the people, a place of song and of dance, of poetry and philosophy,
and the spouting of wisdom gained in centuries of living. This was the very
heart of the Touel'alfar, now as it had been for millennia, a place that many
of the elven folk had believed eternal. But in the day of the dactyl, Lady
Dasslerond had gone out to save Juraviel and some human refugees he had
gathered together. The demon dactyl had come upon them and would have
destroyed them all, but Dasslerond had used her potent magic, a powerful
emerald gemstone, to transport herself, Juraviel, the humans, and, uninten-
tionally, Bestesbulzibar, back to the elven valley; and there, before he ran
away in defeat, Bestesbulzibar had left his lingering scar, a rot that infested
the very ground and was slowly spreading.

On their way to Caer'alfar, Juraviel and Brynn passed that region of dis-
ease, and though a couple of years had passed the infection had not spread
very far at all, only to a single tree, and that tree was still alive, though not
blooming as vibrantly as in years past. To a human, the disease would not
have seemed such a threat, but to the elves, who measured time so differ-
ently-who viewed the passing of a year as a human might view a month-
it seemed as if Bestesbulzibar had begun a fire.

Juraviel winced at the sight, as he always did, for he could clearly see the
illness within the tree, and he knew that it had come about because of his
own choices. Perhaps he should have left the human refugees and con-
tinued on his quest for Aida with Nightbird and Jilseponie and Brother
Avelyn. Lady Dasslerond had only gone out to face Bestesbulzibar, after all,
because one of her own, one of the people, was out there. If Juraviel had
been true to the tenets that guided the Touel'alfar, then the refugees would
have been slain; but to the elven way of thinking, a few human lives were
not worth the price of the rot within Andur'Blough Inninness. To the true
elven way of thinking, the rot was too high a price to pay, even to save all
the humans in the world.

More than a few of Juraviel's brethren had reminded him of that fact
these last months, this springtime bloom of illness. None had openly
accused him, of course, but their songs reflected a melancholy, a wistfulness
for what had been and what could never be again; and every reference shot
a dart of pain into Belli'mar Juraviel's heart.

His bright spot now was Brynn Dharielle, the butterfly with a bee stinger,
the spirited lass who reminded Juraviel of why he had come to love
Nightbird and Pony, even Avelyn and Roger Lockless. To Juraviel, Brynn
embodied the best qualities of humanity, and he did not doubt that she
would become one of the finest rangers, that her reputation would rise high
among the ranks that included Terranen Dinoniel, half elf; Elbryan and
Mather Wyndon; mighty Andacanavar of Alpinador; and the legendary
heroes, Bimriel the wise and A'juge, who led Brother AUabarnet of the
Abellican Church throughout the Wilderlands, seeding the inhospitable
forest with bountiful fruit trees.

Brynn Dharielle, who had such trials ahead of her when she returned to
her enslaved people of To-gai-ru, would take her rightful place, Juraviel
believed, and he was thrilled that Lady Dasslerond had placed the girl in
his care.
Except.. .

"When will I get to see him again? " Brynn asked innocently, and Juraviel
knew of whom she was speaking.

He shrugged and wanted to let it go at that. But the girl, true to her
spirit, persisted. "Tell me, please," she said, rushing about Juraviel and
intercepting him, forcing him to look at her directly. "The child-have you
even named him yet?-when will I see him again? I would love to hold him
and rock him to sleep, as my own mother used to do."

Juraviel had no answer for her-none that she would want to hear, at
least. Lady Dasslerond had made it quite clear to him that neither he nor
Brynn was to have any contact at all with the child of Nightbird and Jilse-
ponie. As great as that pain was for Juraviel, he knew that it was stronger
for young Brynn. She wanted to see another human being; what could be
more instinctual? Juraviel understood his own longing whenever he ven-
tured out of Andur'Blough Inninness for too long. Humans needed the
company of humans as much as the Touel'alfar needed others of their own
kind. True, almost every one of the other rangers had gone through train-
ing without human contact, Nightbird included. But in this rare case, the
elves had taken two humans in at the same time, and that knowledge of
proximity, of possibility, made the girl's heart long all the more for human
companionship.

Even more than that, Brynn repeatedly told Juraviel that she could help
care for the child, and promised with all her heart that she would do a good
job; and Juraviel understood the truth of her claim even better than she.
Both Brynn and the child would greatly benefit, he knew.

"If I pass your test the way you intended?" Brynn asked, her smile ever
hopeful. "If I sneak up on the deer and slap it hard on the rump instead of
letting it know me as a friend? "

Belli'mar Juraviel took a long, deep breath, changing his focus from the
girl's beaming face to the image of rot within the valley, the disease that had
come from the actions of Touel'alfar who bent the rules-even as Juraviel
had done by transforming duty to friendship with n'Touel'alfar, by
Dasslerond in bringing both Juraviel and the humans back to the valley,

thus opening the way for Bestesbulzibar; by Nightbird for teaching Pony
bi'nelle dasada, the most secretive elven fighting technique. So many of
their guiding principles had been temporarily abandoned, and Juraviel had
to admit the truth: had the true elven tenets been followed, though the
human world might be a darker place, Andur'Blough Inninness would
remain healthy and the threat that valuable elven secrets would soon be in
the hands of humans would be nonexistent. He pictured the rot and
reminded himself of all of that, and so his words came out more sternly
than poor Brynn could ever have expected.

"The child is not your concern," he declared flatly. "I doubt that the
babe even remains within Caer'alfar, and if he does, then Brynn Dharielle
would do well to stay far away from him, on pain of great punishment."

"But I-"

"No buts," Juraviel interrupted. "This is not a matter for discussion.
You are in training here-you would do well to remind yourself of that.
And to remind yourself of the plight of your people, of the death of your
parents. Find your heart, Brynn Dharielle, and your focus, for all our
sakes."

The girl appeared confused, which Juraviel understood, given his sudden
mood shift and the barrage of overwhelming responsibilities he had just
placed upon her. She stared at him for a few moments, blinking her eyes,
then wiping her sleeve across one. Then she turned and sprinted away.

Juraviel nodded. He had done his proper duty to the Touel'alfar.

He was still looking down the path she had run when he saw another
figure step into view, moving his way.

"The memory still pains her," Lady Dasslerond remarked, glancing back
at the trail where Brynn had disappeared. "Thus it still inspires her. That is
a good thing."

Juraviel nodded, but he was staring at Dasslerond and not at the trail,
wondering how much of his last conversation the lady had heard and won-
dering how much she had been paying attention to him and Brynn, in more
quiet ways, over the last days. Juraviel understood that his position with
Dasslerond was somewhat tentative these days. When he thought about
it-again, forcing himself to stay fully within the Touel'alfar view of the
world and tenets of behavior-he really couldn't blame her.

He told her, then, of Brynn Dharielle's remarkable achievement that
morning with the deer. Not even Andacanavar had been so close to a deer
at this young age; and, in this test at least, Andacanavar of Alpinador had
previously held the benchmark. "Her fighting progresses," Juraviel fin-
ished, "but her understanding of the natural world is truly amazing-more
akin to the Touel'alfar than to the humans." He knew as soon as he fin-
ished, as soon as he heard the words and then saw Lady Dasslerond's scowl,
that his choice of phrasing hadn't been particularly diplomatic.
"She is human," Lady Dasslerond was quick to remind him, "n'Touel'-
alfar. Never forget that."

Belli'mar Juraviel lowered his gaze submissively.

"But she is also To-gai-ru," the lady went on. "And as such, she is a
horsewoman, first and foremost. Her people are as close to the land as any
humans in all the world, even more so than the Alpinadorans. Before we
took her to Caer'alfar, before her clan was overrun by fanatical Behrenese
soldiers, her parents murdered, and her village burned to the ground, she
was already an accomplished rider, though she had not yet seen her ninth
winter. If her legs were longer and stronger, as they will become, our Brynn
could outride the finest Allheart knights."

An image of the budding ranger upon Symphony flashed in Juraviel's
mind, but he let it go quickly, too pained to imagine anyone but Nightbird
atop the magnificent stallion. He closed his eyes and saw again Symphony
pulling the caisson bearing Nightbird's body to the north.

"What will her years with us do to diminish that riding ability?" Lady
Dasslerond asked.

Juraviel looked into his lady's eyes, at first wondering if she was being
sarcastic, but then understanding the sincerity of her question. What
indeed? The Touel'alfar could ride horses, and ride them well, but their
riding style-often using their wings for balance-was not adaptable to
humans. Also, the Touel'alfar preferred to use their legs and their wings
rather than ride, for they could travel great distances, and swiftly, on their
own. Given that, there were no fine riding horses in Andur'Blough Innin-
ness, certainly none "broken" in the manner that any human would be able
to ride.

"We cannot take that away from her," Lady Dasslerond went on.
"Above all else, Brynn will need to perfect her riding skills to the very
highest level if she is to return to her people with any manner of stature."

It was true enough, Juraviel knew. The To-gai-ru valued their pinto
ponies above their children and measured themselves mostly based on how
well they could ride one of those tough and strong beasts. Any To-gai-ru
aspiring to a position of leadership would have to outride his or her
competitors.

"Many of her lessons must soon center around riding," Lady Dasslerond
explained. "Perhaps you and she can find a way to adapt the To-gai-ru
riding style with bi'nelle dasada."

"We can catch a horse this day," Juraviel replied, and he chuckled, imag-
ining Brynn Dharielle walking right up to one of the wild horses in
Andur'Blough Inninness and coaxing it back to Caer'alfar. "And begin the
training process, on horse first and then with Brynn."

Lady Dasslerond was shaking her head before he finished. "There are no
horses in Andur'Blough Inninness suitable for the girl," she explained.
"This will be her greatest challenge, her chance to bring our gifts to her to
their pinnacle, and as such, we must give her the proper tools."

Juraviel narrowed his gaze, hardly believing what his lady was saying.
"You wish me to go to To-gai?" he asked doubtfully.

"That is not possible," Lady Dasslerond was quick to answer. "No, my
eyes look in a different direction, to call in the favor of a friend."

"Bradwarden," Juraviel stated, finally catching on, but then his expres-
sion turned to one of doubt. "Are you thinking that Brynn Dharielle should
ride Symphony? "

Lady Dasslerond rocked back at the notion, apparently caught off guard
but also apparently intrigued.

"She could not begin to handle that one," Juraviel said. The thought of
anyone other than Elbryan or Jilseponie riding Symphony didn't sit well
with the elf. "She is not nearly large enough to control the horse," he went
on. "Her legs would not reach around Symphony's considerable girth, and
never would Symphony even feel the press of her skinny limbs."

"Tuntun rode him," Lady Dasslerond reminded him; for indeed, Tuntun
had ridden Symphony all the way to the Barbacan in pursuit of Avelyn's
party. "She was no larger than Brynn."

"But she was stronger," said Juraviel, "with muscles honed by years and
years of training."

"You do not wish to see Symphony given to Brynn," Lady Dasslerond
noted slyly.

"I do not believe that Symphony can be given to anyone," Juraviel answered.
"By Nightbird's own description to me-supported by Bradwarden-
Symphony chose him as much as he chose the horse."

"And if Symphony accepted her? "

Juraviel didn't reply, just stood there staring at the lady.

"You do not believe her worthy of Nightbird's mount," Dasslerond went
on, easily gaining the upper hand now, "as Tuntun did not believe Night-
bird worthy of Mather's sword."

"Nightbird taught her differently."

"As Brynn will teach you," Lady Dasslerond said. "Go out this week,
Belli'mar Juraviel. Find Bradwarden, the centaur, and discover his feelings
on this matter. You will enjoy the visit with your old friend, I believe, and
with Roger Lockless, who is rumored to be in Dundalis with the centaur."

Juraviel didn't begin to disagree.

"Return with a horse for Brynn Dharielle," the lady instructed,
"Remember that she will carry on the responsibilities of a ranger, as did
Nightbird, and that her road will be no less fraught with danger. And
remember, Belli'mar Juraviel, that much of the power Brynn Dharielle will
find will come as a result of her horsemanship.

"Choose well," she continued, her tone friendly but stern. "When you
are with Bradwarden you will learn if that horse is to be Symphony, and if
you see the way dear, do not let your personal jealousies defeat our cause."
Juraviel straightened, recognizing clearly that he had just been put in his
place, in no uncertain terms. Lady Dasslerond was placing her trust in him;

she could have sent any of the others to Bradwarden with instructions to
retrieve Symphony. No, this was a test, Juraviel understood, a way for the
lady to measure whether or not he intended to repeat the same errors he
had made with Elbryan and Jilseponie. At that moment, Belli'mar Juraviel
realized that he would return with mighty Symphony, if the centaur and
the horse would agree to it.

"There is one other matter for you to investigate while you are in the
lands of the humans," the lady added. "Our scouts have reported that
the gemstones Jilseponie used were never recovered after the battle in
Chasewind Manor."

"The Touel'alfar have never been concerned with the magical gem-
stones," Juraviel replied, "except for the emerald given to you. They are the
domain of the humans, by your own words."

"And I mean them for a human," Lady Dasslerond interrupted. "Have
we not discussed this? The child will be all that his father was and all that
his mother once was. We will teach him the sword and the magic."

Juraviel thought back to that fateful day. Brother Francis had been the
first one into the room, he remembered; but if Francis had found the
stones, he would have turned them over to the Church immediately and so
they would not still be missing. But there was another in the area of the
battle, according to the version of the tale Juraviel had heard, another
human with a reputation for light fingers. He looked at Dasslerond, and she
nodded and walked away. She had a pretty good idea that he could locate
the missing gemstones, Juraviel knew.

Yes, Juraviel had a good idea who had the stones.

Eager to see his old friends again, the elf was out of Andur'Blough Innin-
ness that very night.
CHAPTER

•>   H    <•

Diplomacy

Abbot Agronguerre held his breath as his guests at St. Belfour-Prince
Midalis and the two barbarians Andacanavar and Bruinhelde-
entered the study. The abbot had purposely removed the room's
normally comfortable chairs, replacing them with five straight, hard-backed
seats arranged in a circle with no apparent "head" position. Brother Haney
would be the fifth in attendance, seated away from Agronguerre-again
purposefully, for the abbot wanted his guests to feel as if this was a meeting
of comrades and friends and not a drawing of lines between Vanguard and
Alpinador, between Church and barbarian.

He watched the expressions of the two Alpinadorans carefully, nodding
his agreement when Prince Midalis quickly took the seat to Brother
Haney's right, thus leaving the chairs on either side of the abbot for
their guests. Bruinhelde seemed to bristle a bit, but Andacanavar calmed
him with a pat on the shoulder, motioning for him to take the seat to
Agronguerre's left, while the ranger slid easily into the seat to the abbot's
right.

That scene fit in well with what Midalis had told him about the
Alpinadoran leaders, Agronguerre realized. The Prince had indicated that
the ranger Andacanavar was by far the more worldly and friendly of the
pair; and that Bruinhelde, though obviously an ally, was more set in the
ways of his northern people and far more suspicious of the Vanguardsmen,
and particularly of the Church, whose precepts were not in any way in
accord with the Alpinadoran perception of God-or, in their case, of the
gods, for their pantheon of deities was quite extensive.

When the pair were seated, and after a moment of uncomfortable
silence, Prince Midalis began to speak, but Agronguerre, as the host, inter-
rupted him immediately.

"A glorious victory on the field this morning," the abbot said, nodding in
turn to each of his guests, "though we grieve for your losses, as we grieve
for our own."
M 0 R T A L I S                    103

"Temorstaad died bravely," the stern Bruinhelde answered, his voice
halting and accented, revealing his lack of command of the language. "I
hope I may die as well."

Agronguerre widened his eyes at that for just a moment, until he realized
that Bruinhelde wasn't calling for his own death, but was merely indicating
that he hoped he would die as honorably as had Temorstaad.

"We do not grieve for those killed in battle as you might," Andacanavar
tried to explain.

"We, too, pray that we might die honorably," Midalis put in.

"Though we surely pray that more of our enemies will find such a
fate," Abbot Agronguerre dared to chime in, somewhat lightheartedly.
He thought he had just committed his first blunder of the meeting when
Bruinhelde fixed him with a confused stare, but then the barbarian leader
chuckled and nodded.

With the tension alleviated, for the moment at least, Agronguerre bade
Andacanavar and Midalis to lead them to the purpose for the meeting, a
discussion concerning their continued alliance in the effort to rid the region
of the minions of the demon dactyl. It went well for some time, rolling
along, with plans for future tactics interspersed with reminders of the vic-
tory that day on the field, and even a remark from Bruinhelde that he
thought Midalis and his riders had performed bravely and honorably.

It didn't slip past Agronguerre, though, that the barbarian seemed reluc-
tant to offer any thanks or praise for the efforts of the monks; and that, the
wise abbot feared, would be the true test of the depth of this unlikely
alliance.

"With strength of sword and strength of magic, we will sweep the land of
the goblins," the excited Brother Haney remarked at one point. The room
fell silent, and Agronguerre could sense Bruinhelde tightening at his side.
He turned slowly and deliberately to face the proud Alpinadoran, held up
his hand to ward off attempts by both Andacanavar and Midalis to try to
deflect the conversation back to more common ground.

"You mistrust my Church and our use of the gemstone magic," he said
bluntly to Bruinhelde. Before the barbarian could respond, he added, "As
we, who do not know of or understand the ways of the folk of Alpinador,
mistrust many of your traditions and beliefs. That is ignorance, on both our
parts, and it is something, I fear, that neither of us will be able to overcome
at a meeting or in any short amount of time."

Bruinhelde's expression became more curious than angry, and he looked
past Agronguerre to Andacanavar, who immediately translated the abbot's
words and sentiments into the Alpinadoran language.

"Given that, we both must put our suspicions and even our anger aside,"
the abbot went on. "You need not trust our techniques, as we do not trust
yours, but trust only that our goal is the same as your own: to rid the region
of goblins and powries and giants. Take faith, my ally, that our magic and
our ways will not be turned against you, that we are your allies in this and
that we truly value that alliance."

He paused and let Andacanavar translate again, just to make sure that
there would be no misunderstanding between them on this most crucial
point, and he took some hope as Bruinhelde nodded, his stern expression
beginning to brighten.

"I know that I overstepped my bounds as an ally when I tried to use the
gemstone magic on your fallen companion," the abbot said. "And I do not
agree with your decision to refuse such treatment for Temorstaad." Brother
Haney gasped at the admission, Prince Midalis widened his eyes in surprise
that Agronguerre would even bring up such a difficult subject, and Bruin-
helde surely tightened once again at the mention.

The abbot, though, pressed ahead. "But I respect your decision and
assure you that neither I nor any of my brethren will make such an intrusion
against your ways as that again," he said. The ranger beside him was quick
to translate. "However, Bruinhelde, my ally, should you see a different
course as time goes along, as we each become more used to the other's
ways, I, and all of my brethren, would accept any change of mind on your
part. If you come to believe that the gemstone magic is a valuable tool for
healing the wounded, as it is a tool for battling our common enemies, then I
will work tirelessly to alleviate the suffering ofAlpinadorans, as I try now to
do for the men of Vanguard, the men who claim allegiance to my Church."

"And you expect that we, too, will make such a claim of allegiance?"
Andacanavar interjected before Bruinhelde could.

"I do not," the abbot answered sincerely. "I expect, and have seen, that
your people will battle for the sake of my own, as my own will battle for the
sake of yours. I ask no concessions, no abandonment of ways or traditions,
no premise that the Abellican Church is superior and correct."

"Abbot!" Brother Haney blurted, but Agronguerre merely laughed.

"Of course, I view the Abellican Church as the true way to paradise, and
hope that everyone in all the world will come to see the same light of truth
as I," Agronguerre admitted, his tone lighthearted and not in the least
intimidating. "But that, I fear, is a personal decision, a choice that must
come from within, and not through any pressure applied by brothers. Mis-
sionaries should spread their views with tolerance of difference, my friend."

"And they should listen as often as they speak," the ranger replied.

"Indeed," agreed Agronguerre. "And even more than that, I assure you
that in this common cause, the brothers of St. Belfour are not missionaries.
Certainly not! We believe that the joining of our forces against the common
enemy will be to the betterment of both Vanguardsmen and Alpinadorans.
This is not about who serves the correct God."

Andacanavar looked past the abbot to Bruinhelde, and Agronguerre,
too, turned to regard the pivotal leader.
M 0 R T A L I S                     105

"You will use no magic to tend my wounded," Bruinhelde said deter-
minedly, "not even if one is near death, as was Temorstaad. And take care
that none of your magical attacks falls over my brethren!" he warned.

"But you do not wish us to stop throwing lightning and fire at the gob-
lins," Abbot Agronguerre reasoned.

"Gilnegist clokclok gilnegist beyaggen inder fleequelt bene duGodder,"
Bruinhelde replied, settling back in his chair and crossing his huge arms
over his chest, his expression contented.

Agronguerre immediately turned back to the smiling Andacanavar.

" 'Demon battling demon brings joy to the godly man,' " the ranger
translated.

Brother Haney seemed as if he would jump up and shout out against the
obvious insult, but the abbot of St. Belfour gave a great belly laugh and
turned back to Bruinhelde. "Exacdy!" he said with obvious irony. "Exacdy!"
He laughed some more, and Bruinhelde joined in and then the others,
somewhat more tentatively, and it ended when Abbot Agronguerre, in all
seriousness, extended his hand to the barbarian leader. Bruinhelde stared
at the man and the gesture for a moment, then clasped Agronguerre's wrist
firmly.

And so the alliance was sealed, with a mutual understanding of common
benefit if not friendship. The rest of the meeting went beautifully, mostly
rallying cheers designed to bring up the level of excitement for the battles
that lay ahead and the shared confidence that, joined as one, the humans
would drive out the minions of evil Bestesbulzibar.

Prince Midalis lingered behind when Brother Haney led the two
Alpinadorans back to the gate of St. Belfour. "I had feared that you would
hold to your anger from the events on the field concerning Temorstaad," he
admitted to Agronguerre as soon as they were alone. "To press your
opinion on that matter would have proven disastrous."

"It took me a long while to purge my heart of that anger," Agronguerre
admitted, "but I recognize the greater good and understand that all of your
work in bringing the barbarians to our cause has been nothing short of
miraculous, my friend. I would not destroy those efforts for the sake of my
own pride. And I know, too, that with or without the gemstone magic,
Temorstaad will not be the only man to die in this campaign."

"True enough," Midalis solemnly agreed. "But now, at least, we can look
forward to the war with true hope." He paused and gave Agronguerre a sly
look. "And when it is finished, perhaps you can begin the task of converting
Bruinhelde and his brethren."

That brought laughter from both, which increased when Agronguerre, in
all seriousness, replied, "Perhaps I would rather try to sway Bestesbulzibar
and his minions."
If the specter of death itself had walked into his office, Abbot Braumin
Herde's expression would have been no less incredulous and no less
horrified.

De'Unnero came swaggering in, walking with confidence-with a smile,
even-right up to the new abbot's desk. He bent low, placing his hands
upon the lacquered wood, staring down at Braumin Herde. His eyes
sparkled with the same intensity Braumin remembered from their days
together at St.-Mere-Abelle, the fire that always had the younger monks on
edge whenever Master De'Unnero was around, the same fire that had made
the dangerous man a legend among the younger brothers.

"You seem surprised to see me," De'Unnero said innocently.

Abbot Braumin couldn't even begin to respond, had no words to convex
the astonishment and trepidation churning within him.

"You believed me dead?" De'Unnero asked, as if the thought wen
absurd.

"The fight at Chasewind Manor ..." Abbot Braumin began, but he jus
ended up shaking his head. He was still sitting, wasn't even sure if his leg
would support him if he tried to stand. And all the while, the monk wa
well aware that Marcalo De'Unnero, perhaps the most dangerous monk t
ever walk out of St.-Mere-Abelle, could reach across the desk and kill hir
quickly and easily.

"I was there," De'Unnero confirmed. "I tried to defend Father Abb(
Markwart, as was my solemn duty."

"Markwart is dead and buried," Braumin said, growing a bit more con!
dent as he considered the events and the fact that De'Unnero was withoi
allies within Palmaris. "Buried and discredited."

If De'Unnero was surprised, he hid it well.

"Elbryan the Nightbird, too, died in the battle," Abbot Braumin we
on, and he thought he saw a hint of a smile touch De'Unnero's face.
great loss to all the world."

De'Unnero nodded, though his expression hardly revealed any agre
ment with the sentiment, more an acknowledgment of Braumin's opinior

Finally, the abbot did manage to stand up and face De'Unnero square
"Where have you been? " he demanded. "We have just passed through c
darkest and most confused days-we nearly lost all to King Danube-a
we are not even certain of where we now stand within the kingdom
among the populace. And yet, where is Abbot De'Unnero during all
this? Where is the man who will reveal the truth of Father Abbot Ma
wart's fall?"

"Perhaps it is a truth I did not believe the Church was ready to hee
De'Unnero replied forcefully. He stood back, though, and chuckl
"Markwart erred," he admitted, and those two words coming from
mouth of this man nearly knocked Abbot Braumin off his feet. "As
De'Unnero in trusting him."
"He was possessed by Bestesbulzibar," Abbot Braumin dared to remark.
That proclamation brought De'Unnero back to his fine edge of anger, eyes
shining dangerously.

"How dare you make such a claim? "

"You just said-"

"That he erred," said De'Unnero. "And so I believe he did. He erred in
his obsession with the followers of Avelyn Desbris. Better to let the lot of
you play out your philosophies, that your own errors might be laid bare for
all to see."

"You come back here to speak such nonsense?" Abbot Braumin asked,
walking around the desk, for he did not like the way that De'Unnero was
using it as a prop to gain a physical advantage. "If you are of Markwart's
mind, then know that your ideas have been discredited."

"Because Father Abbot Markwart was possessed by Bestesbulzibar?"
De'Unnero asked skeptically.

"Yes!" the abbot of St. Precious snapped. "By the words ofJilseponie
herself!" He didn't miss the flash of anger that crossed De'Unnero's face at
the mention of the woman. "She, who survived the fight with Markwart,
who went to him spiritually to do battle, saw the truth of the man, saw the
alliance he had made with the most foul demon."

De'Unnero began laughing before Braumin finished the sentence. "And
you would expect her to say differently?" he asked. "Would she admit,
then, that Father Abbot Markwart was possessed by angels? "

"You have missed so much," Braumin replied.

"I have witnessed more than you believe from afar."

"Then where have you been?" the abbot demanded. "As we passed our
trials with King Danube and Duke Kalas-now Baron of Palmaris-where
was Marcalo De'Unnero? As we began our inquisition into the disposition
of Father Abbot Markwart, where was De'Unnero? Did you fear, perhaps,
that you would be brought to answer for your crimes? "

"Fear?" echoed the former abbot, the former bishop of Palmaris. "And
pray tell me what crimes I might have to answer for, good Abbot. Aloysius
Crump? " he asked, referring to a merchant whom he, acting as bishop, had
arrested and subsequently executed. "Tried and convicted of hiding gem-
stones, when the edict of the Father Abbot was that I should confiscate
every one. What then have I done to deserve such words as these? I stood
by Father Abbot Markwart, as I was trained to do at St.-Mere-Abelle, as
you were trained to do before Master Jojonah poisoned your heart with his
silly beliefs. Yes, my friend, I will speak honestly with you and will not be-
gin to pretend that I mourn the death of the heretic Jojonah. And, yes, I
freely admit that I acted the part of Father Abbot Markwart's second and
followed his commands, the orders of the rightful leader of the Abellican
Church, as any soldier would follow the orders of King Danube. Am I to be
called to account for that? Will Braumin Herde place me under arrest and
try me publicly? Who next, then, fool? Will you find those who came with
Father Abbot Markwart to St. Precious on his first visit and try them for
their actions in taking the centaur, Bradwarden, prisoner? But wait, was not
your own dear friend, Brother Dellman, among that group? What of the
guards in St.-Mere-Abelle who watched over Bradwarden and the doomed
Chilichunks in the dungeons of our home abbey? Tell me, abbot of St. Pre-
cious, if you mean to punish them as well." De'Unnero shook his head and
laughed wickedly, then came forward to stand face-to-face with the abbot,
his eyes locked in a fanatical glare. "Pray tell me, abbot reformer, what you
will do with all those brothers and all the townsfolk who dragged your pre-
cious Master Jojonah through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle town and tor-
tured him and burned him at the stake. Are they all guilty, as you hint that I
am? Shall we build rows of stakes to satiate your lust for revenge? "

"Markwart has been discredited," Abbot Braumin said grimly and deter-
minedly. "He was wrong, Brother De'Unnero, as were you in following him
blindly."

De'Unnero backed off a step, though he continued to hold fast that
wicked grin of his, the look he had perfected years before, that made
it seem as if he held the upper hand in every confrontation, as if he,
De'Unnero, somehow knew more than his opponents could begin to
understand. "Even if what you say is true, I expect to be formally welcomed
back into the Church," he said.

"You must account for the last months," Abbot Braumin declared, but
De'Unnero was shaking his head even as the words came out.

"I must account for nothing," he replied. "I needed time to sort through
the tumultuous events, and so I left. Can less be said of Braumin and his
cohorts and their flight to the Barbacan? "

Braumin's expression turned incredulous.

"If I am called to account for my actions of the last year, dear Braumin
Herde, then know that you and your friends will likewise face the inquisi-
tion," De'Unnero said confidently. "Your side won the conflict in Palmaris,
that much is obvious, and the victor might write the histories in his manner
of choosing; but St. Precious is not so large and important a place when
measured against St.-Mere-Abelle, and I, and Father Markwart, did not
leave that place without allies.

"I have returned, brother," De'Unnero finished, holding wide his arms.
"Accept that as fact and think well before you choose to begin a war
against me."

Braumin winced and did indeed begin to reflect on the man's words. He
hated De'Unnero as much as he had hated Markwart, but did he really have
any kind of a case for action against the man? There were rumors that
De'Unnero had murdered Baron Bildeborough, rumors Abbot Braumin
believed wholeheartedly. But they were just that, rumors, and if there was
any evidence of the crime, Braumin hadn't seen it. Marcalo De'Unnero had
been Markwart's principal bully, a brute who reveled in the fight, who pun-
ished mercilessly those who disagreed with him.

De'Unnero had viciously battled Elbryan, and the wound that had even-
tually brought down the ranger had been inflicted by a tiger's paw, the
favored weapon of this man.

But were De'Unnero's actions in that last fight, when Jilseponie and
Elbryan had invaded Chasewind Manor with the express purpose of killing
the Father Abbot of the Abellican Church, really a crime?

Braumin thought so, but had not Master Francis tried to stop the ranger
from entering Chasewind Manor earlier? Did that make Francis a criminal
as well? Braumin winced again and tried to find some answer. To him,
De'Unnero was indeed a criminal, and he knew that he would not be the
only one who saw the dangerous man that way. Certainly Jilseponie would
do battle with De'Unnero if ever she saw him again-on sight and to the
death.

Then it hit Braumin squarely, the realization that the timing of this
meeting was much more than coincidence. How strange that De'Unnero
had walked back into St. Precious on the same day Jilseponie had left Pal-
maris for the northland!

Bolstered by the notion that the dangerous man might harbor some fear
of Jilseponie, Braumin Herde squared his shoulders. "I am the abbot of St.
Precious," he declared, "sanctioned by Church and Crown, by King
Danube himself, and backed by Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce and by all
the brethren of St. Precious. I'll not relinquish the position."
"And I am simply cast aside? "

"You left," Braumin insisted, "without explanation, without, many
would say, just cause."
"That was my choice."

"A choice that cost you your appointment at St. Precious," said Braumin,
and then he snorted. "Do you believe that the people of Palmaris or that
Duke Kalas, who has publicly professed his hatred for you, will support
your return to this position? "

"I believe that the choice is for the Church alone," De'Unnero replied
calmly, seeming entirely unshaken by Braumin's blunt attacks. "But the
point is irrelevant, because I have no further designs on St. Precious, or
upon this wretched city at all. I only came here to fill a vacancy at the
request of my Father Abbot. You see my loyalty to him as a crime, but
given the doctrine of the Church, that is a ridiculous assertion. I am confi-
dent that if we battled for this position at the College of Abbots-which I
assume will soon be called-I would prevail. My service to St.-Mere-Abelle
cannot be undone by your passions, nor can it be twisted into something
perverse and evil.

"But fear not, too-young abbot, for I am no threat to your coveted post,"
De'Unnero went on. "Indeed, I am glad that you are here; I only hope that
all of the other followers of Jojonah and Avelyn will flock here beside you.
Better that you all fester in this place of minor importance, while I attend to
the greater workings of the Church in St.-Mere-Abelle."

Braumin Herde wanted to shout out at the man, to call for the guards
and put this wretched criminal in prison, but when he considered it all, he
knew that he could do little, really, and that any actions he took against
De'Unnero now could have very serious implications at the forthcoming
College of Abbots, repercussions that Braumin and his friends could ill
afford. For De'Unnero, though his title as bishop had been revoked and his
stewardship as abbot of St. Precious had been rightfully turned over to
Braumin, was still a ranking master of the Abellican Order, a monk of many
accomplishments, a strong leader with a place and a voice within the
Church.

A very loud and obnoxious voice, Abbot Braumin understood.

Prince Midalis and Andacanavar sat on a large wet rock overlooking the
Gulf of Corona, holding stoically against gusting and unseasonably cold
ocean winds and stinging drizzle.

"I keep hoping that we will see a sail, or a hundred," Midalis admitted.

"That your brother will send the help you requested?" the ranger asked.

"Two score Allheart knights and a brigade of Kingsmen would bolster
our cause against the goblins," Midalis remarked.

"Where are they, then?" Andacanavar asked. "Your brother sits as king
in a land that, by all reports, has defeated the threat. Why has he not sent
his soldiers to aid in your-in our-cause? "

Midalis honestly had no answer to that. "I suspect that he is embroiled in
other pressing matters," he answered. "Perhaps rogue bands of monsters
remain."

"Or maybe he has his soldiers busy in keeping order in a kingdom gone
crazy," the ranger reasoned, and that raised Midalis' eyebrows.

"I have seen such things before," Andacanavar went on. "The aftermath
of war can be more dangerous than the war itself."

Midalis shook his head and stared back out over the dark waters.

"Where are they, then?" Andacanavar asked. "Where are the ships and
the brave Allheart knights? Is your brother so deaf to your call? "

Prince Midalis had no answers. Whatever the reason, it was becoming
obvious to him that this fight in Vanguard was his alone among the nobility
of Honce-the-Bear. He glanced from the cold and dark waters of the Miri-
anic back to his ranger companion, and took heart in the sight of the great
and noble warrior.

For, whether his brother, the King, came to his aid or not, the Duke of
Vanguard-the Prince of Honce-the-Bear-knew that he and his people
were no longer alone in their fight.
She looked up at the sky and noted the dark, heavy clouds. There would
be more rain; every day, it seemed, more stormy weather rolled in from the
Mirianic, pounding Falidean Bay and Falidean town, soaking the ground
where they had buried poor Brennilee, turning the dirt to mud. That
ground had still been hard when they had put the child into it, and some of
the men digging the grave had muttered that they hoped they had put Bren-
nilee down far enough to keep her from the rains.

Merry Cowsenfed prayed-prayed mostly that the torrents wouldn't
bring up the little box into which they had placed Brennilee. That had hap-
pened several times in Falidean town during heavy storms: coffins some-
times rotted through so that you could see the decomposed corpses,
floating right out of the ground. Merry stifled a cry and shook her head as
her darkest fears and deepest pain led her to imagine the sight of her beau-
tiful, precious Brennilee rotting within that box.

The woman melted down to her knees, head bent, shoulders heaving
with sobs. They could rebury the child, she thought.

Yes, soon enough. They could dig up the grave and bury the child down
deeper.

Merry Cowsenfed looked down at the rosy spots on her own forearm and
nodded. For, yes, she knew, the gravediggers would be working again soon
enough.

"Merry!" came a call from the road behind her. Without rising up, the
drenched woman glanced back over her shoulder to see about a score gath-
ered there. She couldn't make out many faces, but she did recognize Thedo
Crayle and his wife, Dinny, the little Haggarty boy, and one or two others;

and from the one thing she knew all those she recognized had in common,
Merry could pretty much guess the remainder of the group.

They were the sick of Falidean, people with the rosy spots, and with the
awful fever and stomach-churning to follow soon enough.

Merry pulled herself up and pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders,
bending her head against the driving rain.

"Ye come with us, Merry," said Dinny Crayle in her gentle voice as she
met the grieving woman and put her arms about Merry's shoulders. "We're
going to St. Gwendolyn, we are, to ask the abbess to help us."

Merry looked at her, at all the desperate and sick townsfolk, but there
was no hope on her strained features. "Ye'U be turned away," she said.
"The monks won't be helpin' with the plague. They'll be hidin' from it, as
do our kin."

"Cowards all!" one blustery man cried out. "The abbess'U open her
door, or we'll knock the damned thing down!"

That brought a chorus of cheers, cries wrought of anger and of determi-
nation, but Merry's voice rose above them.
"Ye're knowin' the rules!" she yelled. "Ye got the rosy plague, so ye stay
put and make yer peace with God and accept yer fate."

"Damn the rules!" another man yelled out.

"Ye got the plague!" Merry yelled back. "Ye stay put, then, so as ye
don't go bringin' it to all the other towns o' the kingdom."

"Damn the rules!" the same man cried.

"But ye know we're to die, then, and horribly," Dinny Crayle said to
Merry. "Ye know we're to take the fever and get all crazy, and call out for
dead ones, and jerk about all horrible until our arms and legs ache and
bruise. And ye'U get the weeps. And then ye'U die, and if ye're lucky,
someone else with the rosies'll take the time to put ye in the ground-or
might that they'll just drop ye off the road and let the birds peck at yer
blind eyes."

A couple of the nearby children started wailing, and so did several of the
adults, but mostly, the adults cried that the rules were wrong and that the
monks must help them.

"No God'U let us die like that," another woman insisted.

"Forty-three dead in the town already," Thedo Crayle reminded Merry,
"forty-three, with yer own Brennilee among 'em. And another fifty've got it.
At least fifty, and probably with twice that number gettin' it but not yet
knowin' that they be doomed. That's near to a hunnerd, Merry. A hunnerd
out o' eleven hunnerd in all Falidean town. Stay put, ye say? Bah to that.
The whole town'U fall dead soon enough."

"But might be only our town," Merry tried to reason.

Thedo scoffed. "How many boats've come in since we learned o' the
plague? And how many just before that? And where'd it come to us from, if
all who got it stayed home? No, good Merry, it's out and was so before it
found Falidean town. The rosy's out and runnin', don't ye doubt, and them
monks've got to do somethin' about it. We're goin' to St. Gwendolyn, with
ye or without ye. We'll get our Abbess Delenia and her sisters and brothers
to heal us."

"Brother Avelyn kilt the demon, so they're sayin'," Dinny added, "and if
them monks're killin' the dactyl demon, then they're strong enough to kill
the rosies!"

Another cheer went up, and the group started down the long muddy
road, with Dinny Crayle holding fast to her friend Merry, guiding the
woman along. Merry looked back repeatedly at Brennilee's little grave
marker, her instincts screaming in protest at the thought of leaving her little
girl behind. What would happen to Brennilee if Merry died in some distant
land? Who would they put in the ground beside her little girl, or would
they even bother to bury Brennilee again if her little coffin churned up?
Truly, Merry's heart broke. She didn't believe that the Abellican monks
could, or would, help them, but she went along anyway.

Mostly it was sheer weakness, the inability to resist Dinny's pull, the
inability to break away from the only comforting hands that had found
her stooped shoulders these last days, since she had begun to show signs of
the rosy plague.

The group took up a song soon after, a chanting prayer that spoke of the
hope and redemption offered by the Abellican Church, that spoke of
St. Abelle, the healer of souls, the healer of bodies.
I had to get out of there.

I knew beyond anything else that I had to get out ofPalmaris, away
from that place of pain and turmoil. It was overwhelming me-all of
it. It was paralyzing me with pain and most of all with doubt.

I had to get back on the road to the north, to my home: a simpler
place by far. In Dundalis, in all the Timberlands, the pressures of
survival overrule many of the trappings of civilization. In the wild
Timberlands, where the domain of nature dominates that of mankind,
the often-too-confusing concepts of right and wrong are replaced by the
simpler concept of consequences. In the wilds of the Timberlands, you
choose your course, you act upon that trail, and you accept-for what
else might you do?-the consequences of those choices and actions.
Had I lost Elbryan to a mistaken handhold while scaling a cliff face
rather than in battling a demon spirit, then, I believe, I could have
more easily accepted his death. The pain, the sense of loss, would have
been no less profound, of course, but it would have been outside the
realm of the more personal questions the actual conditions fostered. It
would have been a simple reality based upon simple reality, and not a
reality of loss based upon some philosophical questions of morality and.
justice. Would such an accidental loss of my love have been more
senseless?

Of that I am not sure, and, thus, I had to get out of there.

My decision to go disappointed many. I have weakened my allies, I
fear, and bolstered my enemies. To those looking upon me from afar, it
seems as if I chose the easier road.

They think that I am running away. friends and enemies believe
that I have retreated from my fight, have fled from the peril. I cannot
completely disagree, for my stance on the larger battle within Honce-
the-Bear now seems to me as intangible as the battlefield itself. Are we
fighting a demon spirit or the very nature of mankind? Was Markwart
an aberration or an inevitability? How many revolutions have been
fought by people espousing a more enlightened, way, a greater truth, a
greater justice, only to see the victors fall into the same human failings
as their predecessors?

Yes, I fear I have come to question the value of the war itself.

Perhaps I am running away from the confusion, from the noise of
aftermath, that unsettling scrambling to fill the power vacancies. But in
the final measure, I am not running away from the greater battle; of
this, I am certain. Nor will my road truly be easier. I have come to
recognize now that I am charging headlong into the most personal and
potentially devastating battle I have ever fought. I am running to
confront the most basic questions of my existence, of any existence: the
meaning of my life itself and of what may come after this life. I am
choosing a course of faith and of hope, and not with any illusions that
those necessary ingredients for contentment and joy will be waiting for
me in Dundalis. Far from it-for I understand that those questions
may be beyond me. And if that is the case, then how can I even begin
to fathom the answers?

But this is a battle I cannot avoid or delay. I must come to terms
with these basic questions of humanity, of who we are and why we are
and where we're going, if I ever hope to solidify the ground beneath
my feet. I have come to the point in my life where I must learn the
truth or be destroyed by the doubts.

Brother-Abbot-Braumin wants me to stand beside him now and
fight the legacy ofMarkwart. King Danube wants me to stand with
him now in restoring order to a kingdom shattered by war and the
corruption of its very soul. They see my refusal as cowardice, I am sure;

but in truth, it is mere pragmatism. I cannot fight their battles until my
own personal turmoil is settled, until I am grounded in a place of solid
conviction-until I am convinced that we go, not in endlessly
overlapping circles of false progress, but in the direction of justice and
truth, that we evolve and not just revolve. That we, in the end, pursue
paradise.

And so I go to Dundalis, to Elbryan's grave site, in the hope that
there I will find the truth, in the hope that the place where I learned
the truth about living will also teach me the truth about dying.

-JILSEPONIE WYNDON

PART 2

CHAPTER 9

The Enduring Gift of Bestesbulzibar

The day was hot, brutally so, but at least the incessant rains that had
so filled the spring and early summer now seemed to be burned away by the brilliant sunshine. Master Francis, his robes flung as wide as he could get them, would have welcomed rain this day, anything to wash the stickiness from his weary body.
He had made the seventy-or-so-mile journey from St.-Mere-Abelle to St.
Precious in a couple of days, with magical assistance, but the return trip
had been marked by one problem after another. With his escorts, Francis
had stopped in Amvoy on the Masur Delaval to gather supplies; but in that
small sister city of Palmaris, they had encountered too much misery to
ignore, including a group of people wounded in a skirmish with a band of
goblins still running wild in the eastern reaches, as well as a little boy who
had been kicked by a horse. At Francis' insistence, and over the protests of
a couple of the older brothers, the group had spent nearly two weeks in
Amvoy, working with their few hematite soul stones to aid anyone in
need-and it seemed as if the entire town had come to them!

Now, finally, they were on the road again, but not on a direct route
toward St.-Mere-Abelle but rather heading southeast, toward a small
hamlet named Davon Dinnishire-a settlement of hardy people who had
come south from Vanguard. The remnants of a goblin band had been
spotted lurking in the forests near the place, and, though word had gone
out to those soldiers hunting the monsters, Francis had learned that none
were available to go to the support of Davon Dinnishire.

"It is not our affair," one young brother, Julius, argued. "We have been
entrusted with coordinating the College of Abbots at St.-Mere-Abelle, yet
we tarry with the business of the military."
Master Francis fixed Brother Julius with a sympathetic expression, and a
helpless smile. "Once I walked as you now walk," he said to the young
brother, loudly enough for all of those near to him to hear. "Once I walked
with the pride that I-that the Church and thus anyone associated with it-
was somehow above the common man."

Julius seemed perplexed by the statement and completely off his guard.

" It took the death of Father Abbot Markwart, the destruction of the evil
that the man had become-"

"Master Francis!" another of the group interrupted.

Francis smiled again and held up his hand to silence the murmuring of
the astonished brothers.

"To go now straight to St.-Mere-Abelle, though we know Davon Din-
nishire is in dire need, would be an act of sin, plain and without argument,"
Francis stated. "It would be a course that the younger and less wise Francis
Dellacourt, betrayed by the edicts of Father Abbot Markwart, would surely
have followed.

"I am wiser now, my young friend," Francis finished. "I do not speak
with God, but I believe now that I better understand the path our faith
asks us to walk. And that path now is to Davon Dinnishire." Another
of the group started to question that, but Francis cut him short. "I am
the only master in the group," he reminded them. "I have served as
bishop ofPalmaris and as abbot of St. Precious. I walked beside the Father
Abbot for many months. This is not an issue I plan to debate with you,
Brother Julius, or with any of you," he said, glancing around at all the
monks.

There was only a bit of grumbling behind him as he started down the
southeastern road once more.

Master Francis walked with honest convictions and a purposeful stride,
He did wince once, though, when he heard Brother Julius whisper to
another brother that Francis was only delaying because he feared to return
to St.-Mere-Abelle and face stern Master Bou-raiy, who would not be
pleased at all about the events in Palmaris from the fall of Father Abbot
Markwart to the present. There was a grain of truth in that statement,
Francis had to admit.

Soon enough, the monks came to the walled village of Davon Dinnishire,
running the last mile, using a rising plume of black smoke to guide them.
They were somewhat relieved to find that the village had not been com-
pletely destroyed. The villagers were forming bucket lines to try to put out
the flames.

"Who leads here? " Francis demanded of the first woman he could stop,

The old peasant pointed to a young, strong man of about thirty winters,
with reddish brown hair and a full beard, thick arms and a barrel chest, and
intense gray eyes that flashed like embers flaring to life every time he barked
an order at one of the nearby villagers.
Francis hurried over to him. The villager's gray eyes widened when he
recognized the approaching man as an Abellican monk. "I am Master
Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle," he introduced himself. "We will help where
we may."

"A pity ye wasn't here this morn," the man replied. "If ye'd helped our
fight with them goblins, we'd not have so many squirming with pain, and
not so many fires to douse. Laird Dinnishire, I am-Maladance Dinnishire
o' the Davon Dinnishire clan." He held out his hand, and Francis took it
and shook it firmly, but turned back as he did and ordered his monks to get
to work.

"The wounded first," Francis instructed, "then go and help with the
fires."

"Did ye see the goblins?" Maladance Dinnishire asked. "Somewhere
between two and three score run off, by last count."
"And how many came against you? " asked Francis.
"Not many more than that," the laird admitted. "We weren't to run out
after them, and they stayed back, throwing fiery arrows and running up to
launch their spears. We killed a few, and hurt a few more, but they were
just testing our mettle, so to speak."
"They will return," Francis reasoned.

"Likely this same night," Maladance agreed. "Goblins're likin' the dark.
But don't ye worry, Master Francis. If they're tryin' to get over our wall,
they're dyin' tryin'!"

Francis didn't doubt the town's resolve or strength, for he understood
that many of the towns in this region had been badly set upon during the
months of the demon war. Many enemy forces had landed along the gulf
coast, part of an assault force that had set its eyes upon the greatest prize in
all the kingdom: St.-Mere-Abelle. But then the demon dactyl had been
destroyed and the monstrous army had lost its coordination. The attack
upon St.-Mere-Abelle had utterly failed and, since the powrie fleet had
been mostly destroyed and the rest had sailed off, those goblins and
powries already on the land had been left with no escape from the region,
running off in small marauding bands.

So these townsfolk, farmers mostly, had seen some fighting, he knew. But
he knew, too, that even if they fought valiantly, they would suffer further
losses, perhaps heavy losses, against so many goblin warriors.

Francis went to work, helping the wounded and fighting the fires. When
he was done, some three hours later, the sun was beginning its western
descent. He called together those of his brethren he could find, all but a
couple still tending the wounded and the ill. All of the monks were
drenched in sweat and covered in soot, eyes red from smoke and hands
blistered from running with heavy, water-filled buckets.
"Gather your strength, both physical and magical," Master Francis bade
them. "The goblins mean to return this night, but we will go out and find
them where they camp."

That widened some eyes!

"We are eighteen brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle, trained in fighting and in
magic," Francis said.

"We've one offensive gemstone," Brother Julius, who had become some-
what of a spokesman for the rest of the group, interjected, "a single
graphite."

"Enough to blind and confuse our enemies that we might spring upon
them," Francis remarked with a sly grin.

"You are beginning to sound much like Master De'Unnero," Brother
Julius remarked, and his tone showed that he spoke somewhat in jest. But
Francis didn't take the comparison that way at all and scowled fiercely at
the younger man.

"We have a responsibility to these people," he declared, "to all people
who are in need."

As he finished, there came a tumult from down the lane. The brothers
turned and saw a monk crashing out of the door of a peasant hovel, strip-
ping off his robes as he ran full speed for the group. "Master Francis!" he
called repeatedly. By the time he reached the group, he was wearing only
his short cotton underclothing, and to the amazement of the other monks,
he grabbed up one bucket of water and doused himself.

"Brother Cranston!" Francis scolded. "We are all uncomfortable in the
heat-"

"Rosy plague!" Cranston replied desperately. "In that house ... a
woman . . . already dead."

Francis rushed over and grabbed the man, shaking him. "Rosy plague?"
he asked breathlessly. "Are you sure, brother?"

"Red spots with white rings all about her body," Brother Cranston
replied. "Her eyes were sunken and bruised, and she had bled from her
gums and her eyes, I could see. Oh, but she rotted away!"

Brother Julius came up to Francis and dropped a heavy hand on the
master's shoulder. "We must be far from this place at once," he said
gravely. Behind him, Francis heard another mutter, "Better that the goblins
come back and burn the whole town to the ground."

Francis wanted to shout at the brother, to shove Julius and his words far
aside. But he could not dismiss any of the remarks. The rosy plague! The
scourge of Honce-the-Bear. Francis' primary duties at St.-Mere-Abelle for
years had been as a historian, and so he knew, better than any, the truth of
the rosy plague. It had first occurred in God's Year 412, devastating the
southern reaches of the kingdom. One in seven had died, according to the
records. One in seven. And in Yorkey that number had been closer to one
in four.
And yet the plague that had occurred the following century, from 517 to
529, had been even more virulent, devastating the Mantis Arm and
spreading across the Gulf of Corona to Vanguard. Ursal had been particu-
larly hard hit. Afterward the record keepers of the day, Abellican monks
mostly, had put the death toll at one in three-some had even claimed that
half the population of Honce-the-Bear had fallen.

The rosy plague!

How vulnerable Honce-the-Bear would have been then to invasion by
Behren, to the south, except that Behren had not been spared either. Francis,
of course, had no records of the death toll in that southern kingdom, but
many of the accounts he had read had claimed that the Behrenese had suf-
fered even more than the folk of Honce-the-Bear. Now the kingdom was
even more thickly populated than it had been before the 517 plague,
Francis knew. And now, given the war, the kingdom was even less prepared
to handle such a disaster.

So even though Master Francis Dellacourt-the enlightened monk
who had learned the truth of Father Abbot Markwart and of the heroes
he had once considered enemies, had turned his life down a different
road, a road of compassion and of service-wanted to yell against the cal-
lous remarks of his brethren, he could not find the strength to do so. Not in
that terribly shocking moment, not in the face of the threat of the rosy
plague!

But first he had to go and see. He had read the descriptions of the dis-
ease, had seen artists' renderings of the victims. Several times since 529,
there had been reports of the plague, but they had proven either to be minor
outbreaks or simply the mistaken claims of desperate people. He bade his
brethren to stay there, except for a pair he sent in search of the three still-
missing brethren, and then Master Francis gathered up his strength and
strode determinedly toward the hovel at the end of the lane.

He heard weeping and found a pair of children within, looking haggard
and afraid. He brushed past them and through a curtain, and there she lay.

Ring around the rosy,
Gather bowls of posies

Burn the clothes

And dig the holes
And cover us with dirt.

It was the first verse of an old children's song, a poem that had been
penned sometime around God's Year 412, a song of the attempts to ward
off the killer plague by diminishing the rotting stench of its victims with
flowers, a song that told the honest truth for those who contracted the ill-
ness. " 'And cover us with dirt,' " Francis whispered.
"Get out! Get out!" he yelled at the children. "Out and far away from
here. You can do nothing for your mother now. Get out!" He chased the
weeping children out before him into the lane; and several townsfolk, Laird
Dinnishire among them, came over.

"My brethren and I will go out after the goblins," Francis explained to
him. "With luck, they will not return to your town."

"What's wrong in the house?" the concerned laird asked.

Francis looked at the hovel. "Burn it," he instructed.

"What?"

"Burn it to the ground," Francis declared, fixing the man with a deter-
mined stare, "at once."

"Ye can'no-"

"Burn it!" Francis interrupted. "You must trust me, Laird Dinnishire, I
beg of you. No one is to enter."

The laird stared at him incredulously, and those behind Dinnishire shook
their heads and mumbled.

Francis took the laird by the arm and pulled him aside. And then he
explained to the man, plainly and honestly, that the goblins were not the
worst of their troubles this hot summer day.

"Ye canno' be sure," Dinnishire protested.

"I am not," Francis lied, for he did not want to start a panic, and fore-
warning, beyond burning the house, would do the folk ofDavon Dinnishire
little good. "But are we to risk the chance that I am right? The woman is
dead, and her husband and children-"

"Husband's been dead two years now," Laird Dinnishire explained.
"Killed in a powrie fight."

"Then the children must be taken in elsewhere. Burn the house to its
foundation, and then you, and another one or two you can trust, must go
and clear the remains of the house and of the dead woman."

Laird Dinnishire stared at him.

"I beg of you, Laird Dinnishire," Francis said solemnly.

"Ye'll keep them goblins off us? " the man asked.

Francis nodded, then went back and gathered up his brethren; and out
they went, on the hunt for goblins.

As soon as they reached the trees beyond the farms immediately sur-
rounding Davon Dinnishire, Francis set the group into a defensive forma-
tion. Not wanting to diminish his own magical energies any more than he
already had done with his efforts in healing the injured townsfolk, he gave
the finest hematite to Brother Julius and bade the monk to spirit-walk to
search for the goblins.

Julius was dumfounded. He had attempted only one spirit-walk in his
years at St.-Mere-Abelle, and that had not gone well-the monk uninten-
tionally had tried to inhabit the body of another nearby student. "I am not
so good at such a task," he admitted.
Francis nodded, for he understood well the man's trepidation. Mark-
wart, Avelyn, and Jilseponie had all taken gemstone use to a higher level,
where such feats as spirit-walking seemed almost routine. Francis, too, had
learned much in his days beside the Father Abbot, and he had forgotten
how daunting spirit-walking could be. And how dangerous. He took back
the gemstone, then, regretting that he would be using even more of his
magical energies, and set off out of body, rushing through the trees, across
the small river, and over the wide bluffs.

He found the goblin band almost immediately and counted their number
at only thirty. He stayed with them only a few seconds, to get a feel for their
organization and readiness, then headed back, taking a circuitous route,
which confirmed his suspicions that the rest of the group-another score,
perhaps-was spread out among the trees.

"They have done well in choosing and setting up their encampment,"
Francis explained when he returned to his brethren. Before the details of
the terrain were lost from his memory, he bent down and sketched out a
rough map in the dirt. "We'll not get anywhere close to the goblins without
being noticed."

"Let us turn for St.-Mere-Abelle, then," Brother Julius started to say, but
Francis cut him short with an angry glare.

"We need not go to them," Francis went on. "I doubt that they expect
any trouble from the townsfolk-it seems more reasonable that they believe
the people of Davon Dinnishire will await the next attack from behind the
walls of their village. To get back there, the goblins will likely take this
route." He indicated the fairly obvious path on his map. "Let us prepare a
section of that same path for their march."

The monks headed out at once, coming to a stretch of wide-limbed
maples, with a clear and easily traveled path beneath that Francis reasoned
the goblins would take, not expecting any ambush. Francis took a good,
long look at the area. Never had he been much of a tactician, but rather
more of a political animal.

"If I may, Master Francis," said Brother Julius, apparently noting that
the man was at a loss. "We put everyone up in the trees, except you, who
will travel to the far end with the graphite. Those of us carrying cross-
bows will arm the weapons." He glanced around and nodded, for more
than half the monks did carry crossbows. "The rest will sharpen a stick to
use as a spear or take as large a stone as they can carry up into the boughs
with them.

"You come out first, reacting to a predetermined event, such as the lead
goblins passing a specific tree," Brother Julius went on. The other monks
nodded, for they knew Julius had fought with Master De'Unnero, the finest
of tacticians, on several occasions, including during the almost legendary
slaughter of powries at St.-Mere-Abelle's lower dock gates. "We will expect
the flash, and so we will cover our eyes, and then . . ." He paused and
smiled grimly, and it seemed to everyone, even to Francis, that Julius-now
that he wasn't going to get his way concerning the return to St.-Mere-
Abelle-had put his heart into the fight.

A good student of De'Unnero, Francis noted, with just the right attitude.

Soon after, the monks were all in place, settled on their branches, with
Francis farther down the lane, behind a large tree.

The minutes became an hour, became two and then two more. Though
he was growing as impatient as any, Francis was glad of the delay, of the
rest, that he might recover more and more of his magical energies. He
didn't really believe that he would kill many goblins with his lightning bolt,
but the stronger the flash, the more likely a solid and quick victory.

The sun went below the western horizon, and still the forest remained
quiet. Francis understood that the goblins would gain an advantage in the
dark, for the night was their favored time, so he was relieved to see Sheila,
Corona's bright moon, nearly full, rising in the dark sky.

Still they waited-and Francis hoped that the other brothers remained
awake!

And then he nearly jumped out of his boots, for a goblin slipped quietly
past him, moving from tree to tree. Francis resisted the urge to chase the
creature, understanding that this was a lead scout and that any noise from
him would likely ruin their ambush. He took careful note of the goblin's
movements, though, for he expected that he would see that one again all
too soon.

Soon after, there came a rustling down the trail, and Francis saw the dark
forms, trotting easily, crossing the maple grove.

The master took a deep breath, rubbing his hands along the graphite,
finding his heart. He harbored no doubt about the course of his actions; he
merely feared that he would not be strong enough to see his brothers
through this fight, that they would all die out here on the road with so many
important messages, of the future of the Church and of the threat of plague,
yet to deliver.

In any case, it was too late to change his mind or his plans, Francis delib-
erately told himself, and so he crouched and focused on the leading goblins,
waiting until they reached the appointed spot.

Out jumped Francis, falling to one knee and holding forth the graphite,
calling out a single time-the signal for his brothers to shield their eyes-
and letting loose a sizzling blast of white energy, a lightning bolt that
charred three of the first five goblins, dropping the next bunch writhing
to the ground, and stealing the vision of all for the moment-a moment
long enough for the Abellican brothers to fire their crossbows and throw
their stones and spears down upon the confused monsters, then to leap
down to the ground and begin the wild melee-elbows, feet, and fists flying
savagely.
And what a rout it seemed, with goblins falling, scrambling, shrieking,
and ducking! For a moment, Francis thought the day would be won
without damage to his brethren. And indeed, before the first two minutes
of fighting had passed, a score and more of the goblins were down, with
another score running haphazardly into the cover of the forest.

Francis called out rudimentary commands-cheers more than orders-
and he leaped about, graphite in hand, his blood coursing fiercely, his heart
pumping furiously, and in that heightened state of energy, confident that he
could loose another equally powerful blast of lightning.

Maybe he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, or perhaps it
was just a result of his heightened sense of awareness, but he sensed a
movement behind him and spun about, just as the goblin who had earlier
passed this spot thrust its spear at his chest. Francis gave a cry of surprise
and fear and had no time to do anything but dive aside. He felt the spear tip
slash, slip in, and bang against his rib. Had the goblin been carrying a better
weapon, that would have been the sudden end of Master Francis Delia-
court. But the meager spear deflected off the rib and tore a longer but more
superficial line as it came out along the side of Francis' chest, lodging in the
folds of his thick robe instead of into his flesh.

Francis staggered to his feet, aware that the spear was at his side and that
the goblin was no longer holding it. But the vicious little creature was
coming fast in pursuit, yellow teeth bared.

Francis didn't try to extract the spear, but shrugged off his robe, drop-
ping it-the weapon with it-to the ground. He brought his left arm into a
defensive position before him, then drove his right arm to block and push
aside the goblin's first attack. The wretched little creature snarled and
drooled, its tongue hanging out of its mouth; and it hardly reacted to the
sudden movement as Francis snap-kicked it under the chin, driving its jaws
together and nipping off the tip of that pointy little tongue.

The dazed creature staggered backward two steps, and Francis, well
trained in the arts martial at St.-Mere-Abelle, came on to take the advan-
tage, pushing aside the skinny goblin's arms, then snapping off a left jab
into the creature's face, once and then again. The goblin staggered back-
ward, and Francis fell over it, bearing it heavily to the ground beneath him.

The goblin bit hard into his shoulder, but Francis got his hands around
the thing's neck and squeezed with all his strength. It seemed to Francis to
last an hour-an hour of fiery pain from the goblin's bite and of horror as
the thing squirmed pitifully in his unyielding grasp, arms flailing.

And then it lay still, very still; and even in the moonlight, Francis could
see the blackness of death that had come over its face.

Reminding himself that there was still a battle being waged behind him,
that other goblins even then might be running at him with cruel spears,
Francis wrenched himself away and staggered to his feet.
He saw then that his brethren had performed well, that many goblins
were down, and that any of those still near the monks, who had formed into
a tight defensive circle, had no chance of gaining any advantage.

But those goblins who had run off had not gone far, Francis saw to his
horror. At the left flank, a substantial group of goblins was approaching,
spears up and ready to fly.

Francis dove down for his robe, scrambling for the pocket. A moment
later, he lifted his hand and reached into the graphite gemstone, calling
forth its power. The volley of spears flew in-he heard the cries of his
brethren-and the lightning stroke fired off, dropping several more gob-
lins, stunning several others.

On came the Abellican monks, leaping into the goblin ranks, punishing
them in close combat with strength and skills no goblin could match.

Francis moved to join the fighting, but found his legs weak beneath him,
and when he reached down to feel his chest, his hand came back covered in
blood. He was on the ground then, suddenly, alone and vulnerable and
expecting another goblin to come up and skewer him.

But then he heard Brother Julius call out his name; and a horde of monks
gathered about him, defending him.

Francis reached up and gave Julius the graphite. "Crossbows," he man-
aged to gasp.

The remaining goblins regrouped and came back at the defending
monks, but their barrage of spears was met by another blast of lightning
and by a volley of more deadly crossbow quarrels. Those surviving goblins
ran, scattered, into the forest night.

"How many?" Francis demanded of Julius shordy after.

"Rest, master," Julius replied. "You will be tended by bandage and by
gemstone, and will feel stronger in the morning."

"How many?" came the determined question a second time.

"We have downed nearly two score," Julius answered. "They will all be
killed, and those remaining have fled without organization and should pose
no further threat to Davon Dinnishire."

Francis grabbed Julius by the front of his robe and pulled himself up, so
that their faces nearly touched. "How many?" Francis growled.

"Six," Brother Julius replied gravely. "Six are dead, master, and several
wounded. We must begin the healing at once."

Francis held the grip for a moment longer, then sank back to the ground.
Six brothers killed in a battle that he could have avoided. Master Francis
felt breathless, and it had nothing to do with the wound in his side.

He spent a long while-perhaps an hour, perhaps two-lying there, in
and out of consciousness, as the other brothers tended his wound with ban-
dages and soul stones. When finally he awoke fully, he learned that another
brother had died.
More than a third of his force.
Francis took little comfort in the fact that the number of goblin dead was
much more substantial, being consoled only because he knew that he
and his brethren had saved Davon Dinnishire from any further attacks-
had, for the most part, put an end to this rogue band's troublemaking.
He made his slow way about the impromptu encampment, checking on the
wounded. Though no anger seemed to be directed specifically his way, he
was perceptive enough to understand that more than a few brothers were
questioning his wisdom in pursuing this goblin band-queries that, Francis
suspected, would be repeated, more forcefully, once he and his companions
reached St.-Mere-Abelle.

"Prepare for the road, and we take the dead with us," Francis instructed
Brother Julius.

"Straight to St.-Mere-Abelle this time? " Julius asked, a hint of sarcasm in
his tone.

Francis glared at him and nodded. "Have you searched the goblins?"

Julius looked at him incredulously. "You expect that they carry trea-
sure?" he asked with a snort. "Their boots were falling off their feet, so
worn and decrepit were they."

"I want to know why they were still here," Francis clarified.

"Because they found no escape from the kingdom," Brother Julius
replied, rather loudly and sharply. "They, like all the bands still roving this
region, were trapped here when the powrie fleet that initially brought them
to these shores east of Palmaris was crushed at St.-Mere-Abelle. Where
were they to run? "

Francis stared hard at the man. He wasn't sure if Julius was openly
second-guessing his decision to fight the monsters, or if the man was simply
reeling from the losses. It didn't matter, Francis decided. Though his ene-
mies within the Church might use this incident against him politically once
he returned to St.-Mere-Abelle, he knew in his heart he had done right.
As Master Jojonah had taken the all-important Barbacan caravan off its
course to attack an even more substantial group of monsters for the sake
of an Alpinadoran town, so Francis was bound to try to protect Davon
Dinnishire.

"Prepare them all for the road," Francis said evenly, not blinking and not
backing down an inch. "To St.-Mere-Abelle."

Julius matched the master's stare for a long moment, but then nodded
and began calling the camp to order.

Francis, meanwhile, gathered up a burning branch from the small fire the
brothers had built, and headed for the pile of goblin bodies. What was he
expecting to find? he asked himself repeatedly. Treasure or information that
would help him to justify his actions in pursuing this band? Some reward
great enough to justify seven dead Abellican brothers?

With anger wrought of guilt, Master Francis pushed among the lice-
ridden corpses, kicking them aside. He found a few coins-a pair of
gol'bears and some smaller coins-but nothing, as Julius had predicted,
that seemed worth the effort of searching the creatures, let alone battling
them in the first place. With a helpless sigh, Francis confirmed that the
boots of those goblins who were wearing any were ragged things, likely
stolen from humans but now worn to shabby pieces. He kicked at one boot,
and it fell away, and Francis started to turn back toward his brothers.

But then he noticed something on the goblin's now-exposed foot, and
though the coloration was surely wrong-a yellowish blotch inside a cir-
cular scar-he recognized the pattern clearly.

Francis bent down low, bringing his torch in for a closer look.

"By God's good graces," he whispered, for he had just seen this same
pattern, the pattern of the rosy plague, on the woman in the village. Only
on this goblin, the scars seemed healed, as if the creature had overcome the
disease. Francis checked the rest of the goblin's body-finding more such
scars-then he searched others. To his astonishment, nearly half of the
creatures showed remnants of what looked to him like the rosy plague. He
would have to research this more closely when he returned to St.-Mere-
Abelle, he told himself, to learn if these strange scars were similar to the
marks the disease had left on the few human survivors of the plague.

But Francis already had his answer, he believed, and as he followed his
assumption along a logical path, he came to understand that the demon
dactyl might now be waging another war upon the humans of Honce-the-
Bear, a more subtle and more deadly war. Had the demon's minions
brought with them the plague?

Francis paused and took a deep and steadying breath, considering his
next move carefully. Should he bring one of the infected goblins back to
St.-Mere-Abelle? No, he decided almost immediately, fearing the conse-
quences to his precious home if the creature was still spreading the plague.
That same thought led him to an even more disturbing possibility: had he
and the other brothers contracted the plague by battling the goblins?

"We can check, with hematite," Francis muttered, needing to hear the
reassuring words aloud. "We . . . no, the more powerful masters will search
for signs when we return."

"What is it, Master Francis?" he heard Brother Julius ask from not so
far away.

Francis turned and faced the man squarely, but decided that sharing his
disturbing fears at that moment might not be so wise a thing to do. "It is
time, past time, for us to return to St.-Mere-Abelle," he answered.

The younger brother nodded and turned away. "We are ready for the
road," he announced.

"Brother Julius," Francis called, and the monk turned back to look at
him. "Your plan was an excellent one. Without it, the goblins would have
overwhelmed us, or, had we left them, would have overwhelmed Davon
Dinnishire. The blood of our dead brethren is not on your hands. I thought
you should know that."

"I do, Master Francis," Julius replied in a more accusatory tone. "I do."
The monk turned and walked away, and for a moment, Francis enter-
tained the thought of scolding him publicly for such impertinence. Just for
a moment, though. Francis glanced back at the pile of diseased goblins and
understood that he had more important issues to attend.

Chapter 10

Denial of Privilege
Abbot Je'howith fell deeper, deeper into the gemstone, fell into the
swirl of its magic and down, down, into its depths. There his spirit.
found release from the confines of his aged body. To the old abbot, this was the epitome of grace, the closest state one might attain to God while still physically maintaining one's mortal coil. Now he was free of earthly bonds, spirit-walking without physical ailments and limitations,without boundaries.

He saw the woman reclining patiently before him, her hand clutching
a sunstone brooch, as he had instructed. Constance Pemblebury was no
master of gemstone magic, surely, but with this particular item, she did not
have to be. If she felt the battle of wills begin between her and Je'howith, she
was to pinch her skin with the enchanted brooch's pin, nothing more, and
the antimagic wave would wash the old abbot's intruding spirit out of her,

Je'howith moved closer, fighting the urge to go into her being, to take
over her body. That was the danger of spirit-walking-the instinctual desire
of the spirit to find a corporeal body, even at the expense of another's spirit.

Je'howith was right beside her now. He reached out his insubstantial
hand toward her naked belly-and how he wished he were still of the flesh
that he might feel Constance's smooth and delicate skin.

The old abbot washed that impure thought from his mind and focused
on the task at hand. He moved even closer, right up to the woman, right
into the woman. Now it took all his willpower not to try to possess her
immediately. He pushed ahead, searching, searching.

And then he felt it, undeniably: another life, another soul stirring within
the woman's womb. Je'howith could no longer resist-his spirit went for
the child, joining with the child. It would be so easy to expel this tiny, unde-
veloped, and unknowing soul! To take the corporeal form! To begin life
anew, from the womb, but with the understanding of a previous lifetime's
experience!

And then, suddenly, the old abbot was thrown out, expelled so fully that
before he even comprehended the change, he was back in his own body,
corporeal again, staring, blinking in disbelief as Constance sat up.

"What did you do? " she demanded sharply.

"I-I did as you asked me," Je'howith stammered in reply, and he closed
his eyes and shook his head, trying to orient himself.

"You went further," Constance accused, but even as she spoke the
words, her expression became perplexed. "You tried ..." she started
to say, but she paused and looked up at Je'howith, and a wry smile came
over her.

"Yes, dear Constance," the abbot confirmed. "Your alluring wiles have
worked their magic. You carry King Danube's child."

Constance clapped her hands together, then brought them up to cover
her mouth, gasping with joy. "It is true," she dared to say.

"Why are you so surprised?" Je'howith asked sarcastically. "Is this not
what you wanted? Was this not your purpose ever since you saw your
beloved Danube's eye wander the way ofJilseponie Wyndon? "

Constance's expression changed to sternness. "And do you disapprove? "
she asked, an accusation as much as a question. "For if you did, then why
did you not warn King Danube of my intent? "

Je'howith merely chuckled.

"I fear Jilseponie, but you despise her," Constance went on. "I bear her
no ill will, yet you would pay the headsman handsomely to take her pretty
head from her shoulders."

Je'howith bowed to her, an admission that her reasoning was sound. "I
fear her more than you ever could," he explained. "You fear that she will
threaten your little place at Danube's side. I fear that she will topple the
world of the Abellican Church."

"And what better way to keep her out of the Church than to involve her
in the affairs of the Crown? " reasoned Constance, again in that accusatory
tone. "Perhaps Je'howith whispers ofJilseponie in King Danube's ear."

The monk laughed. "Because I would be better off by far if Jilseponie
came to Ursal as queen of Honce-the-Bear? " he asked incredulously. " No,
my dear Constance, never would I desire that. I am glad that the woman
has gone north, far out of the way, and is not meddling in the affairs of
either Church or Crown."

"And what of Constance, then, and her condition?" she asked.

Again the old abbot chuckled, belittling the whole thing. "This will not
be Danube's first child. Nor, I doubt, will it be his last."
"It?" Constance echoed. "Boy or girl?"
"Most mothers do not wish to be told."

Constance fixed the old man with a devastating glower.
"Boy," Je'howith answered, and Constance clenched her fist with
absolute glee. "You assume much if you think this will greatly alter your
standing," Je'howith said.
"You know nothing of my relationship with King Danube," Constance
replied. "You, not I, assume much."

Je'howith draped his arm about the woman, fixing her with a disarming
smile. "Listen to us," he bade her. "We sound as if we are against each
other in this matter, when, truthfully, we both share similar goals. The
health of King Danube and his kingdom is to our mutual liking, is it not?"

"And how does my situation affect that health, in Abbot Je'howith's
thinking? " Constance asked bluntly.

The old man's smile seemed genuine. "Why, Milady Pemblebury, it
would not pain me to call you my queen."

Constance returned the smile and nodded, then dressed and took her
leave.

Abbot Je'howith, whose world had just been turned upside down in Pal-
maris, whose position in his beloved Church had been severely strained by
his association with the man who lost the battle for the Church, watched
her every step. Was she carrying the future King of Honce-the-Bear? Or-
even more relevant to old Je'howith, who would not likely outlive young
King Danube, would this situation elevate Constance to her coveted posi-
tion as queen?

"So be it," the old abbot said aloud, and he nodded, unconcerned. He
had never truly been at odds with Constance-often he had considered her
as Danube's most reasonable secular adviser. He didn't think it likely that
Danube would take her as his wife anyway-if he meant to do that, he
would have done so long ago.

But still, despite all of his logical arguments telling him that this situation
was neither unexpected nor damaging, it nagged at Je'howith until he
finally discerned his source of distress.

Again he nodded, his understanding of his own fears coming clearer.
Might this situation push King Danube to other action? To the active pur-
suit ofJilseponie, perhaps, that he might sire a more acceptable heir?

Constance had gotten her wish, the culmination of her pursuit and
treachery, but old and wise Je'howith wasn't sure that the woman fully
understood the consequences.

A boy, a son for King Danube Brock Ursal! The news should not have
surprised Constance, who had been working so long to just that end; and
yet, from the moment Je'howith had told her about the child, all the world
had seemed to slip out of focus.

She went immediately to her room, to her bed, and reclined there, deep
in thought and steeped in joy. She would mother the future King of Honce-
the-Bear! This child within her would rise through the ranks of nobility to
the very highest level, would bring the name of Pemblebury the stature it
had once known, many generations before.

Once, before the unification of the kingdom under King Danube's great-
great-great-great-grandfather, the Pembleburys had been the lords of Wester-
Honce, an independent fiefdom. When King Bendragon Coelyn Ursal had
unified the kingdom, subjugating Wester-Honce, the Pembleburys had
remained an important family; but over the generations that stature, along
with the population and importance of Wester-Honce itself, had gradually
diminished, to the point where Constance's grandmother had chosen to
become a courtesan in order to retain any ties at all to the Throne. Con-
stance's mother, a bastard child of a duke, a distant relation to the family of
Targon Bree Kalas, had followed suit, and had taught Constance in the
family's new profession.

Constance's child would be the first male in the family for three genera-
tions and, given its pedigree, held the promise of restoring all that the
Pembleburys once were, and more.

Along with the hopes Constance fostered that morning were more than a
few doubts. She understood, even more clearly now that her efforts had
worked, that she had forced upon King Danube a delicate and potentially
devastating situation. She had played her hand, had taken a great risk, in
the hopes that King would remain loyal to her.

Constance took a deep and steadying breath, considering again the
potential consequences, the risk that she would be forced from the city,
into the circles of lesser nobles, as had both women who had previously
become pregnant with Danube's children. A moment of sheer terror
gripped her, the sudden certainty that her actions to secure a greater role
had thus doomed her to a minor position in a minor court.

It was a passing fear, though, for Constance reminded herself of how
badly she had wanted a child. Her childbearing days were nearing their
end, but Danube showed little movement toward formalizing their relation-
ship, and so she had been given little choice.

Of course, she could have sought out a different sire, a less complicated
union with a lesser noble-many of whom would have been thrilled to take
her as wife. But Constance didn't want just any man's child, and had no
intention of settling for another whom she did not love. No, she loved
Danube, and had loved him since before his wedding to Queen Vivian two
decades earlier. He was her friend and her lover, the only man who had
ever seemed to genuinely understand her. And now he was the father of her
child, and to Constance, nothing in all the world could have been more
appropriate.

And so, as she settled in for a long morning's rest, her joy overcame her
fears, and she became at ease with the reality of her situation, very pleased
that her child, Danube's child, was growing within her.

"Kalas continues to hold the Abellican Church in check in Palmaris
and all the northern reaches," King Danube said happily to Je'howith when
the old abbot came upon him, later that same day, reclining in his study,
sipping fine brandy, and surrounded by the most extensive library in all the
world, greater even than the collection of tomes hoarded at St.-Mere-Abelle.

Danube's smile was genuine; he was in fine spirits, and not because of
the drink. He was happy to be home again, in the bright summer, and with
his kingdom finally settling back into its previous state of calm. He was
happy that he could again go riding in the fields around Castle Ursal, that
he could enjoy the balls and parties with the many nobles and courtesans.
It seemed that the pall of the demon dactyl was finally lifting from his
kingdom, and that the upstart brothers of the Abellican Church, often his
most bitter rivals, would soon again be huddled within their dark walls.

"I do miss Duke Kalas," the King admitted, and he laughed again when
Je'howith, who had never been a friend to the fiery and ultimately secular
Duke, frowned deeply. "Perhaps I will be able to invite him home soon
enough."

"Do not underestimate Abbot Braumin Herde and his intentions,"
Je'howith warned.

"Word from Kalas says that Jilseponie has left for the northland," the
King replied. "Without her, our friend Braumin will prove much less for-
midable. And as the darkness recedes, so too will the influence of the
Church. The people of Palmaris remember well the oppression of Bishop
De'Unnero, I assure you, and his reign of terror suited Duke Kalas well."

"Because Duke Kalas was ever such a gentle man," Je'howith said with
obvious sarcasm.

King Danube only laughed again. "It is a fine day, my friend, with the
promise of many better days yet to come," he said, hoisting his glass in
toast.

Abbot Je'howith assumed a pensive posture; and Danube lowered his
glass, looking hard at the old monk, finally catching on that the man's
arrival was more than a casual visit.

"I met with Constance this morning," Je'howith remarked.

"And ..." Danube prompted. "If there is trouble in my court, then
speak it plainly."

"She is with child," Je'howith informed him. "Your child. A son, I
believe, who will be born next midwinter, unless there are complications."

Danube swallowed hard. "Impossible ..." he started to say. "Constance
is well versed in methods of preventing ..." He paused there and consid-
ered the information, wondering immediately if the conception was acci-
dental or deliberate. Constance had long been his trusted friend and his
off-and-on lover for decades-and once she had questioned him directly
about his intentions toward her, if he had any beyond their liaisons. ... But
to think that she had purposely tricked him . . .

"These things do happen, my King," Abbot Je'howith said. "You have
sired two before-have you forgotten? Many of the courtesans find them-
selves with child, I assure you, though they do not carry through with the
pregnancy."

"Children of mine?" Danube asked, his eyes widening in an accurate
reflection of his shock.

Abbot Je'howith began patting his hands in the air to calm the man. "It
happens," he said quietly. "They consider their condition and their future.
Their places at court, after all, are ones reserved for the most beautiful and
the most talented . . . and the ones least burdened. Many courtesans under-
stand well the complications that a child will bring to their lives, a situation
that might send them back to a life of poverty and without position."

King Danube settled back in a chair that seemed suddenly not so com-
fortable to him, and took a hearty swallow of his potent liquor. He didn't
like being told of the seedier side of his life, but neither could he deny the
truth of Je'howith's observations. When he compared that truth to Con-
stance's present situation, though, he took some comfort. "Constance will
not do that," he remarked.

"No, she will not," Je'howith agreed. "I doubt that she views carrying
the child of King Danube Brock Ursal as a burden or a cause for tears,
unless they be tears of joy."

His tone as he finished made it clear to Danube that the old man fully
believed that Constance had become pregnant on purpose; but strangely, to
Danube, even that possibility did not invoke his wrath. How many years
had Constance Pemblebury stood steadfastly beside him? How many times
had she been there to comfort him in days of distress, to reassure him on
those few occasions when he was faced with momentous decisions: the par-
doning of a condemned criminal or the portioning of rations among com-
munities where starvation seemed inevitable?

"Perhaps she has earned this child," Danube muttered, speaking more to
himself than to Je'howith.

"And what, exactly, is this child? " Je'howith asked bluntly, drawing him
from his private contemplations. The king looked up at the old man. "You
have sired two before, and have done well by the mothers, awarding them
comfortable positions and even minor titles for your children," the abbot
reminded him. "Yet at the same time, you invoked Refusal of Acceptance,
separating them forever from the ruling line, denying them for all time any
claims to the throne of Honce-the-Bear. Will you follow the same course
with the child of Constance Pemblebury? "

Danube started to reply Of course, but the words got stuck in his throat
as he considered the reality of the situation, of this woman. He gave no
answer, then, but merely blew a deep and contemplative sigh.

"Do you love her? " Je'howith asked.

Danube shook his head, but at the same time, he answered, "I do not
know."
"Do you love the woman Jilseponie? " the surprising abbot went on, and
how that question widened King Danube's eyes!

"How could you ask such a question? " he responded loudly, but again,
Je'howith was patting his hands in the air, motioning for a calm discourse.

"I saw the look in your eyes when you gazed upon her," the abbot
replied. "She is beautiful beyond question, a sight to stir the loins of any
man, and by deed alone she has made herself fit for the throne-indeed, I
would reason that there is no woman in all the world more suited to sit by
your side than Jilseponie Wyndon."

Again, Danube found no rebuttal against the sound reasoning. He car-
ried it one step further, though, and reminded himself that perhaps the
second woman most fit to be queen would be none other than the woman
now carrying his child. The confusion inspired by that realization showed
clearly on his face.

"I have delivered stunning news to you, my King," Je'howith said with a
bow. "There is no need to make any decisions at this time."

"Soon enough," Danube replied. "The seasons will pass quickly, and
Constance's condition will be known before summer's end. Many will
whisper and ask questions."

"You need not marry her, obviously."

" But I will need to make a decree concerning her status and that of the
child," Danube reasoned. "To invoke Refusal of Acceptance would wound
Constance profoundly, something I do not wish to do."

"But something, perhaps, that she has brought upon herself," Je'howith
reminded him.

Danube's stern expression showed that he wasn't ready to accept that
notion, that he understood that whatever Constance's actions to prevent or
allow conception had been, he, too, had played more than a minor role.

"There is also the matter of your brother," said Je'howith, quickly
changing the subject.

"And if I do nothing? " Danube asked, for he recognized that Je'howith,
as abbot of St. Honce, was among the most knowledgeable men in the
kingdom of the affairs of court. " If I simply let events take their place-let
the child be born and do not invoke the Refusal, nor openly claim the
child-then will the boy become heir to the throne above Midalis? "

Je'howith hesitated a moment, then nodded. "If you die before Midalis
and it is commonly accepted that this child is yours, and by a woman who
remains at your side, then the child will indeed have some claim to the throne.
It will be no easy ascent, I expect, but rather, one strongly contested by writ
and, perhaps, by sword. Wars have begun for lesser reasons, my King."

"Then I need to choose, and soon," Danube replied. "Do I wound Con-
stance or enrage Midalis? For either way, it seems as if I am about to bring
pain to a friend."
"There remains a third option," saidJe'howith.

"I would never ask her to be rid of the baby," Danube insisted.

"No, not that," saidJe'howith. "Never that!"

Danube tilted his head, studying the man, convinced that if, as the abbot
had remarked, other women had been rid of their unwanted children, then
hypocritical old Je'howith, or some other gemstone-wielding monk, had
likely played a role in the process.

"You can use a delaying tactic," the abbot went on, "a way for you to let
the situation go on and let the passage of time guide you to more decisive
and definitive action. This is not without precedent-you can issue a decree
of Denial of Privilege, a technical term and legal maneuver that will not
deny the child's claim to the throne forever, as you have done with your
other bastard heirs, but will, rather, maintain the present status, keeping
Constance's child outside the line of succession and keeping your option-
or that of Midalis should he succeed you and die childless-for recognizing
the child as rightful heir at a future date."

"Denial of Privilege?" Danube echoed.

"A temporary measure that has been used in centuries past," Je'howith
answered. "And it is possible for you to even include contingencies that will
lift the injunction against the child's becoming king. Let us suppose that
you outlive your brother, then die unexpectedly."

"A truly inspiring supposition," Danube said dryly.

"In that case, had you so specified, Constance's child would assume the
throne," Je'howith explained.

"And if I decree a Denial of Privilege and Midalis outlives me? "

"Then the child will have no claim to the throne above your brother,
and it would be up to him to either assign rights to the child in the event
of his childless demise or deny them outright with a formal Refusal of
Acceptance."

King Danube settled back again and put his hand to his chin, trying to
digest all of these options.

"How much easier it all would be if you, and your brother, had both
married and sired proper heirs," the abbot lamented.

Danube glanced up at him, eyes narrow, a poignant reminder to the old
abbot that he had indeed been married to Queen Vivian, who had died
despite Je'howith's efforts to save her. And those efforts-or at least, the
lack of their effectiveness-had in effect split the court of Ursal for many
years and were the source of the lingering hatred between Je'howith and
Duke Kalas.

Je'howith prompdy bowed and turned to leave.

And King Danube Brock Ursal, who had been happily celebrating what
he thought would be a return to normalcy, found himself full of questions
and turmoil. The delaying tactic sounded most promising, both for sparing
Constance the pain and for placating Midalis, who had never really been
close to his brother, the King, but had never been his rival either.

Yes, the Denial of Privilege seemed a promising course; and, in truth,
when he looked at things that way, this all didn't seem like such a momen-
tous problem.

However, there was one other complicating factor, an image of another
woman, a warrior, a gemstone witch. It was an image King Danube could
not shake out of his head.

CHAPTER 11

Resting Side by Side

He had a feeling, as he flitted from tree to tree, of true warmth and
friendship, a feeling not unlike that he experienced whenever he
returned home to Andur'Blough Inninness after one of his
forays into the realm of the humans. For Juraviel, the Timberiands region
around Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o'-the-World-the former
haunt of Nightbird, the home of both the ranger and Jilseponie-had the
same smell and feel as the elven valley. How curious that notion struck the
elf now as he moved along the forested hills and valleys, how surprising.
Juraviel was Touel'alfar, of the people. That fact was the primary truth in
his long life, the binding code of responsibility and of a specific and shared
understanding of all the world and its varied inhabitants. In Juraviel's
thoughts, in the thoughts of every Touel'alfar, even the least of friends
among his own people-the other elf with whom he could not agree on
anything, the elf he found most unpleasant-ranked far above the best of
friends he might make among n'Touel'alfar, the folk not of the people.
Juraviel did not question that tenet of his existence-never before and not
now-but his feeling warmth as he neared the small human settlement of
Dundalis, his feeling almost as if he were going home surprised him.

Perhaps, had he looked more deeply into himself, Belli'mar Juraviel
would have noted then that his lines of ingrained reasoning were not in
accord with the feelings within his heart.

The elf paused in his travels late one afternoon, finding a high branch of
a wide maple where he could settle for a short rest. Soon he was comfort-
ably asleep.

And then, soon after, he awoke to a haunting melody drifting on the eve-
ning breeze, echoing through the forest as if every tree were taking it inside
in a deep and lingering breath and then blowing it out again for the rest of
the forest to share, but altered, only slightly, by the heart of its last host tree.
"The Forest Ghost," Juraviel whispered, and he smiled as he heard the
name aloud, the name the humans of Elbryan's first home had bestowed
upon the centaur, Brad-warden, and his bagpipes. How many times had
young Elbryan and Jilseponie heard that tune? Juraviel wondered. How
many times had it been just below their level of consciousness as they
drifted off to sleep in their little beds?

And though even Bradwarden was considered n'Touel'alfar by his some-
what xenophobic people, Juraviel could not deny the comfort he derived
from hearing the centaur's song, akin to the comfort he felt from just being
in this region once more.

He followed the song slowly and whimsically, pausing to listen or to
dance, whenever he found a clearing in the forest canopy that afforded him
a beautiful view of the starlit heavens. He knew that the night was young
and that Bradwarden often played until very, very late, so he meandered
and he wandered. And finally he saw them, the centaur standing atop
a bare-topped hillock, his pipes under one arm. Bradwarden was not as
wide as other horses Juraviel had seen-certainly not as massive as mighty
Symphony-but it seemed to the elf as if his centaur friend were ten feet
tall, a gigantic and powerful creature. That such an obvious warrior could
play such beautiful melodies struck Juraviel profoundly, the light and dark
of Bradwarden's soul, at once ferocious and tender.

Reclining on the grass beside the centaur lay Roger Lockless. It occurred
to Juraviel then that the young man, with his slightly angular features and
delicate size-the result of a disease that had taken both his parents-
seemed as much akin to the elves as to the humans. Not in temperament,
though, Juraviel reminded himself. Roger had learned much in the trials of
the last couple of years, had grown tremendously from the self-centered
boy Juraviel and Nightbird had helped escape from the clutches of a vicious
powrie band that had been occupying Caer Tinella. But as far as Juraviel
and all the elves were concerned, he still had far, far to go even to approach
the level of understanding and reasoning of Jilseponie. And from there,
Roger would have far to go to begin to see the truth of the world as Brad-
warden or Nightbird could see it; and even those two, despite everything,
could never climb beyond the limitations of their kind, could never be any-
thing but n'Touel'alfar.

Juraviel did like Roger, though, had tolerated him even when he was
younger and more foolish, and had worked with him well during the last
days of the war against Markwart.

"I cannot wait to see her again," he heard Roger say; and he knew from
the expression on the man's face that Roger was surely talking about Jilse-
ponie. Was it possible, then, that the woman hadn't even yet come north,
and that Roger, perhaps, still possessed the gemstones?

Bradwarden paused. "Ah, but she's takin' her time about it," he said.
"It's not but a week o' ridin' for one lookin' to get here from Palmaris."

"She's got friends in Caer Tinella," Roger reminded him.
"And she's got good weather and a road clear o' monsters," the centaur
added. "Aye, that's it. Our Pony's not used to walkin' a road clear o' mon-
sters. Got her all confused."

They shared a lighthearted laugh, and not out of any nervousness, tor
neither seemed the least bit afraid for the well-being of their dear, and ulti-
mately capable, friend.

Juraviel moved stealthily up the hill, a whisper of wind, a roaming
shadow. "Perhaps Jilseponie left the road in search of sport," he said. Both
his friends jumped in surprise, Bradwarden tossing down his pipes and
grabbing up an axe that likely outweighed Juraviel, Roger turning several
evasive rolls to the side.

They both settled quickly, and Bradwarden roared out a great cheer,
obviously recognizing the elf's voice, even as Roger cautiously called out,
"Juraviel?"

The elf stepped out into the clear. "Too long has it been since I have
heard the piping of the Forest Ghost," he said. Bradwarden tossed his axe
back over his shoulder and skipped down to hoist Juraviel in a great hug.

"And too long since I have heard the complaints of Roger Lockless!"
Juraviel added in jest as Bradwarden put him down so that Roger could
embrace him.

"And too long since we've seen yerself, elf," the centaur replied. "But I
thought ye was for yer home."

"And so I have been in the valley for all these months," Juraviel replied,
"and would be still, had not Lady Dasslerond bidden me to return here
for-" He paused and waved his hands. "Ah, but that is business that we
two, Bradwarden, must discuss later. Nothing so serious that it cannot wait
until old friends have had time to share news."

Both Bradwarden and Roger seemed concerned for a moment, until
Juraviel's smile melted away any anxieties. "Not much for tellin'," the cen-
taur began. "All three towns are up and full o' folk again."

"Goblins in the area?" Juraviel asked.

"No sign of goblins, powries, or giants," Roger was quick to reply. "We
have kept vigilant scouting parties all about the region, and all has been
quiet and peaceful."

"We're thinkin' that there's more than a few o' the beasts farther to the
north," Bradwarden added. "But we're thinkin', too, that none o' them got
the belly for comin' south again."

Juraviel nodded, for it seemed logical enough. These two and Elbryan,
along with a contingent of Kingsmen and some renegade monks, had gone
all the way back to the Barbacan, after all, hundreds of miles through the
Wilderlands, with hardly a sign of the monsters. And Juraviel's own trail
had led him in from the Wilderlands to the west, again with no sign of any
monsters, except of course in the Moorlands, which had always been thick
with goblins. Those goblins, until the coming of the dactyl, had never been
a threat to anybody except for those foolish enough to wander into their
territory.

Yes, the land was settling again, at long last, into peace, and that fact only
made Bradwarden's song all the sweeter.

"And if they do come south," Roger put in at length, "then I'll find them
and steal all their weapons, and won't they be easy to chase off then!"

"Unless they have Craggoth hounds," Juraviel said to the boastful man
somewhat sternly; and the mention of the powerful powrie hunting dogs
reminded Roger of a not-so-pleasant experience.

Bradwarden howled with laughter and Roger's lips got very tight, but
Juraviel held the man's gaze with equal intensity; his expression alone
poignantly asked Roger who it was that he was trying to impress.

"Well, enough o' the boastin'," Bradwarden said, and he lifted his pipes
back to his lips, but paused and nodded to Juraviel. "Ye goin' to tell us
what's bringin' ye back here, elf? Or are ye waitin' for us to beg ye? "

"I have become the mentor to another ranger," Juraviel admitted.

"You are bringing another ranger here?" Roger quickly put in, his tone
making it seem as if he was not too thrilled about that prospect.

"She is just a child," he explained, "and her path, I assure you, will bring
her nowhere near Dundalis."

Roger nodded grimly, but his look turned perplexed. "She?"

"Why are you so surprised? " Juraviel replied. "Do you not believe that a
woman can be a ranger? "

"Ho, ho, what!" Bradwarden howled, doing his best Avelyn Desbris imi-
tation. "But wouldn't Pony be kickin' yer skinny backside if she ever heard
ye talkm' like that!"

Roger shrugged, conceding the point.

"Indeed, Jilseponie would have been a fine candidate for our training,"
Juraviel agreed. "Had we known her potential when she walked down
the road from the ruined Dundalis, we might have changed her life's path
considerably."

This whole topic seemed like a minor point, and nothing to debate, but
Juraviel noted that Roger didn't appear very pleased by it all. The elf under-
stood Roger Lockless, particularly the man's minor failings, well enough to
recognize the source of that look. "You, too, Roger Lockless, might have
found yourself in Caer'alfar, had your situation merited it."

"I could still go and learn," the young man insisted.

"You are at least five years too old," Juraviel explained. "Lady Dassle-
rond would have no part of bringing an adult human into our land for such
training."

"Then you teach me," Roger said, only half kiddingly, "while you are
here, I mean."
"The training takes years."

"Then just teach me select parts of it," Roger went on. "Teach me that
sword dance that Elbryan and Pony ..." His voice trailed off, his mouth
hanging open at the sight ofJuraviel, whose lips were thin, and his expres-
sion stern, seemingly bordering on the verge of an explosion.
"I'm thinkin' he's sayin' no," Bradwarden remarked dryly.
Roger looked to Bradwarden for support and smiled sheepishly.
"So are ye goin' to tell us, elf?" the centaur prompted. "Ye got yerself a
new ranger-to-be, but that's not a reason for ye to come all the way out here
to tell me about it."

"She is a rider," Juraviel said, his glare still locked upon Roger, "and I
must secure a mount for her." He understood that the young man hadn't
intentionally said anything wrong, but the mere mention of bi'nelle dasada,
the secret elven fighting technique, opened a wound. It was Elbryan's teach-
ing of the secret dance to Jilseponie that had so angered Lady Dasslerond,
and, Juraviel believed, that was why Lady Dasslerond felt justified in keep-
ing their child and raising it as a son of the Touel'alfar. Lady Dasslerond's
anger, Juraviel believed, was the primary reason guiding her handling of the
boy, her keeping Juraviel away from him, her keeping Jilseponie ignorant of
his existence. Even more than that, Lady Dasslerond held Juraviel ulti-
mately at fault for Elbryan's teaching Jilseponie the sword dance. Whatever
feelings he might have for Elbryan or for Jilseponie, Juraviel couldn't deny
the truth of Elbryan's betrayal. The ranger had given something away that
was not his to give, and in doing so, he had, to Lady Dasslerond's way of
thinking, threatened the very existence of the Touel'alfar.

"We've more than a few fine ponies runnin' about," Bradwarden started
to answer, but then a wry grin crossed his face. "Ye're not thinkin' ..." he
guessed.

"A proper mount for a ranger," Juraviel said determinedly.
Roger looked from one to the other, as if trying to decipher their
meaning, but then his eyes widened and he stared at Juraviel. "Symphony? "
he asked. "You mean to take Symphony away? But-"

"Easy, lad," Bradwarden intervened. "I'm thinkin' that none're takin'
Symphony unless Symphony's wantin' to go."

"True enough," Juraviel agreed, "and I am sure that if Symphony is not
agreeable, Bradwarden will help me to find another fitting mount."
"Good rider, this one? " the centaur asked.
"To-gai-ru," Juraviel answered.
Bradwarden whistled in admiration.

"Like the pinto horses?" Roger asked. "The ones the AUheart knights
ride?"

"To-gai," Bradwarden confirmed. "And they're ponies, not horses,
though they're big ones at that, eight hundred pounds o' muscle and on the
146               R. A. SALVATORE

top side o' fourteen hands. If ye're lookin' to get one of those for yer young
ranger, then ye're lookin' in the wrong place."

Juraviel nodded and then decided to let the matter drop; he and Brad-
warden could take care of the horse business later on. "Play your pipes,
Forest Ghost," he said with a smile. "I have heard enough of the events;

now I wish to hear what is in Bradwarden's heart."

The centaur smiled and began his melody once again, while Juraviel
reclined on the grass beside Roger. The young man was soon fast asleep,
but Juraviel stayed up long into the night, staring at the stars and drinking
in Bradwarden's song.

"You were telling Bradwarden that you expect Jilseponie to return to
Dundalis soon," Juraviel prompted Roger when the two were walking back
through the forest toward Dundalis the next morning. The day was hot and
sunny, with not a hint of a wind. Bradwarden had gone off at daybreak to
scout the horse herd for Juraviel, and to see if he could find Symphony.

"She may already be there," the young man replied with obvious excite-
ment; and Juraviel, too, was thrilled at the prospect of seeing his dear friend
once more. There was something else edging Roger's voice, Juraviel recog-
nized, something beyond simple happiness and excitement.

"Have you seen her at all of late? " Juraviel asked.

"Not since last summer," Roger replied, "not since the day Bradwarden
and I brought-Elbryan-I mean ..."

"The day you brought Nightbird's casket from Palmaris," Juraviel fin-
ished for him. "I watched you begin your journey up the northern road."

"That was the worst journey of my life," Roger said, his voice slightly
quavering. "I still can't believe ..."

"He is at rest in the grove?" Juraviel asked. "Beside his uncle Mather?"

Roger^hodded, and the elf immediately turned aside from the trail back
to Dundalis, heading instead for the grave of his friend, with Roger close
behind.

The temperature seemed cooler in the sheltered grove in the forest north
of Dundalis. Juraviel, who knew the place well, led the way along the many-
forked and confusing trails, for though the grove was not very large, there
was a bit of magic about it, a minor illusion placed by Lady Dasslerond her-
self, using her powerful emerald, when she had come to bid farewell to
Mather Wyndon several years after his death.

Juraviel picked the trail with certainty, moving among the somber trees;

and soon the pair came to the place, with its side-by-side cairns. They stood
solemnly for a long while, staring and remembering-and for Juraviel, who
had lived for more than two centuries, that meant remembering two friends,
two rangers.

"Tempest was buried there with Mather Wyndon for years until Elbryan
earned it from the spirit of his uncle," the elf remarked at length.
Roger cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Juraviel let his look linger
on him until Roger offered an explanation.

"We weren't sure which tomb should get the sword," Roger explained.
"To me, it was Elbryan's-Nightbird's-weapon, but Bradwarden thought
it better if Tempest went back to rest with Mather."

"But the bow, Hawkwing, is with Nightbird?" Juraviel asked somewhat
urgently, for that bow, the last the elf's father had ever crafted, had been
made specifically for Nightbird.

"With Elbryan," Roger confirmed.

"Fair enough," the elf said, and Roger seemed to relax.

Just for a moment again, Juraviel had to stare long and hard at Roger to
get him to open up with his feelings. "I keep thinking that perhaps if I, or
we, had found our way into St. Precious earlier-soon enough to get the
weapons and deliver them to Nightbird-that the fight at Chasewind
Manor might have turned out differently," Roger explained.

"I tried to do just that," Juraviel admitted, hoping to alleviate Roger's
guilt. "I was within the abbey when the alarm sounded, when Jilseponie
began her determined march across the city. I could not find them, sword
or bow."

"They were both within St. Precious," Roger said. He was nodding and
did seem relieved. "We found them afterward, locked in a secret place by
Father Abbot Markwart. Brother Braumin brought them to Jilseponie, but
she bade him to send them north with the caisson, to be buried with Night-
bird. I just wish Nightbird had them in his grasp when he went into
Chasewind Manor after Pony."

"It was a confused moment," Juraviel agreed. "Much was misplaced."
The way he said that and the look he gave to Roger seemed to throw the
young man off balance.

"Well, we found them at least," Roger insisted-too eagerly, Juraviel
noted. The elf knew then that Roger was hiding something, and, given the
man's demeanor when he spoke of Jilseponie's impending arrival and the
rumors Lady Dasslerond had told him that the woman's cache of gem-
stones had not been recovered from Chasewind Manor, Juraviel had a
pretty good idea what that might be.

"Yes, and you dispensed them properly," Juraviel agreed. "And never
did I doubt that Roger Lockless and Bradwarden would act in any way that
was not in the best interests of all."

"We did not know if the Touel'alfar would want them back," Roger
explained.

Juraviel looked down at the cairns, at the burial places of two great
rangers and of two marvelous elven weapons. He suspected that these
cairns might be disturbed in the not too distant future, as a new ranger, heir
to the bloodline of Mather and Elbryan, came to claim his territory and his
birthright. The boy would have to do battle with the spirit of Mather to win
the right to wield Tempest, and likewise would have to face his own father
for the right to carry Hawkwing. Lady Dasslerond had better train the child
well, Juraviel thought.

"You did well in the aftermath of the tragedy," Juraviel said at length. "It
was a confusing time, and much, I suspect, was misplaced." There, the elf
thought, he had left Roger an opening.

But Roger didn't take the bait, just shrugged his shoulders.

Belli'mar Juraviel could accept that. To Roger's understanding-to the
understanding of all of them, Jilseponie included-the gemstones were nei-
ther the province nor the interest of the Touel'alfar. When Jilseponie had
thought that she and Elbryan might be killed at St.-Mere-Abelle, she had
begged Juraviel to take the cache of gemstones stolen by Avelyn Desbris,
the source of Markwart's anger at the pair, and carry them far away to
Andur'Blough Inninness. Juraviel had steadfastly refused, insisting that the
gemstones were a problem for the humans, not the elves.

How ironic that seemed to the elf, given one of his missions to this place.

"Come," he bade Roger. "I will take you to the northern slope that over-
looks Dundalis and you can go see if there is any word from Jilseponie.
Bradwarden and I will meet you on the hillock tonight that we might enjoy
together a fine meal, fine conversation, and the centaur's song."

Roger followed the elf out of the grove and across the few forested miles
back to the village. Juraviel set off as soon as Roger was out of sight, half
running, half flying back to find the centaur.

Bradwarden had marked his trail well for the elf, and so Juraviel had
little trouble locating him on a long ridge of birch, overlooking a wide field.
Below, a herd of wild horses, including the magnificent black, white-booted
stallion, grazed. Soon after Juraviel arrived beside the centaur, Symphony
picked his head up and turned their way, and the elf caught the glimmer of
turquoise set in the stallion's chest, a magical gemstone Avelyn Desbris had
placed there to heighten the connection between rider and mount.

"I told him ye mean to take him," Bradwarden remarked. Even as he fin-
ished, Symphony galloped their way, skidded to a stbp, and reared, front
legs pawing the air. Then the horse swung about and thundered off, and the
whole herd took up the charge in his wake.

"I'm not thinkin' he's likin' the idea," Bradwarden added dryly.

Juraviel studied the running horse for a moment, the seeming urgency in
Symphony's long and thundering stride.

"Symphony's pickin' his own course," Bradwarden went on. "He might
be thinkin' that there's work to be done about here."

"Would Symphony consider the fate of his own herd above my needs?"
Juraviel asked.

"Sounds like an elf," Bradwarden quipped with a snort.

Juraviel eyed him sternly, which, of course, only made the centaur laugh
harder.
"Whatever Symphony might be thinking or feeling, his path is his own to
choose, and I'll not try to drag him to Andur'Blough Inninness," Juraviel
announced.

Bradwarden snorted all the louder, as if the mere thought of that was
absurd-which indeed, Juraviel knew, it was. Even in the days when Night-
bird rode Symphony, the stallion knew no master.
"Have you any other prospects? " Juraviel asked.

"Symphony showed me one," Bradwarden explained, pointing down the
line to a small, muscular sorrel stallion running near the back of the herd,
and not in tight formation like the rest, but lagging and ranging out wide,
this way and that. "A two-year-old, and getting a bit edgy."

"Symphony showed you?" Juraviel asked. The elf really didn't doubt
that Symphony and Bradwarden were capable of such communication, but
he had to wonder at the stallion's intent, if there was any, in picking out one
of its own herd.

"He's got the mare smell in his nose," Bradwarden explained, "and it's
takin' out all his senses. He even took a run at Symphony. Ye'll be takin'
him away or Symphony'11 be kickin' him deep into the forest. If the little
one's lucky, Symphony won't kill him."

Juraviel nodded, for now it made sense. There were other stallions in the
herd besides Symphony, but not many, and apparently none in competition
with the great stallion. Juraviel had reservations, though-would this spir-
ited young stallion be too much for young Brynn?-and they showed
clearly in his expression.

"Ye take him away from the mare smell, and he'll be a fine one," the cen-
taur said, obviously catching the elf's drift. "Ye might be geldin' him, o'
course, though I've never been fond o' that treatment!"
"Will Symphony help us secure him? "

"Oh, I'll get him for ye," the centaur assured him. "I'll have him this very
night, though it'll take a couple o' days for me and Roger to break him."

The image brought on by Bradwarden's choice of partners brought a
smile to Juraviel. Roger had never been mudi of a rider, and if this young
stallion was as spirited and strong as he appeared, the young man might be
finding getting out of bed each morning a bit of a trial.
"Same hill?" Bradwarden asked.

"Sheila will be bright tonight," Juraviel replied. "I will meet you there
when she passes her midpoint."

The centaur reached down and hoisted a long length of strong rope,
slinging it over one shoulder. He gave a quick salute to Juraviel, then
trotted down along the ridgeline, paralleling the course of Symphony and
the herd. "I'm hopin' none o' them mares're hot with the smell," he
remarked quietly.

"For the stallion's sake or for your own?" Juraviel asked with a laugh,
and Bradwarden joined in.

Juraviel thought to go directly to the outskirts of Dundalis then, to listen
in on the conversations of unwitting humans and learn what he might about
events since the fall of Markwart and also to discern any further informa-
tion about Jilseponie's progress to the north. He found himself sidetracked,
though. Again he found himself standing in the grove before the two stone
cairns. Whatever words Juraviel might find, like n'Touel'alfar, they did little
to relieve his pain at that moment. He remembered Mather, and the man's
gallant fall while saving the young Bradwarden from the clutches of a
goblin horde-no wonder that the centaur insisted upon returning Tem-
pest to Mather's side. Mostly, though, Juraviel explored the newer, raw
wound-the loss of Elbryan. He remembered all his days with the young
man, training him, bringing him along in his understanding of the elven
way of seeing the world, and teaching him bi'nelle dasada. He remembered
the night of Elbryan's naming, when the young man became Nightbird
the ranger, under a starry sky in Caer'alfar. He contrasted that event with
Dasslerond's continuing anger at the man and at Jilseponie, and considered
his own initial reaction, anger, upon learning that Nightbird had taught the
woman the sword dance. But then Juraviel remembered the first time he
had seen the two fighting together within bi'nelle dasada, battling goblins
on a hillock above a trapped wagon caravan. How beautiful they had been
together, how complementary to each other's movements, and how deadly
to the goblins. Watching that display, Belli'mar Juraviel had thrown away
his anger at Nightbird, had then considered the man's instruction of Jilse-
ponie a gift upon the elven gift, heightening the value of that the elves had
given to him.

If only Lady Dasslerond been able to witness such a display!

But she had not, and Juraviel's description of the scene could hardly
sway her.

"Rest well, my fallen friend," the elf said. "Keep Hawkwing close to your
side until the day that your son comes to claim it."

That last statement brought a smile to Juraviel's face, as he turned and
started for Dundalis, but how much wider that smile would have been,
he realized, if he were allowed to play some role in tutoring the child of
Nightbird.

The elf spent the rest of the day about the outskirts of Dundalis, resting
on high branches, and listening to conversations of some of the townsfolk.
He fell asleep to dreams of his lost friend and didn't awaken until the moon
was high in the clear night sky.

He arrived at the base of the hillock, serenaded by Bradwarden's piping,
a short while later. The young stallion was there, tethered to a tree, grazing
easily and not even lifting its head to mark the approach of the quiet elf.

He found Roger reclining beside the centaur, much in the same position
as the night before.
"Got him," Bradwarden remarked. "Oh, but he's a spirited beastie. Yer
little ranger friend is in for some wild ridin'."

"And what about my little friend Roger? " Juraviel asked with a smile.

Roger, who obviously had already been informed of his role, put on a
sour look that the elf knew was mostly bluster.

"He'll be sittin' funny for a bit, don't ye doubt," the centaur said with a
laugh. "But we'll get the stallion so he'll take a saddle, at least."

"A week? " Juraviel asked. "For I've some business to attend to."

Bradwarden nodded. "I'll break 'em both by then," he said, glancing
wryly sidelong at Roger.

The three spent the rest of the night relaxing on the hillock. After Roger
had fallen asleep, Juraviel wandered down to the stallion to better in-
spect him.

With his ragged sorrel coat, he wasn't the prettiest of horses, certainly
nothing compared to Symphony, but he was strong and well muscled, with
enough inner fires showing in his dark eyes to keep Brynn Dharielle
working hard indeed.

Juraviel was back on the road in the morning, leaving Bradwarden and
Roger to their work with the stallion. He headed south, shadowing the one
road, with a hundred and fifty miles before him. He meant to arrive in Caer
Tinella in three days.

CHAPTER 12

Reciprocation

There they go," Liam O'Blythe remarked as the line of goblins streamed along the ravine floor below them. "Right along yer big friend's course and right on time."
"Signal the archers," Prince Midalis instructed. "Let us be done with
this."

Liam lifted his spear, tipped with a red flag emblazoned with the black
cow: the sign of death. Before the man had gone through three waves of the
pennant, the eager archers, set along both sides of the ravine, began firing
their missiles down upon the running goblins.

Bruinhelde and his kinsmen had caught this band, one of the few
remaining anywhere near Pireth Vanguard, as they camped in the forest.
Using Andacanavar as scout and as liaison to Midalis and his men, the
Alpinadorans had orchestrated this little ambush.

The archers thinned the goblin line, and those monsters sprinting out in
front of the main host soon came upon a series of traps, trip lines, and ankle
pits, buried spikes, and one deep trench that bottled up the whole re-
treat. And that, of course, merely gave the archers more time to let fly their
arrows, and into a more concentrated group of targets.

Not to miss any of the fun, Bruinhelde and his horde then appeared at
the end of the ravine to Midalis's right. The lead Alpinadorans charged out
and fell into their hammer-spins, launching a devastating barrage at the
nearest goblins.

And still the archers rained death upon the confused and frightened
creatures.

Midalis's cavalry appeared at the left end of the ravine, coming in slowly
and in tight ranks, spears leveled before them.

"I should be down with them," the Prince remarked, and, indeed, this
was the first action of the season in which he had not been leading the way,
There had been no time, for Midalis had been at St. Belfour when the
call had come in, and the goblin retreat had been on in full by the time he
had even reached this spot on the ridge in the center of the ravine's
northern side.

"Bah, but they're not even to see any fightin'," Liam replied, "nothin'
more than runnin' down a few strays."

The second Alpinadoran line came charging ahead then, closer to the
trailing goblin ranks; and again, the huge northern men spun and launched
their chain-handled hammers, smashing the closest ranks.

The goblins didn't even try to assume any defensive formation, just
scrambled all over one another, howling and screaming and running out of
that death pit in every direction. Those climbing up the north and south
walls were met by concentrated arrow volleys that sent them skidding back
in their own blood. Those going to the east-Midalis' left-were run down
and skewered. Those trying to run back the way they had come, to the west,
were met by a third hammer barrage.

It was over in a few minutes, and Prince Midalis hadn't heard even
a single human cry out in pain. After all the months of fighting, this skir-
mish, the battle of the Masur Tierman-dae-so named for the dry bed of
the stream that had shaped the ravine-was easily the most one-sided of the
entire conflict.

It was no accident, Midalis understood. As his warriors and the
Alpinadorans had come to know and better trust each other, as they had
come to understand each other's fighting strengths and weaknesses, they
had learned to complement each other. And now, with the barbarians
growing more accustomed to the Vanguard terrain, the combined force was
better shaping the battlefields, picking the fights in which they could inflict
the most damage and avoiding those that seemed too risky.

The battle of the Masur Tierman-dae had been a complete success, and
Midalis confidently expected many more of the same ... if they could find
enough goblins left to kill.

Some movement from behind caught their attention, and the pair turned
to see Andacanavar striding up the ridge, deftly picking his course among
the tangles of brush and roots. Without a word of greeting, he moved to
stand beside Midalis and Liam; and though the two Vanguardsmen were
mounted, they did not tower over the huge Alpinadoran.

"I came to this place as soon as I heard of the fight," Midalis explained.
"And I feared that I missed it-though it has been choreographed per-
fectly, a complete rout. But I am surprised to see Andacanavar here. I had
thought you would be leading the Alpinadoran ranks."

"Bruinhelde's fight, from beginning to end," the ranger answered. "And
your archers and horsemen performed their role perfectly. Look down on
the ravine with hope, Prince Midalis, for before you looms the last goblin
threat to Vanguard." As he finished, hemmed away from the slaughter on
the ravine floor to gaze meaningfully at Midalis. When Midalis met his
eyes, he understood that Andacanavar referred to much more than regional
security.

With this slaughter, the goblins had been eradicated from Vanguard in
Honce-the-Bear. But now, Midalis knew, would come the real test. Would
the army of Vanguard follow the Alpinadorans north to the southern
reaches of their kingdom, to secure those lands, as well?

Midalis wanted to give the ranger his assurances of that cooperation, but
he could not; his talks with his countrymen toward just that end had not
been met with enthusiasm. He nodded to Andacanavar and remarked,
"And all the minions of the dactyl will be on the run before long."

Andacanavar cocked an eyebrow at the obviously evasive remark, but he,
too, nodded, apparently accepting the delicacy of the situation.

"Where was Andacanavar, then, to be missin' such a fight as this?" Liam
O'Blythe put in. He added, "Does well by Bruinhelde to see him puttin'
together such a massacre."

"Business in the north," the ranger answered, and he looked even more
intently at the Prince of Vanguard and went on, "arrangements to be
made."

Midalis glanced back at Liam and saw the look of concern on the man's
face-for he had told Liam of Andacanavar's pending "arrangements."
Ironically, it was that expression of doubt, of fear even, that bolstered
Midalis in his resolve that this alliance with Bruinhelde's people would not
be a passing thing. He turned back to Andacanavar, his face grim, and
nodded. " Inform Bruinhelde that I will meet him at the mead hall tomorrow
night," he said, "that we might discuss our plans."

The ranger looked back down at the valley, where the last of the goblins
were scrambling wildly, only to be run down, skewered by arrows or
blasted by Alpinadoran hammers.

"And a fine mead hall celebration it will be," the ranger remarked. He
patted Midalis' horse on the neck and trotted back the way he had come, as
Midalis and Liam silently watched him go.

When Midalis finally looked away from the ranger, toward his com-
panion, he saw that the distress had not left Liam's expression.

"He moves with the grace of a much smaller man," Midalis remarked,
more to break the tension than anything else.

"And quick on his feet, if he went all the way to the mountains and
back," Liam agreed, his sharp tone and his reference to the mountains-the
expected locale of the ominous arrangements for the blood-brothering
Andacanavar had indicated to Midalis-telling the Prince in no uncertain
terms that Liam's fears were strongly founded.

"Your concern truly touches me," he said with a chuckle.

Liam didn't smile. "I'm not thrilled with losin' me Prince," he said.
"Andacanavar would not have arranged this trial if he believed I could
not survive it," Midalis replied, "nor have I even agreed to partake."

"Oh, ye'U go," Liam continued, nodding his head. "I know ye too well to
think ye'd refuse any dare."

That brought another chuckle to Midalis, with the recollections of so
many chances he and Liam had taken together as younger men in the wild
Vanguard woods. Liam even managed a slight smile of his own then, unable
to resist the delicious memories.

"But ye were younger then," Liam said after a moment, "and we was
both seein' less to lose."

"I have not agreed," Midalis repeated, bluntly and firmly, and there
was truth in his words. He truly had not decided upon the wisdom of
accepting the blood-brothering, as Andacanavar had called it. On the sur-
face, it seemed like a wonderful way to strengthen the bond between the
Vanguardsmen and the Alpinadorans-Bruinhelde was no minor chieftain
among the northern clans! If Midalis and Bruinhelde both survived the
blood-brothering trials, they would be bound forever as siblings.

But Midalis knew that by agreeing to such a binding trial, a ritual that
would bind not only him but also those who served him, he was in effect
signing a treaty with Alpinador-or at least with Bruinhelde's substantial
clan. And did he have the right to enter into such a treaty without the
knowledge and blessings of his brother, the King? What would happen if
Bruinhelde called upon their alliance at some future date, forcing the
Prince of Vanguard to send half his troops to the frigid northern reaches of
desolate Alpinador to battle some new enemy, a great dragon, perhaps, or
invading powries?

On the other hand, Prince Midalis could not deny that Bruinhelde and
his clansmen had saved him and his army, had saved St. Belfour, despite
their animosity toward the Abellican Church. Could the honorable Midalis
ignore the ranger's request for such a binding?

"Haven't ye then?" Liam remarked after a long and uncomfortable
silence. "Haven't ye come to see the barbarians as allies? Even as friends,
mayhap? "

Midalis stared at him hard, but didn't deny the words.
"Haven't ye figured that we'd be packin' for the roads north, to see if any
goblins're needin' chasin' out in Bruinhelde's land?"
"Do you not believe that we owe that much, at least? " Midalis replied.
"Aye," Liam said resignedly and without hesitation. "We're owin' them
barbarians too much, by me own figurin'. But I'll be with ye, don't ye
doubt."

"Never did," Midalis answered, and he urged his horse into motion and
turned back down the ridge.
He and Liam met the rest of the warriors on the field outside of St.
Belfour soon after, the men full of excitement. The monks came out to join
in the celebration as well, led by a boisterous Agronguerre bearing barrels
of wine and ale and food. They all knew it, without ever hearing it pro-
claimed officially by Midalis: the goblin threat had been ended this day, and
the folk of Vanguard could go about putting their fields, and their lives,
back in order.

Midalis took it all in stride, and prepared to let them have this night of
rejoicing-or thought he would, at least, until Andacanavar and Bruinhelde
arrived. Fortunately, Midalis was among the first to spot them.

The Prince rushed over to the pair and spoke before either of them, par-
ticularly grim Bruinhelde, could instigate the conversation about Vanguards-
men going north. "I have promised to meet you in the mead hall tomorrow
night," he said.

"You do not invite us to participate in your celebration?" Bruinhelde
asked. "Would it have been better for Midalis, then, if we had not fought
the goblins this day? "

"Of c-course you are welcome," Midalis stuttered, only then realizing
how ungrateful and unwelcoming he had sounded. "You and all of your
warriors. I only thought... I mean, my friend, you do not wear the face of
celebration but one of planning."

"There will be no mead hall tomorrow night," Bruinhelde explained,
rather gruffly. But since Midalis was certainly used to gruffness from the
man, this did not alarm him greatly. "We leave with the morning light, for
the northern trails back to our home."

Liam O'Blythe walked up beside the Prince then, bearing extra mugs of
ale, which he offered to the guests.

"You can understand Bruinhelde's desire to be on the road as soon as
possible," Andacanavar stated. "He knows not whether any of our fleeing
enemies have ventured into his homeland, though we left the passes into
the region well guarded."

"Of course," Midalis agreed, and he held his mug up in salute to Bruin-
helde. The barbarian looked at the Prince for a moment, then responded
in kind.

"Tomorrow will be a sad day for the men of Vanguard," Midalis went on.

"For some," Bruinhelde replied, and Midalis knew he was talking about
the brothers of St. Belfour; for though Agronguerre had done well to secure
the alliance, the barbarians had remained suspicious of the monks.

"For all," Midalis replied. "Vanguard has not forgotten what you and
your warriors have done for us. All in St. Belfour would have perished had
not Bruinhelde and his brethren come to the field. We remember."

"Well enough to follow us north? " the Alpinadoran leader asked bluntly,

Midalis sighed. "I had meant to address that issue in detail with my war-
riors at sunrise," he explained. "Thus, I had planned to speak with you at
the mead hall tomorrow night."
"You will come or you will not," Bruinhelde said.

"You are the leader of the Vanguardsmen," Andacanavar said. "Is not
your word their law? "

There it was, spoken baldly without any room for evasion. Midalis was
indeed the leader, the ruler, was the man who had to make this decision.
But Prince Midalis had never been an autocrat, preferring rather to build
consensus for his decisions. He almost always sought out the advice of his
fellows-Liam, Agronguerre, and others-and always listened carefully to
that advice before acting. Now, though, it had been laid squarely upon his
shoulders: a great weight, a great decision that could hold grave implica-
tions for his beloved fellow Vanguardsmen in the immediate future and for
the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear for years to come.

And Midalis had to respond now. Studying the Alpinadorans, he recog-
nized that Bruinhelde had forced this decision as a test more of the man
Midalis, than of the Vanguardsmen in general. Given that Bruinhelde and
Midalis were about to go through the most intimate of ceremonies, where,
according to Andacanavar, they would have to depend fully on each other
or perish, the Prince could understand Bruinhelde's desire to see his heart
laid bare.

"We shall come," Midalis answered firmly. Liam gasped, but did well,
Midalis thought, in quickly composing himself. "Of course we shall! What
friends, what allies, would you have made, good Bruinhelde, if we accepted
your blood to protect our homes but did not offer our own in return? I do
not yet know, however, how many I can bring with me. Our farms and
homes have been ravaged by the years of battle, and I must make sure that
they are ready to supply us for the next winter."

"Make your plans, then," Bruinhelde offered. "We will await your arrival
at the mead hall tomorrow night."

"But ye just said-" a confused Liam started to protest. But Midalis, who
understood well the test Bruinhelde had just put to him and was not the
least bit surprised by the Alpinadoran leader's reversal, stopped him with
an upraised hand.

"I will bring as many as can be spared," Midalis replied. "Now, please
join us in our celebration." He turned and waved his hand across, an invita-
tion for the two Alpinadorans, who, with their great height and massive
bulk, stood out among the smaller Vanguardsmen.

Bruinhelde looked to Andacanavar, and the ranger nodded and led the
way into the host of revelers. Few joined the two barbarians, though many
looked their way. After a while, Prince Midalis, fearing that their guests
might feel insulted, bade Liam to gather a few friends and go and join them.

"They're all afraid o' sayin' the wrong thi^g," Liam explained. "Ye do
well with Bruinhelde and the ranger, but the rest of us don't know 'em, and
aren't sure we're wantin' to know 'em!

"I know what ye're thinkin' to say," Liam quickly added, seeing that
Midalis was about to protest. "And no, me lord, I'm not forgettin' what
Bruinhelde and his kin did for us on the field about St. Belfour and in all
thefightin' since."

"Then go and make our guests feel welcome," Midalis instructed. Liam
turned to do just that, but stopped short.

"Seems another had the same way o' thinkin'," he said, leading Midalis'
gaze across to the two barbarians and to Abbot Agronguerre and Brother
Haney, who were approaching them.

Midalis set off quickly at once, Liam falling in step behind him.

"Greetings, good Bruinhelde and good Andacanavar," he heard the
abbot say. "You remember Brother Haney, I trust."

A group of men cut across Midalis at that moment, stopping him short,
and their discussion prevented him from hearing the barbarians' response.
He breathed a little easier when he finally managed to get around the group
of Vanguardsmen, to find the two monks and the two barbarians seemingly
at ease.

"Twenty brothers," Agronguerre was saying as Midalis approached. "I
wish it could be more, as I wish that I could travel with you."

"You're not so old," Andacanavar offered to the abbot.

"Closer to seventy than to sixty!" Agronguerre proudly replied, patting
his belly under the drawstring of his brown robe.

Andacanavar laughed and winked at that statement, a not-so-subtle
reminder that he, too, had seen several decades of life, though he could out-
fight any man north of the gulf.

"Me abbot's got to stay in St. Belfour," Brother Haney cut in. "Word's
that a messenger's on the way from the south. We lost our Father
Abbot-"

"The leader of our Church," Agronguerre explained. Andacanavar
nodded, but Bruinhelde just held his stoic, unreadable expression. "And
thus, I expect to be summoned to the south, where a new leader will be
elected. But with Vanguard apparently secured, my brothers and I wish to
help along the road to the north. I would not presume to send Abellican
monks into Alpinador, though, without your permission."

"We came to your aid, you come to ours," Bruinhelde remarked, cutting
short Andacanavar, who seemed to be beginning another of his many diplo-
matic interventions. "It is fair and good. Your brothers are welcome, and
with my thanks."

Prince Midalis could hardly believe his ears. He and Liam joined the
group with a nod, and with the Prince patting Agronguerre on the
shoulder.

"They will take gemstones with them," Agronguerre went on, "and will
use them against our enemies and to aid the wounded Vanguardsmen. For
your own wounded-" Bruinhelde stiffened/and Midalis held his breath
"-the choice remains yours to make, of course." Agronguerre continued,
"If you desire our healing magic, pray you simply ask."

"No,"saidBruinhelde.

"As you will," Agronguerre replied. "I feel that I would be derelict in our
friendship if I did not make the offer."

"And a fine offer you've made," Andacanavar put in.

"You will watch over the brothers," Bruinhelde said to Midalis.

"Brother Haney will lead them," Agronguerre remarked, but the bar-
barian leader wasn't paying him any attention.

"We welcome them as allies against our enemies," Bruinhelde went on.
"Not as ..." He leaned over to Andacanavar and said something in the
Alpinadoran tongue, and the ranger promptly translated.

"Not as missionaries."

"Of course," Abbot Agronguerre said with a bow, and he turned to
Midalis. "Let us know when you plan to depart. The brothers will be
ready." With another bow to the barbarians, he led Brother Haney away.

"It is time for us to return to our own folk, as well," Andacanavar said.
"We await you at the mead hall tomorrow night.

"And, Prince Midalis," he added with a sly look, "name a second to com-
mand your force. If the opportunity presents itself, perhaps we can make
this trip doubly profitable. And, my friend, you never can tell when the
spirit shaggoth will win."

Midalis smiled at the remark, but he felt Liam O'Blythe tense at his side,
and he knew that his friend was going to try to persuade him against
accepting the blood-brothering, probably long into the night.

CHAPTER 13

Finding Sides

You choose your allies foolishly," Targon Bree Kalas fumed at
Abbot Braumin.
"Choose?" Braumin echoed incredulously, and in truth,
the churchman shared Kalas' feelings more than the Duke could ever
know.

"Bishop De'Unnero is not well liked within the city," Kalas went on.

"Nor within the Church," Braumin said under his breath. They had met
by chance at the Palmaris market, but as soon as Braumin had seen Kalas
coming, had seen the expression on the Duke's face, he had guessed the
source of the man's ire.

"They remember Aloysius Crump," Kalas went on. "Who could forget
the sight of the innocent man being roasted alive with your godly magic?
They remember De'Unnero's actions against their families and friends. And
now you are fool enough to parade him before the people? Does your
Church invite such disdain? "

Abbot Braumin swallowed hard, forcing himself to calm down, remind-
ing himself not to play into Kalas' hands here in the open. For a brief
moment, he had wondered why in the world Duke Kalas, with whom he
had been fighting from the very beginning of their respective appointments,
would go out of his way to point out the trouble with keeping De'Unnero
around. But given the public nature of this place, given the multitude of
spectators and the way the Duke had already couched the premise of the
conversation, the answer seemed clear. Braumin had gone out of his way to
keep De'Unnero's return as secret as possible, though rumors had slipped
out. He had begged the former Bishop to keep a low profile, and De'- ;

Unnero, apparently understanding the wisdom of Braumin's suggestion, |
had done just that.               /                                |

"Am I to refuse the former Bishop entry to St. Precious? " Braumin asked
innocently.

"Expel him!" Duke Kalas returned. It struck Braumin then that there
was more than political gain motivating Kalas here, there was true hatred
for De'Unnero. "Excommunicate him! Why, I would not share the same
church with the man!"

"I have not seen you at service in St. Precious, your Grace," Braumin
pointed out.

But Kalas snorted, shook his head, and walked away, with every member
of his entourage pointedly speaking the name of De'Unnero, along with
some unfavorable adjective, as they followed him.

Abbot Braumin stood in the market for a long while, aware of the angry
stares coming at him from every angle. De'Unnero had made too many ene-
mies here, he understood, and he dropped the fruit he had picked back into
the vendor's cart and started away swiftly for St. Precious, hoping that he
might use Kalas' tirade and those angry stares of the peasants to persuade
the former Bishop that it would be better for all if he left the city.

Master Francis paused and stared long and hard at the cold walls of St.-
Mere-Abelle, brown and gray stone stretching for more than a mile along
the high cliff overlooking All Saints Bay. He remembered the first time he
had entered the abbey, more than a decade before, a young novice walking
through the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering, a row of older brothers armed
with wooden paddles.

Still, Francis would have preferred that treatment to what awaited him
now within the foreboding place. His news was grim, all of it, from the di-
saster in Palmaris and the loss of brothers to the goblins outside Davon
Dinnishire to, perhaps worst of all, the signs he had encountered of the rosy
plague. But even more than that, Francis saw St.-Mere-Abelle now as a
reminder of his errors. In that place, he had followed Father Abbot Mark-
wart, had obeyed the man blindly, even when Markwart was torturing the
innocent Chilichunks and the centaur, Bradwarden, in the dungeons. Here
Francis had not spoken out against the murder-and it was indeed murder,
he understood now-of Master Jojonah.

St.-Mere-Abelle-with all its strong stone walls, its sense of majesty and
power-reminded Master Francis of his own frailties. And he could not
even enter secure in the knowledge that he had put those faults behind him.
Oh, he was wiser now, he understood the evil that had possessed Father
Abbot Markwart, but it seemed to him that his own courage remained an
elusive thing. Perhaps he had been wrong in withdrawing his demand that
Jilseponie take over the Abellican Church. He understood and still recog-
nized the problems that such a nomination would have brought, but
shouldn't he have fought for it anyway? Shouldn't he have stood up for the
right course, whatever the potential troubles?

And yet, Master Francis knew now, looking at the mighty St.-Mere-
Abelle, that he could not have done it, could not have nominated Jilse-
ponie. Not then and not now.
With a sigh, resigned to his own sense of failure, Master Francis Delia-
court led the brothers, the living carrying the dead, across the mile of open
field to the front gates of St.-Mere-Abelle.

He was agitated, too much so, he knew, but Abbot Braumin could not
contain his frustration. So many great dreams had followed him to this
place within the hierarchy of the Church, so many hopes that Nightbird's
sacrifice would bolster him and his companions in their efforts to better the
Church and better the world.

Yet in the months he had been serving as abbot of St. Precious, Braumin
Herde had known only frustration. And while the abbey had done much to
aid the inhabitants of Palmaris, had expanded its prayer services consider-
ably and had sent out brothers with soul stones on missions of healing,
Braumin had made little, if any, progress on any institutional changes at St.
Precious. Every one of his plans had run into Duke Kalas, and the man had
forced a stalemate.

And now De'Unnero!

The word of the former Bishop's arrival was general throughout the city
now, after the public discussion at the market. The prayer services immedi-
ately following their meeting had been crowded, but the people had not
come into St. Precious for blessings but rather to gossip, to see if they might
catch a glimpse to confirm that the hated De'Unnero was back.

Wisely, Marcalo De'Unnero had stayed away, as Braumin had advised.
Protestors arrived daily and surrounded the abbey, calling for De'Unnero's
expulsion, excommunication, even execution. Braumin understood that
Duke Kalas had likely put them up to it, but that hardly mattered-for
others had fallen in with the plans, no doubt, and the rage would grow and
grow along with the summer heat.

The abbot paced about his office now, wringing his hands, muttering
prayers for guidance.

The door opened and Master Viscenti poked his head in, then swung the
door wide so that De'Unnero could enter before him.

Braumin held up his hand to Viscenti, motioning for him to leave.

"Did you expect any different reaction when you returned to the city?"
Braumin began curtly, when he and De'Unnero were alone.

De'Unnero snorted, an unimpressed grin upon his face. "I have returned
subservient," he said quietly. Braumin noted that there was a tremor in his
voice, and it seemed to the abbot as if De'Unnero was engaged in a tremen-
dous inner struggle at that moment. "I have accepted your ascension to a
position I once held, have I not? A position that I would likely have con-
tinued to hold-"

"Master Francis replaced you as abbot long before the fight at
Chasewind Manor," Abbot Braumin reminded him.

De'Unnero paused, a telling hesitation to the perceptive Braumin. He
was trying to compose himself, the abbot knew, trying not to fly into a
rage-and while Braumin surely feared such a rage from this dangerous
man, he thought that prodding De'Unnero along in that direction might
not be a bad thing.

"You need not recite me a chronology, Abbot Braumin," De'Unnero
said, his voice controlled once more. " I understand perfectly well-better
than do you, I am sure-all that went on during the last days of Father
Abbot Markwart. I understand perfectly well the role I was forced to
play-"

"That you eagerly played," Braumin corrected. De'Unnero's dark eyes
flashed with anger, but again he paused and suppressed the rage.

"As you will," he said, his dark eyes narrowing. "You were not here, I
remind you."

"Except when I was in your dungeons," Braumin retorted. "Except
when my friends and I were dragged from the Barbacan, from Mount Aida
and Avelyn's shrine, by De'Unnero and his henchmen."

"By Father Abbot Markwart, whom De'Unnero served," the former
Bishop corrected, "and by the King of Honce-the-Bear. Have you for-
gotten? Was not Kalas, the same Duke Kalas who now serves as baron of
Palmaris, beside me on that plateau, demanding your surrender? "

"I remember!" Abbot Braumin said loudly and firmly. "I remember, and
so do they, Master De'Unnero, former Bishop of Palmaris," he said,
sweeping his arm out toward the window. "The people of Palmaris
remember."

De'Unnero stiffened; Braumin noted that he clenched one fist at his side.

"They hate you," the abbot went on determinedly. "You represent to
them everything that was wrong-"

"They are idiots," De'Unnero interrupted sharply, his tone, the strength
of his voice, setting Braumin back on his heels. "Fools all. Cattle and sheep
who flock into our pews in the hopes that their minor sacrifice of time will
bring them absolution for the miserable ways in which they conduct their
lives."

Braumin stuttered over that blunt proclamation for a few moments before
coming up with any response at all. "They do not look upon your reign as
bishop favorably," he said. "As it was with Father Abbot Markwart-"

"I did not return to fight old battles," De'Unnero insisted, his tone stil
razor edged-a clear sign to Braumin that his words against him were no
falling upon deaf ears.

"Then why did you return, Marcalo De'Unnero?" the abbot asked
matching the man's obvious ire.

"This is my appointed abbey," De'Unnero replied immediately, "M
Church."

"I rather doubt that the current St. Precious resembles anything th;

could be called your Church," Braumin reasoned, "nor Markwart's." F
thought that he had touched a nerve within De'Unnero with the blunt
statement, but the man's look proved to be one of incredulity and not
defensiveness.

"Because you tend to the ills of the populace?" he asked. "Because you
comfort them and tell them that God will cure all and will take them into
his bosom, no matter how wretched an existence they might live? Because,
in your own foolishness and arrogance, you believe that you can cure those
ills, that you can make it better for all of them? "

"Is that not our calling? "

"That is a lie, and nothing more!" De'Unnero insisted. "It is not our
place to coddle and comfort, but to instruct and demand obedience."

"You do not sound like one who has dismissed the errors of Markwart,"
Braumin remarked.

" I sound like one who would not compound those errors with the false
dreams of paradise," De'Unnero retorted. "Since you apparently insist on
such a course, perhaps I should make myself more prominent at prayers
and about the city."

"Do your words blot out the reality? " Braumin yelled at him, coming for-
ward suddenly and poking his finger toward the man. "Can you not hear
them about our walls? Can you not understand the enemies you have made,
Duke Kalas among them? This is not your place, Marcalo De'Unnero. St.
Precious is not-"

He ended with a gasp as De'Unnero exploded into motion, reaching his
right hand over Braumin's extended arm and jabbing finger. De'Unnero
twisted his arm down and turned around, forcing Braumin to turn,
bringing himself behind the abbot. De'Unnero had him locked and help-
less, one arm up, painfully wrenched behind his back, with the former
Bishop's left arm tight across his throat.

"You did not learn your lessons in the arts martial, my friend," De'Unnero
purred into Braumin's ear. Braumin could hear the feral, feline growl deep
in the man's throat.

"Get out of my abbey and out of my city," Braumin replied, having to
gasp for breath with every word.

"How easy it would be for me to reclaim the abbey," De'Unnero went
on. "Alas for poor Abbot Braumin, falling to his death down the stairs. Or
out the window, perhaps. But thankfully, St. Precious is not in turmoil, for
they've another abbot on hand. Pity about the accident." As he ended, he
tightened his hold and let go of Braumin's arm, bringing his other arm up
beside Braumin's head.

The strength of the man appalled Braumin and made him acutely aware
that De'Unnero could break his neck with a simple twist. Still, Braumin
fought past the pain and the fear, held his determined course. "Alas for
Baron Rochefort Bildeborough," he gasped, referring to the longtime,
beloved Baron of Palmaris, a man the populace believed had been killed by
a great wildcat, but who those within Braumin's circle believed had been
murdered by none other than Marcalo De'Unnero.

De'Unnero growled at the reference. Braumin thought his life was at its
end, but then the volatile former Bishop shoved Braumin away.

"You return subservient^" Braumin asked skeptically, rubbing his neck
and echoing De'Unnero's initial statement.

"Subservient to the truth and the mission of our Church," De'Unnero
replied. "But I see that my truth and your own are not in accord."

"Get out of my abbey," Braumin repeated.

"Have you that power, young Abbot Braumin? "

"I am not alone in my feelings toward you," Braumin assured the man.
"You are not welcome here-in St. Precious or in Palmaris."

"And will you enlist Duke Kalas into your cause against me? " De'Unnero
asked with a snort. "Will you seek the support of a man open in his disdain
for the Abellican Church? "

"If I must," Braumin answered coolly. "My brethren in St. Precious, the
Duke's soldiers, the people of Palmaris-whatever aid I might find in rid-
ding the city of you."

"How charitable," De'Unnero said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"Charitable for the people of Palmaris, yes," Braumin replied without
hesitation. He looked Marcalo De'Unnero in the eye again and matched the
man's intensity. "Get out of St. Precious and out of Palmaris," he stated
flatly and evenly, speaking each word with heavy emphasis. "You are not
wanted here, and your presence will only weaken the position of St. Pre-
cious with the flock we tend."

De'Unnero started to respond, but just spat upon the floor at Braumin's
feet and wheeled out of the room.

Master Viscenti entered on the man's heels. "Are you all right?" he
asked, obviously flustered and frightened.

"As all right as one can be after arguing with Marcalo De'Unnero,"
Braumin answered dryly.

Viscenti bobbed his head, his nervous tic jerking one shoulder forward
repeatedly. "I do not like that one at all," he said. "I had hoped that he had
met his end out. . . out wherever he has been!"

"Brother Viscenti!" Braumin scolded, though the abbot had to admit to
himself that he felt the same way. " It is not our place to wish ill on a fellow
brother of the Order."

Viscenti looked at him incredulously, his expression almost horrified that
Braumin would so name De'Unnero.

And Abbot Braumin understood the sentiment completely. But the truth
was plain to him: De'Unnero had not been excommunicated, had not even
been charged with any crime against the Crown or the Church. For whatever
the rumors might say, the former Bishop owed no explanations and no
apologies. How Braumin Herde wished he had some real evidence that
De'Unnero had murdered the former Baron ofPalmaris!

But he did not, and though De'Unnero had no claim to a position of
bishop-which had been formally revoked by King Danube himself-or of
abbot-for that title had been taken from De'Unnero formally by Father
Abbot Markwart-the man remained a master of the Abellican Order, with
a high rank and a strong voice in all matters of the Church, including the
College of Abbots that would convene in the fall.

Braumin winced as he considered that De'Unnero might even make a
play for the position of father abbot, then winced even more when he real-
ized that several other prominent masters of St.-Mere-Abelle would likely
back that nomination.

It was not a pleasant thought.

Marcalo De'Unnero left St. Precious that very evening. Abbot Braumin
found little relief in watching him go.

Silence. Dead silence, a stillness so profound that it spoke volumes to
Master Francis as he sat at the end of the long, narrow table in the audience
chamber used by the father abbots of St.-Mere-Abelle. He had met with
Master Fio Bou-raiy soon after his arrival in the abbey and had previewed
for the man all that he would tell at the meeting-his entire tale, honestly
spoken, except, at the bidding of Bou-raiy, his fears concerning the plague.
That news had to be relayed more cautiously and to an even more select
group, Bou-raiy had convinced Francis-or at least, had secured Francis'
agreement.

Francis had told the rest of his tale in full to the five masters in atten-
dance: the dominant Bou-raiy, the most powerful man remaining at St.-
Mere-Abelle; Machuso, who handled all the laymen working in the abbey;

young Glendenhook, capable and ambitious, a recent appointee to the rank
of master and only in his late thirties; and the two oldest, yet still least
prominent among the group, Baldmir and Timminey, men who reminded
Francis somewhat of Je'howith of St. Honce, only less forceful and con-
niving. It occurred to Francis that neither of the pair would even have been
appointed to their present rank had not circumstances-the loss of all four
of the brothers who had gone to Pimaninicuit, of Siherton by Avelyn's
hands, ofJojonah at Markwart's hands, and the untimely deaths of several
other older masters over the last couple of years-left them as the only
candidates. Both had served as immaculates for more than thirty years, after
all, with no prominent reasons to suggest any cause for elevation. At this
time, St.-Mere-Abelle was not strong in high-ranking monks.

And at this time, Francis feared, that lack of leadership might prove dev-
astating to the Church.                                    \

"Then you agree with the reports we have previously heard that Father
Abbot Markwart's fall, though tragic, was for the ultimate betterment of
the Church?" asked Master Bou-raiy, a man in his mid-forties with short
and neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, a perfectly clean-shaven face, and
a general appearance and demeanor of competence and sternness. What
added to the latter attribute was the fact that the man's left sleeve was tied
off at the shoulder, for he had lost his arm in an accident working the stone-
cutting. No one who knew Fio Bou-raiy would consider him crippled in any
way, though.

"Father Abbot Markwart lost sight of much in his last days," Francis
replied. "He told me as much with his last breath."

"And what of Francis, then?" Bou-raiy said, narrowing his eyes. "If
Markwart strayed, then what of Francis, who followed him to Palmaris to
do his every bidding? "

"Master Francis was-is but a young man," Master Machuso put in.
"You ask much of a young brother to refuse the commands of the Father
Abbot."

"Young, yet old enough to accept an appointment as master, as abbot, as
bishop," Bou-raiy was quick to reply.

Francis studied him carefully, recognizing that Bou-raiy hadn't been
pleased that Markwart had overlooked him when choosing Francis to serve
as his second.

"And now we have an even younger man holding title as our principal in
the important city of Palmaris," scoffed Glendenhook.

"It was a difficult time," Francis said quietly. "I followed my Father
Abbot, and perhaps erred on more than one occasion."

"As have we all," Master Machuso replied.

"And I have since relinquished those titles Father Abbot Markwart
bestowed upon me," Francis stated.

"Except that of master," Glendenhook interjected; and it seemed to
Francis as if the young and fiery master was serving as Bou-raiy's mouth-
piece. With his barrel chest and curly blond hair and beard, and a snarling
attitude, Glendenhook was an imposing sort.

"I would likely have been nominated for the position by this point in any
case," Francis calmly went on, "a position that I believe I have earned, with
my work, including organizing the expedition to the Barbacan to learn the
fate of the demon dactyl. I keep the title because it, unlike the position of
bishop-which is no more, in any case-and that of abbot-of which there
can only be one, in any case-does not preclude the appointment of others
more deserving."

"And yet, we now have a former heretic serving in your previous place at
St. Precious," Glendenhook remarked.

"A man falsely accused of heresy," Francis replied, "a man who had the
courage to refute Father Abbot Markwart when I, and others in this room,
did not." He noted that Machuso and the two older men were nodding
their agreement; but Bou-raiy stiffened, and Glendenhook seemed as if he
was about to spit. " I urge you to accept and offer your blessings to Abbot
Braumin Herde, as have King Danube and Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce.
And I urge you to accept with open hearts the nomination of Brother Vis-
centi to the position of master."

"It seems a proper course," Machuso remarked, looking to Bou-raiy.

"And if we do not so accept the nominations, of either man?" Master
Bou-raiy asked.

"Then you risk dividing the Church, for many will stand beside them,
and I will advise them to hold their posts."

That bold statement raised a few eyebrows.

"This is not our domain, Master Bou-raiy," Francis went on. "We here at
St.-Mere-Abelle, in the absence of a father abbot, must allow the brothers
of St. Precious to appoint whomever they believe acceptable, as long a& it is
within the guidelines of our Order, as it would seem for both Braumin
Herde and Marlboro Viscenti. The brothers of St. Precious have chosen
Braumin Herde; and thus he is empowered to nominate and elevate
Brother Viscenti to the position of master. We could recall Viscenti to St.-
Mere-Abelle, of course, since this was his appointed abbey, and then void
the promotion, but to what end? We would only then be weakening an
already difficult position in Palmaris, where King Danube has given Duke
Targon Bree Kalas, no friend of the Church, the barony."

Again there was a long period of silence, with even Glendenhook looking
to Bou-raiy for guidance. The older man struck a pensive pose and stroked
his hand over his hairless chin several times, staring at Francis, never
blinking.

"What of the woman, Jilseponie?" Glendenhook asked, looking to both
Francis and Bou-raiy. "Declared an outlaw and heretic."

"More a candidate for mother abbess," Francis remarked. The sudden,
horrified expressions from all of the others, even his apparent allies,
reminded him of the battle that nomination would have brought upon the
Church!

"No outlaw," he said. "It was Father Abbot Markwart himself who once
so named her; and who bore her out to me, unconscious after their titanic
struggle; and who admitted to me that she had been right all along. She is
neither outlaw nor heretic, by the words of the very man who so branded
her."

"Perhaps further investigation-" Master Glendenhook started to say.

"No!" Francis roared at him, and again, he was greeted by stunned
expressions. "No," he said again, more calmly. "Jilseponie is a hero to the
people of Palmaris, to all who live north of the city, and to many others, I
would guess, who only heard of and did not witness her deeds. She is in
the highest favor of King Danube, I assure you, and any action we take
against her, even actions within our province such as excommunication,
will only bring scorn upon our Church, and perhaps bring the armies of the
King, as well."

"Strong words, brother," Bou-raiy remarked.

"You were not there, Master Bou-raiy," Francis replied calmly. "If you
had witnessed the events in Palmaris, you would think my words an under-
statement, I assure you."

"What of her gemstones?" Bou-raiy asked. "The considerable cache
stolen by Brother Avelyn? It is said that they were not found after the
battle."

Francis shrugged. "It is rumored that the stones were consumed in the
fight against the Father Abbot."

More than a few whispers began at that statement, mostly of doubt-and
Francis had a hard time making the case here, since he, too, believed that
the stones had been pilfered.

Bou-raiy settled back in his chair once more, and signaled to Glenden-
hook to be quiet just as the man was about to begin the argument anew.

"So be it," Bou-raiy said at length. "Braumin Herde, through his courage
and the simple good fortune of having his side prevail, has earned a post-
one that we could not easily fill without weakening our own abbey even
more. If he deems it necessary to promote Brother Viscenti, then let him
have his way. I must admit my own relief in having both of them, and
Brothers Castinagis and Dellman as well, out of St.-Mere-Abelle."

"Hear, hear," Master Glendenhook applauded.

Francis let the uncalled-for slight slip by, relieved that Bou-raiy would
take that one insult as satisfying enough and let the promotions stand
without argument.

"As for the woman Jilseponie," Bou-raiy went on, "she can go in peace,
and let the wisdom of the ages judge her actions, good or bad. We have not
the time nor the resources to pursue the battles waged by Father Abbot
Markwart. However," he warned in the gravest of tones, "Jilseponie would
be wise not to keep those stones, for whatever justification she might have
found in holding them during the reign of Markwart is past now."

Francis nodded, understanding the complications that would indeed
arise if Jilseponie had the stones and began using them in the northland.
Bou-raiy would never stand for it, though Francis wondered what, indeed,
the man might do about it. Francis had seen the results of Jilseponie's
frightening march through Palmaris on her way to Markwart.

"We have more important issues to contend with, anyway," Bou-raiy
continued, leaning forward in his chair, a clear signal that he wanted to
move the meeting his way. "There is the little matter of filling, and effi-
ciently, the vacancy at the top of our Order. We have discussed this long
before your arrival, of course, Master Francis, and already have planned to
summon a College of Abbots in Calember, as you advised us today.

"Brothers," he went on solemnly, pausing and looking at each of the
other five in turn. "We must be united in this. It is no secret that Olin
of Bondabruce will make a claim for father abbot. I have known Abbot
Olin for many years and consider him a fine man, but his ties to Behren dis-
turb me."

"What of Master Bou-raiy?" Glendenhook immediately put in, and
again Francis got the distinct impression that the man was speaking for
Bou-raiy, as if the two had planned this little exchange.

"With all due respect," Master Machuso put in calmly and, indeed,
respectfully, "you are but five years in the title of master, Brother Bou-raiy.
I would not oppose such a seemingly premature ascension to the highest
position under other circumstances-"

"He is the finest master remaining within the Church!" Glendenhook
snapped. Bou-raiy remained very calm and waved the man to silence, then
motioned for Machuso to continue.

"Even if we were all to stand united behind you, you cannot expect to
have any chance of winning the nomination against Abbot Olin," Machuso
explained. "And where, then, would that leave us? Abbot Olin would
ascend to the position of father abbot, and he would not come to serve as
such viewing any of us in a favorable light."

Again Glendenhook started to respond, but Bou-raiy cut him short.

"True enough, good Master Machuso," he said. "Who among us, then,
do you advise? Yourself?"

Machuso narrowed his eyes a bit, Francis noted, for Bou-raiy's tone,
though his words were in agreement, was somewhat condescending. The
gentle Machuso quickly let the insult pass, and then replied with a laugh.

"Then who?" Bou-raiy asked, holding his hand up. "Tell us, Master
Francis, was this matter discussed among the brethren in Palmaris? With
Abbot Je'howith? Yes, perhaps Je'howith will try for the position, but I
warn you that any intentions you might be holding in that matter will not
bring the Church together. Je'howith is far too-"

"Tied to King Danube, and to the troubled days of Father Abbot Mark-
wart's end, to be acceptable," Francis interrupted. "But, yes, we did indeed
discuss the matter at length, to find a candidate who would prove accept-
able to all in the Church, one who would heal us and bring us back
together, of one mind and one purpose."

"And that choice?"

"Agronguerre of St. Belfour, it would seem," Francis replied.

"An excellent man, of fine reputation," Master Machuso said enthusi-
astically.

"Indeed," Master Timminey agreed.

"Why do you say, 'it would seem,' brother?" Bou-raiy asked Francis.

"I do not know that Abbot Braumin Herde knows the man well enough
to agree to the choice," Francis admitted.

"And Abbot Je'howith?"

"It wasJe'howith who suggested Abbot Agronguerre," Francis explained.

Bou-raiy settled back in his chair, again in that pensive pose, again rub-
bing his hairless chin. Francis saw the disappointment, even anger, flash
across his face-particularly in his gray eyes-more than once, but he was
clearly a man in control of his emotions, and the dark cloud was but a tem-
porary thing.

To the left of Bou-raiy, Glendenhook seemed even more agitated, rub-
bing his thumbs across his ringers, even chewing his lip. They had hoped
that all the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle, particularly all the masters, would
rally behind Bou-raiy, but Machuso's grounded response had thrown those
hopes out in short order.

Francis looked back to Bou-raiy, could already see the man coming
to terms with the developments. Likely, he was thinking that Abbot
Agronguerre was an old man, probably with less than a decade of life left,
compared to Olin, who was barely into his fifties and in fine health. Yes,
Francis came to recognize, Bou-raiy was thinking that it might be wise to
throw his weight behind Agronguerre, virtually assuring the man of elec-
tion. He could then make himself indispensable to the new Father Abbot,
working himself into the position of heir apparent.

Yes, Bou-raiy was going to agree with this, Francis realized, and the
cause for Abbot Agronguerre was not hurt at all by the fact that Masters
Bou-raiy and Olin had never been friendly.

"We will take the issue under advisement," Bou-raiy decided, "with each
of us, and the other masters of St.-Mere-Abelle, coming to his own decision
on the matter."

"Agronguerre of St. Belfour is a fine choice," Machuso said, offering a
wink to Francis.

"Indeed," Master Timminey said again, with even more enthusiasm.

Francis glanced over at Baldmir to see if he might even get a third sup-
porter, but the old master's head was drooping, his rhythmic breathing
showing that he was fast asleep.

"Now, to the last matter we must herein discuss," Bou-raiy said, his voice
growing grave and dark. "We suffer greatly at the loss of so many
promising brothers."

"As do I," Francis replied.

"Yet you chose to pursue the goblin band and attack," Bou-raiy main-
tained, "when you obviously could have avoided the conflict."

"At the price of a village," Francis reminded.

"You have explained as much," Bou-raiy replied, holding his palm
toward Francis, ending the debate. "This, too, we must take under advise-
ment. We will appoint a brother inquisitor to study the matter."

Francis nodded: this was not unexpected, and he was confident that he
would be exonerated.

"Vespers will begin within the hour," Bou-raiy said before Francis could
continue with the only remaining part of his tale-that concerning the rosy
plague. Baldmir stirred, and, as one, the gathered masters looked out the
western window at the setting sun. "Let us go now and prepare."

As soon as he finished the sentence, the other brothers, except for
Francis and Bou-raiy, began sliding back their chairs, and that unques-
tioning obedience confirmed to Francis that Fio Bou-raiy had strengthened
his position considerably at St.-Mere-Abelle in the days since Markwart's
departure for Palmaris.

Francis, too, then started to rise, but Bou-raiy subtly motioned to him to
hold back. In a matter of moments, the two were alone.

"I have secured all of those brothers who returned with you," Bou-raiy
explained.

"Secured?"

"Separated them from their peers," Bou-raiy explained, and Francis' face
grew tight. "That we might ensure their understanding of what they have
seen."

"Concerning the plague," Francis reasoned.

"Concerning a sick woman and a scarred goblin," Bou-raiy corrected.

"I am not unversed in matters of the rosy plague," Francis curtly replied.

"Nor do I doubt your claims," Bou-raiy was quick to respond. "But,
dear brother, do you understand the implications of your discovery? Do
you realize the problems, the panic, the ostracism, the stonings, perhaps,
that such information could propagate if it became generally known
throughout the land? "

"That is why I only quietly relayed my beliefs to Laird Dinnishire,"
Francis replied.

"Yet you would have those fears spoken openly at St.-Mere-Abelle."

"We are the chosen of God," Francis reasoned, "the shepherds of the
common folk, the protectors. ..."

Bou-raiy snorted, shaking his head. "Protectors?" he echoed skeptically.
"Protectors? There are no protectors against the rosy plague, Master
Francis. Are we to protect the people by alarming them? "

"Warning them," Francis corrected.

" To what end? That they might see death coming? That they might live
in fear of their neighbors or of their own children? "

"We are to sit quietly, then, and take no action? " Francis asked.

"I do not doubt your observations, though I caution you that many other
diseases resemble the rosy plague," Bou-raiy explained. "And perhaps this
is some other sickness, since the goblins apparently escaped the disease
alive. Yes, we shall take precautions here at St.-Mere-Abelle, and perhaps
we will send word to the other abbots that they, too, might open their gates
only to a select few."

Francis, full of frustration, rose quickly, his chair sliding out behind him.
"What about them? " he demanded, swinging his arm wide, as if to encom-
pass the whole world.

Bou-raiy, too, rose from his chair, slowly and deliberately, hand planted
firmly on the table and leaning forward, so that even though he was nearly
ten feet away from Francis, the younger man felt his presence. "We do not
know that it was the rosy plague," he said. "And if it is indeed, then we do
not know how widespread it is, or will become. You are versed in the his-
tory of the plague, you say. Then you know that there have been instances
when it has scoured the world and other times when it struck in select
places, then disappeared of its own accord."

"And how are we to know which this will be, if we lock ourselves inside
our abbeys and open our gates only to a select few? "

"By the passage of months, of years," Bou-raiy answered solemnly.
"Knowledge is not power in this matter, my friend, for our knowledge of
the spreading plague, if it comes to that, will give us no power to slow it or
to stop it."

"The plague can be slowed," Francis argued. "If those who are diseased
remain apart from others-"

"This is something the people know already," Bou-raiy reminded him.
"And, in truth, it is a matter more for the King's soldiers than the brothers
of St.-Mere-Abelle. You know the old song, I presume, rhyme and verse.
You know what it says about the efficiency of gemstone magic against the
rosy plague."

Indeed, Master Francis Dellacourt knew the old words well, the old
words of gloom and of complete disaster.

Help to one in twenty
Dying people plenty

Stupid priest

Ate the Beast
And now can't help himself.

Praying people/allow
Into graves so hollow

Take their gems

Away from them
And cover them with dirt!

"One in twenty," Francis admitted, for in all those times past, the best
efforts of those brothers strongest in the gemstone magic had produced
healing in one in twenty of those afflicted whom they treated. And the
number of brothers who were then themselves infected because of their
healing attempts actually outweighed the number of those healed!
"So what are we to do? " Master Bou-raiy said, and for the first time since
his return, Francis noted some true empathy in the man's strong voice.
"But you fear too much, I believe," he went on, patting Francis' shoulder.
"You have been through such trials, brother, that I fear you are over-
whelmed and in need of rest. Perhaps what you witnessed were signs of the
plague, and perhaps not. And even if it is so, it may be no more than a
minor outbreak, afflicting a village or two, and nothing more."

"You did not see the faces of the dead woman's children," Francis
remarked.

"Death is a common visitor to Honce-the-Bear," Bou-raiy replied, "in
one form or another. Perhaps it has been much too common a visitor these
last years-certainly our own Order has buried far too many brothers."

The way he finished that sentence reminded Francis none too gently that,
because of Francis' choice, they were about to bury seven more.

"We will wait, and we will watch, and we will hope for the best," Bou-
raiy went on. "Because that is all we can do, and because we have
other pressing business, duties to the Order and to the people, that we can
perform."

"Behind closed gates," Francis remarked with sarcasm.

"Yes," Bou-raiy answered simply, and to Francis, that matter-of-fact, cal-
lous attitude hit hard right in the heart, a poignant echo of another promi-
nent brother he had recently buried.

CHAPTER 14

Trappings of Reputation

Tony rode her wonderful Greystone along beside the wagon, chatting
with Belster as he rolled and bounced along. The back of the rig was
full of supplies-food and drinks, some extra clothing, and the kegs
and other implements they'd need to rebuild Belster's tavern in Dundalis,
which they had just agreed would be named Fellowship Way.

The pair were in a fine mood this sunny day, approaching Caer Tinella
after a leisurely two-week journey from Palmaris, one marked by long visits
with one grateful farming family after another or quiet nights beside a fire
under the starry sky.

For Pony, the weight on her shoulders had lessened as soon as she had
left the turmoil of Palmaris behind her. Now she didn't have to worry about
politics and secret alliances, didn't have to consider the implications of her
every move. Up here, she was not Jilseponie, hero of the demon war, slayer
of evil Markwart. Up here, she was Pony, just Pony, the same little girl who
had grown strong and happy in Dundalis with Elbryan before the coming
of the goblins; the same warrior who had stood beside the ranger to protect
the folk and the lands from the demon hordes.

Here, she was not moving her horse carefully through the throngs of
people crowding the markets, but rather was riding him freely, feeling his
muscles beneath her as he thundered along. Often, she would take him out
across a field beside the road, for no better reason than to let him gallop, to
feel the freedom and the wind. She had brought a saddle with her, but
more often than not, she rode Greystone bareback.

She went off on yet another such jaunt, heading across a long, narrow
field. She spotted a downed tree lying in a tangle of brush, its trunk sus
pended more than half a man's height from the ground.

"Ho, what are ye thinking?" Belster called, seeing her smile spreading
wide, even from twenty feet away.

Pony didn't answer other than to urge Greystone into a canter and put
him in line.

She heard Bolster's complaints that she was a "crazy child," but they
seemed to come from far away as the wind roared past her ears. And then
she heard nothing as she took the horse in, so intense became her focus,
picking her spot.

Up Greystone went, rounding his muscled neck and shoulders, and Pony
rose to a half seat, her hands resting on his neck, her legs clamped tight
about Greystone's flanks, her body in perfect balance. As soon as they
landed, she turned her horse back toward the road, where she spotted Bel-
ster, the portly innkeeper shaking his head and giving one great resigned
sigh after another.

"Ye're to get yerself killed, girl," he said as she trotted past.

Pony just laughed and asked Greystone for a canter, aiming at the fallen
tree again.

And then a third time and a fourth, while Belster simply kept the wagon
rolling.

Pony caught up to him a few minutes later where the road wound around
a small hillock.

"Caer Tinella," the innkeeper announced, pointing north to where a
feather of smoke drifted into the air.

Pony slowed Greystone to a walk, cooling him down. Soon after, she dis-
mounted, tying Greystone to the back of the wagon and taking a seat beside
Belster.

"Done yer fun, then? " the innkeeper asked.

"Just beginning," Pony replied, "especially if my guess about that town is
right."

"Ah, the woman Kilronney," Belster replied, referring to a dear friend of
Pony's, a soldier from the Palmaris garrison who had helped her when she
had been separated from Elbryan.

Pony had seen the woman only once since the last battle. Imprisoned in
Chasewind Manor, under the kinder hand of King Danube, Colleen Kil-
ronney had been well on her way to recovering from the wounds she had
received during her battles beside Pony. But still, when Pony had at last
found her after the deaths of Elbryan and Markwart, Colleen was scarred,
physically and within her heart. She had resigned her position with the Pal-
maris garrison, despite a plea from her cousin Shamus-another friend of
Pony's-and from Duke Kalas himself.

In that brief meeting, all that Pony had gleaned from Colleen was that
she was tired and heading north to Caer Tinella.

It didn't take Pony and Belster long to find Colleen; the first villagers
they encountered directed them to a small cottage on the northeastern side
of town. Pony left Belster behind, riding Greystone quickly to the place,
then jumping down and running to the door.

Her eagerness and excitement diminished considerably when Colleen
Kilronney answered, for she seemed now a mere shell of her former self.
Once she had been square-shouldered and strong, but now her shoulders
sagged. Once her eyes had flashed with eagerness for battle, but now they
seemed almost glazed. Even Colleen's red hair seemed duller, as if the
whole woman had faded.

Pony held her hand out, and Colleen, a wide smile growing on her face,
reached for it, with her left hand, holding her right arm noticeably tight to
her side.

"What have you done?" Pony asked, hugging her friend, but taking care
not to pain her obviously injured right arm.

"Bad place for catching a sword," Colleen replied, still managing to
smile. She led Pony into her modest cottage, offering her a seat at a small
round table, then sitting beside her friend. "Ye're looking well," she said.
"Are ye gettin' past the pain? "

Pony sighed. "Will I ever?" she asked. Colleen put a hand on Pony's
shoulder-again, her left hand-and rubbed her.

"Let me see that wound," Pony said, reaching into her pouch and
bringing forth the soul stone.

"Oh, but they're lettin' ye keep one now? " Colleen asked. "Or did ye just
take the thing? "

Pony helped her to slip her tunic off, and she winced in sympathetic pain
when she saw Colleen's wound, scabbed now but a vicious slash across the
top of her biceps.

"Two weeks old," Colleen explained. "Thought I was to lose the arm."

Pony put a finger over the woman's lips, then dropped her hand down
onto the cut, rubbing the tender flesh. At the same time, she peered into the
soul stone, deeper and deeper into the swirling gray of the hematite, letting
herself fall into its magic. She made a connection to Colleen's wound, sent
her consciousness into the woman's torn muscles.

And then Pony took the injury back to herself, absorbed it with her
being. She felt a moment of excruciating pain, but held to her pur-
pose, enveloping, absorbing the wound, and then using her own strength
and the soul stone to heal the tears and make the scars into healthy flesh
once more.

Then Pony withdrew her spirit, but not before lingering a bit to try to get
a sense of the woman's general health. She wasn't thrilled with what she
sensed there, for it seemed to her as if Colleen's physical being was
somehow depleted, worn out.

A moment later, Pony opened her eyes to see Colleen already flexing her
arm, working it in small circles, apparently without pain.

"I was thinkin' o' comin' to ye for just that medicine," the woman
remarked, flashing her smile, "but I expected that ye'd be too busy for
helpin' the likes o' meself."

"Never that!" Pony assured her. She wrapped the woman in a hug again,
and this time, Colleen returned it with both arms.
"You have not been feeling well," Pony remarked when they sat back
again.

"I took more of a beatin' than I knew," Colleen confirmed. "I'm just
needin' the rest, is all."

"And the new wound?" Pony asked. "It does not seem that you are
finding much rest."

"A bigmouthed son of a drunken powrie," Colleen replied, "a man
named Seano Bellick. Used to be with the Palmaris garrison, same as
meself, and we never did like each other much. He's living in Caer Tinella
now, and nothing but trouble, I tell ye. We had a bit of a disagreement in
CaUicky's pub."

"A bit of a disagreement?" Pony echoed. "He nearly cut your arm off!"

"Got me good," Colleen admitted.

"Where can I find him? " Pony asked.

"Just provin' himself the better," Colleen said, waving the notion away.
"And so he was, but if I'd'a catched him in me better days-"

"It will heal," Pony promised.

"Mendin' already, and hardly hurtin' since ye went at it with yer gem-
stone," Colleen agreed. "Might that ye should wait a bit in town, so that ye
can put Seano's heart back in his chest after I'm done cuttin' it out."

They had a good laugh, but for Pony, it was bittersweet. The Colleen she
had first met in Dundalis would indeed have paid back Seano Bellick-or
any man for that matter-but Pony recognized that Colleen would not prove
to be much of a match for any seasoned warrior now. That notion stung Pony,
for Colleen had taken that initial, and lingering, beating during their flight
from Palmaris, from Markwart and De'Unnero, only for the sake of Pony.

"Will ye be stayin' long? " Colleen asked. "Or are ye runnin' right out for
Dundalis?"

" I wish you would join me."

"I've got me own home here," Colleen said with a shake of her head.
"We been through this before. Ye got yer own place and I've got mine. Oh,
I'll come and see ye, don't ye doubt-might even set me sights on Dundalis
for a home. But not now."

Pony didn't press the point. "I'll need an introduction to the mayor, or
whoever it is that leads Caer Tinella."

"That'd be Janine o' the Lake," Colleen replied, "a fine woman. But
what're ye thinkin' to do that ye're needin' to bother her? "

Belster O'Comely poked his head in the door then, and gave a great
shout at the sight of Colleen, then stalked across the room and gave her a
hug. "So did ye convince her to go north with us? " he asked Pony.

"I already told her that I'd not be runnin' across the wilds with a drunk
like Belster O'Comely beside me," Colleen replied, and both she and Bol-
ster laughed heartily.
Their comfort and familiarity gave Pony pause. Colleen and Belster
didn't know each other all that well, yet they seemed to be chatting like old
friends. Might there be some real feelings there, buried beneath a jovial
facade?

"But ye will come up and see us? " Belster asked.

"By the pigs, I will!" Colleen replied.

"Good enough then," said Belster. "I'll put a bottle o' me best boggle
aside for that fine day."

"Go get it now, and we'll make this one a fine day," Colleen suggested,
but before Belster could reply, he found Pony shaking her head.

"I need to speak withJanine," she said.

"So ye said, but ye didn't tell me why."

"We will set up a healing tent," Pony explained, "to tend to all those in
need."

"For whatever ails them?" Colleen asked skeptically. "Boils and corns, a
cut here and a sore belly there? "

Pony nodded, and Colleen's expression was one of incredulity.

"Them monks're allowing it? " she asked.

"The monks have no power to stop it," Pony said.

Within the hour, Belster and Pony had set up a tent in the small square at
the center of Caer Tinella, and word had been sent out through the town
and to the neighboring town of Landsdown. Folk came filtering in, slowly
at first, only those who already knew Pony and her exploits. But as it
became recognized that she was performing miraculous healing, the line at
the tent grew and grew.

So many folk of the two towns came-mostly with minor injuries or ail-
ments, but one with a serious tear near the knee and another quite sick
from eating rotten food-that Pony agreed to spend the night at Colleen's
and continue the healing for a second day.

Pony and Belster caused quite a stir in the region and caught the atten-
tion of all, including a trio of rough-looking fellows, former soldiers, and
another, quieter watcher, unseen among the boughs.

That quiet watcher paid heed to the other three and heard much of their
suspicious remarks, particularly when one said, "She should be south, far
south ofPalmaris, where they're finding the rosy plague."

Late the second afternoon, Pony and Belster loaded up their wagon and
set out again for the north. The weather was clear and warm, the breeze
gentle; the pair took an easy pace, enjoying the sights and smells of the
summertime forest. And indeed, it seemed obvious to Belster that his com-
panion was in a much better mood now than when they had set out from
Palmaris.

"Findin' a bit o' heart, are ye?" he asked her as the late-afternoon
shadows stretched across the path before them.
Pony glanced over at him, not really understanding.

"With the gemstones, I mean," Belster explained. "Ye did yer work with
more of a smile than I seen on ye for months, girl."

Pony shrugged, admitting nothing to Belster. To herself, though, she did
consider the innkeeper's words, and carefully. She felt good about the work
she had been doing since leaving Palmaris, felt as if she was making a bit of
difference in the world-though not on the scale that Brother Braumin or
King Danube had envisioned. Not changing the world itself, for that, she
had come to believe, was beyond anyone's control. But what she was doing
now was changing a little corner of the world, the lives of a few, and with
beneficial results. So yes, Pony's mood had lightened considerably.

They declined the offer of some farmers to sleep in their barn as twilight
descended, and instead went a bit farther down the road, out of sight of any
houses. When Pony spotted a small clearing beside the trail, she pulled the
wagon up for the night and untied the horses, setting them out to graze,
while Belster prepared a fine meal from the food the grateful people of Caer
Tinella had given them.

Soon the pair were relaxing and eating, staring up at the stars and lis-
tening to the night songs of the forest.

"This was our time," Pony remarked, drawing Bolster's attention from
the last tidbits of stew. "Nightbird's time," Pony explained. "We would sit
for hours, watching the sunset and the last glows of daylight, watching the
stars growing brighter and more numerous."

"It'll get easier," Belster promised.

Pony looked up at the stars and blinked back her tears. She could only
hope so.

She fell asleep soon after, but as on every night since Elbryan's fall, she
had a fitful, not restful, sleep. When she opened her eyes to find that it was
still dark, she was neither surprised nor alarmed. She lay there for a
moment, wondering what, if anything, had awakened her.

Greystone nickered-not a quiet, restful sound but one with a slight ele-
ment of alarm.

Pony lifted herself up on her elbows and glanced over at the tethered
horses. To the untrained eye, everything would have seemed fine, but
Pony's warrior instincts told her that something was amiss. Perhaps it was
the way Greystone now stood, muscles tensed as if preparing to bolt at the
slightest provocation. Or maybe it was the nighttime sounds, or lack
thereof, about her, the forest creatures watchful.

Pony stood up quiedy, staying low in a crouch and strapping her sword,
Defender, to her waist. She reached for her soul stone, thinking to fly out to
scout the area, but before she could even begin, she noted a movement
down the road a bit, a humanoid shape, a large man perhaps, moving delib-
erately toward their camp.
Many possibilities crossed Pony's mind; many things screamed out at her
to keep her on her guard. Why was anyone out at this late hour? And why
would anyone be alone on the road north of Caer Tinella at any time of
day? Or was this man alone? Greystone was behind Pony, at a good dis-
tance, while the approaching man was in front of her; and yet the horse had
apparently sensed his presence.

She kept all those disturbing thoughts in proper perspective, buried
them beneath the confidence of years of battle experience, and she slowly
rolled onto her side, not wanting to present a clear target to any archers
who might be nearby. She tucked one leg under her so that she could get
up in a hurry, and put her hand on her sword hilt.

The form came closer, walking with a determined stride and swinging
something-a battle-ax, perhaps-in one hand.

"That will be close enough, sir," Pony said suddenly, and the man jerked
to an abrupt halt.

A long moment of silence passed, and then the large man laughed and
brought his arms about, slamming his weapon against the flat of a metal
shield.

"What?" Belster groaned, rolling.

"Stay down," Pony instructed him. She rose up to a crouch, inching
toward the man and glancing all about, expecting that he had allies nearby.

"Are you the friend of the fool Kilronney? " the man bellowed, that alone
giving Pony a good idea of who this might be.

"And if I am? " Pony replied, as she neatly kicked at one of the smol-
dering branches on the fire. She slipped low and grabbed it up, giving a
shake so that the breeze brought a flare of life to it. By the time she had
taken two steps, the end of the branch was aflame, giving her a better view
of the man-and him, and any allies he might have, a fine view of her.

He didn't seem very old-mid-thirties perhaps-but his curly hair was
more silver than its previous blond, as was his full beard. He wore a sleeve-
less jerkin, showing hardened, muscled, hairy arms, with leather bracers
about his wrists. Even more notable to Pony, the man's shield was battered
and torn, and his axe head was notched from previous encounters.

"Seano Bellick," she remarked casually, moving closer to the man and
tossing the burning branch to the ground at her side-anything to make it
more difficult for any hidden associates the man might have to get a clear
shot at her.

The big man laughed.

"Who's here? " Belster called from behind.

"Stay back, near the wagon," Pony instructed sharply.

"Ah, you got nothing to fear from me," Seano Bellick said. "I come to
talk, not to fight, and I fight fair."

Pony's expression clearly revealed her serious doubts about that. There
was very little this man could say to calm her, she realized, for he had
injured her dear friend, and Pony almost hoped he would wade in and take
a swing with that cumbersome axe of his.

"Talk then," she said grimly.

Seano Bellick gave a great belly laugh. "A spirited one, eh?" he said.

"You could have spoken to me in the town," Pony retorted. "My where-
abouts were no secret."

Bellick shrugged. "Well, I found you now."

Pony didn't blink, didn't return her hand to Defender's hilt, confident
that she could draw and thrust before the man could take a step.

"You got quite the reputation about here," Seano said. "Fighting goblins
and powries and even giants, so it's said about Pony."

"Jilseponie," the woman corrected, and Seano bowed.

"So it's said about Jilseponie," he remarked. "And now you come into
town and fix the torn fingernails and the blisters and the bad-food stomach.
Making a name for yourself."

Pony wanted to argue that if he really thought she had done, and was
doing, all that in the hopes of making a name for herself, that he was sorely
mistaken; but she quickly came to the conclusion that this thug wasn't
worth the time to explain-and wouldn't begin to understand her, anyway.

Seano nodded his head. It was quite clear to Pony where this was going,
though she had no intention of making it easier for the man by instigating
any action.

"I doubt not that the reputation is well earned, Po-Jilseponie," Seano
said. "And that makes it all the sweeter for me. Take out that fancy sword
of yours and show me what you been showing goblins."

"Walk away," Pony replied. "I've got nothing for you, Seano Bellick.
Not half the reputation you seem to think you can earn this night and not
enough wealth to make a fight worth your time or effort. Put up your ugly
axe and walk away, south to Caer Tinella or into the deep forest where a
bear can take you, if that is your pleasure."

"Nothing I want?" Seano echoed skeptically. "Why, taking you down'd
make the name of Seano Bellick feared from Palmaris to Caer Tinella,
would make Duke Kalas know what a fool was Bildeborough for cutting me
out before he got killed."

The words hardly surprised Pony.

"Nothing I want?" Seano said again, even more incredulously. "Why,
you got a magic gemstone, girlie. A prize most appreciated by all of them
about, now that you've shown what it can do."

"And know that you have no power with it," Pony remarked.

"But others will be wanting it," Seano snapped back, his agitation obvi-
ously increasing. "And others'd pay for it with good gold. And, besides, if I
got your stone, then others'll know I took it from you, that you didn't give it
to me agreeably.
"So give it over and save me the trouble, and yourself the pain, of me
taking it from you," he finished, flashing a nearly toothless, ugly grin.

Pony paused for a long moment, sizing the fellow up. Still she kept
Defender in its sheath. "I expect that my reputation is not nearly as impres-
sive as you make it sound," she answered slowly and very calmly, "at least,
not to you."

"I've a bit of a reputation of my own," the big man replied.

"One I know well," Pony answered. She took a deep, steadying breath,
clearing out her anger and replacing it with simple pragmatism and gener-
osity. "Seano Bellick," she said, again in calm and perfectly controlled
tones, "while I'd dearly love to pay you back for the pain you have caused
to my friend-"

"Another tough girlie," he interjected snidely.

Pony winced, thinking that Colleen, if she had been in top fighting form,
would have had little trouble with this braggart. "I choose to fight not at all
with humans," she went on. "The world is full of enough enemies without
us making war on each other. So, with that in mind, I offer you now, indeed
I beg you, to put up your axe and walk off."

"Give me the gemstone and away I go," Seano said.

Pony slowly shook her head. "Do not do this."

"Are ye all right, girl?" Belster called. Pony couldn't afford even the
slightest bit of her attention for the innkeeper, and so she ignored the
remark, her focus squarely on Seano.

"Take out your sword," the big man said.

"Walkaway."

"Last warning."

"Walkaway."

Predictably, Seano Bellick roared and leaped at Pony, and her sword
snapped out in the blink of Seano's eye, stabbing ahead, forcing the man to
rise to his tiptoes, suck in his gut, and skid to an abrupt halt. To his credit,
Seano improvised well, slashing his axe to hold Pony back, then advancing
as he came across with a wicked backhand slash, and then a third straight-
across slash, to hold Pony at bay while he regained his balance and took a
defensive posture.

A sudden thought came to Pony to go for her soul stone, to fall into
its depths and invade this thug's mind, overpowering his will and forcing
him to run off. "No," she answered that pacific notion as Seano roared
and came on again, feigning a downward chop, then falling back slightly,
then stutter-stepping suddenly ahead, launching a wicked slash that missed
the backing Pony. "No," Pony said again, more determinedly, coming to the
realization that she didn't want to chase him off, that she wanted to pay
him back for his treatment of Colleen, and even more than that, that she
wanted to use this deserving target to unleash all of her months of pent-up
frustrations.
"No, don't you run off, Seano Bellick," she whispered. The big man eyed
her skeptically and attacked again-missing again as the nimble woman
skittered back, one, two, three steps, always in perfect balance.

Seano paused and stared at her, and Pony understood, for the man had
never seen anyone moving in battle quite the way she did. This was bi'nelle
dasada; and in it, the only movement in the retreat was in the legs, while the
torso remained balanced and on center. Elbryan had often referred to this
forward-and-back skittering as spiderlike, an appropriate description to
Pony's thinking.

"You're a quick one," Seano bellowed, "but one blow of my axe will split
you in two!"

Pony didn't bother to respond, didn't even blink. Seano howled all the
louder and banged his axe head against his metal shield. Even as that clang
sounded, the big man exploded into a charge, holding his shield up.

Pony's responding thrust slipped her sword tip around to the inside of
the shield, but it seemed to Seano that he had gained an advantage. On he
came, shoving his shield forward to put Defender out of the way, then
swiping his axe across viciously.

Pony ducked it, then ducked the ensuing backhand. By the time Seano
came with the third vicious slash, she had slipped out to the side, out of his
reach.

Now she suddenly had the advantage, and she stabbed ahead with
Defender, forcing Seano to alter the angle of his next backhand to fend
off the rushing blade. He did this beautifully-even Pony nodded her
appreciation for the cunning parry-though he nearly lost his awkward
weapon in the process. Then he rolled his shield arm forward, putting the
defensive barrier between himself and Pony once more.

She hit that shield with three sharp raps, Defender's fine silverel blade
creasing it twice and cutting a small line in the metal on the third slash.

Seano flashed his toothless smile, but there was a wince there, Pony rec-
ognized, for the battering had likely stung his shield arm.

"You should have one of these," the man taunted, lifting his shield.

Pony hit the metal again, hard, and then jumped back as Seano's heavy
axe swiped harmlessly across.

"Just slows you down," she replied confidently. To illustrate her point,
she launched her first real attack, sliding forward with three quick steps and
coming in with a hard thrust that got inside the blocking shield. She had
him beaten with the move, but couldn't go too deep with the cut, for
Seano's axe was quickly swinging her way again. Pony did manage to stick
the man in the belly, enough to draw blood through the newest hole in his
ragged tunic.

"I'll make you pay for that!" he promised, and he came on in a rage.

Pony kept back from the first swing and backhand, ducked the second as
she slipped in past his hip, reversing her grip and scoring another minor hit.
She rushed by, then dropped to roll ahead of the next backhanded axe
swing.

She came up in time to pick off Seano's next cut with a neatly angled
diagonal parry, so that his axe slid out and down.

And then she had him, or would have, had not a noise to the side and
Bolster's cry distracted her. She told herself repeatedly that she shouldn't
be surprised to see that Seano had brought a couple of friends-both
holding bows.

"You are the better fighter," Seano admitted, "for what good that'll do
you."

"Did you not claim that you fight fair? " Pony protested.

"And so I did," said Seano. "But now I'm not fighting. No, girlie, now
I'm thieving, so just be handing over that gemstone, and me and me friends
will be on our merry way."

Pony eyed him and made no movement to retrieve the gemstone or to
put up her sword.

"My archer friend can get your companion where he's sitting," Seano
remarked.

"Belster," Pony called.

"I see them," the innkeeper replied. "A pair with bows."

"Are you clear to their aim? "

"Got a wagon right beside me," Bolster explained.

Seano gave a chuckle. "Are you to make it more difficult, then?" he
asked. "More's the pity. To think that my friend will have to take you
down."

Pony reached into her pouch and pulled forth the hematite, and Seano
put a greedy hand out for it.

She didn't immediately turn it over, but stood there, staring at the gem-
stone, sending her thoughts into it, accepting its magic and blending that
energy with her own.

And then she came out of her body, with enough magical strength to
focus her thoughts into something tangible, to project an image of herself,
elongated, twisted, and demonic. That horrifying image appeared before
the two archers, issuing a hellish shriek, the specter's mouth opening wide.

The two archers fell back, crying out, and tripped over their own feet
trying to run back into the forest.

"What?" she heard Seano Bellick cry, and she rushed back into her
body, coming on guard immediately, and not a moment too soon; for the
big man, apparently sensing some kind of betrayal, leaped forward, his
mighty axe leading, a straightforward, downward chop aimed for Pony's
forehead.

Purely on instinct, and faster than Seano could have believed possible,
the woman's warrior reflexes took over. She lunged suddenly, her sword tip
meeting the descent of the axe, chipping into the wooden handle just below
the head, before Seano could gain any momentum.

In the same fluid movement, Pony disengaged, retracting her blade but
an inch, then slipping it under Seano's axe and rotating her arm across and
down, taking Seano's weapon along for the ride.

The man should have let go, surrendering the weapon, but he hadn't
even really registered the parry yet, let alone the counter, and soon his arm
had rotated in and down.

Pony slipped her blade free and brought Defender up over the axe
handle and quickly across. And then she fell back, sputtering, as blood
splashed across her face.

It had all happened in the blink of an eye, and Seano Bellick's weapon-
and the hand still holding it-fell to the ground.

The big man howled, throwing his shield aside and falling to his knees,
clutching his wrist, trying to stop the spurting blood.

After the instant of shock, Pony knew that she could not pay him any
heed. She turned and started to sprint toward the spot where the archers
had been, but she hadn't gone two strides before the pair reappeared, bows
drawn and ready.

Pony slowed, staring hard at the men, noting the trembling of their fin-
gers, studying every aspect of them, body and weapon, in an attempt to find
a way. She didn't think it likely that either would hit her, so unnerved they
seemed, and yet. . .

"Are you still intent on this fight? " she asked sternly, walking slowly but
deliberately toward the pair. She was balancing here, measuring a guess
against practicality. One line of reasoning told her to stay back, that the
darkness and the distance would make their shots all the more difficult. A
second line of thought told Pony to intimidate these already unnerved men
to the maximum, make them see their doom, shake them so badly that they
could hardly loose an arrow, let alone hit anything.

Then she caught a glimmer from their metal arrowheads.

"Ye give us the stone and we're on our way," the smaller of the pair
demanded, his cap, a triangular huntsman's affair, pulled low, accentuating
his dark eyes. He was the more dangerous of the two, Pony noted, the
steadiest of hand and, likely, the better shot.

"I will give you nothing," Pony replied, "but will take from you more
than your hands, I promise!" She ended with a hiss and a flourish with her
arms, and the larger man cried out and ran away, but the smaller growled
and let fly his arrow.

As soon as he did, the man screeched and grabbed at his face, a great
convulsion racking his frame. And then he dropped to the ground.

Pony didn't see it, focusing instead on the arrow's flight, aimed straight
for her heart and too fast for her possibly to deflect. She did instinctively
bring her sword across, and with hardly a conscious effort, sent her fears
into Defender, a sword so named because of the line of small magnetites,
lodestones, set into its guard.

In response those magnetites sent forth their waves of attracting energies,
grabbing at the metal arrowhead, altering its course enough so that the
guard intercepted it and held the missile fast.

Stunned, Pony looked down at the sword, at the arrow held there, the
arrow that, she knew, would have skewered her.

Then she looked back to the archer, lying very still. Had his own friend
shot him? "Belster?" she called.

"Are ye all right, girl?" he asked from over by the wagon. Pony knew
then that he had played no part in this. Confused, Pony went to the archer,
lying facedown, and she grew even more perplexed, for the man showed no
wound on his back.

Crouching beside him, her eyes scanning the forest for signs of trouble,
her ears trying to tune away from Seano Bellick's continuing wails, the
woman rolled the archer over.

He was dead, still clutching his face, his hand over his left eye. Pony
pulled that hand away and found her answer in the form of a tiny arrow
shaft, protruding from the torn socket.

"Juraviel? " the woman whispered hopefully, turning, her eyes going up
to the boughs.
CHAPTER 15

Across the Gulf

It was a lump of rock in the middle of nowhere, bound on one side
by the Gulf of Corona and on the other by the ferocious and cold
water of the great Mirianic Ocean. A hundred people called this
island, Dancard, home, mostly soldiers serving the Coastpoint Guards at
Pireth Dancard, the twin-towered fortress rising above the surf.

They were hardy folk here, making their living harvesting the great
strands of kelp and fishing. They suffered storms and giant sharks, and had
repelled a sizable powrie attack in the demon war. But even when they
talked of that heroic battle, the folk of Dancard did so with a stoic attitude,
without excitement. Hardy and dour, pragmatic and accepting their lot in
life, the folk of Dancard-soldier and civilian alike-depended upon them-
selves and each other, and were not very trusting of visitors. But neither
were they hostile, and they had taken in the Saudi ]acintha for repairs and
had helped resupply the ship, though Captain Al'u'met had not even asked
for that much.

Brother Dellman was glad to be leaving, though, as the ship glided out of
the one harbor along the island's treacherous coast. The Saudi ]acintha had
been out of Palmaris for more than a month, and had expected to be in
Pireth Vanguard by this time, but bad luck and some broken rigging had
forced the ship to limp into an unplanned stop in Dancard.

"A stern group of men and women," remarked Captain Al'u'met, a tall
and straight man with the dark skin and woolly hair indicative of his Behre-
nese heritage. Al'u'met was indeed a rarity in Honce-the-Bear, particularly
this far north. While there was a sizeable Behrenese quarter in the dock
area of Palmaris, few of the dark-skinned southerners were ever able to find
any employment beyond simple manual work, if they were fortunate
enough to find any work at all; and no Behrenese, outside the region near
Entel, the very southernmost city of Honce-the-Bear, had risen anywhere
near as high a level as captain of a sailing ship. There was nothing typical
about Al'u'met. He was Abellican, not a follower of the yatols of his home-
land, and was among the most impressive men Brother Holan Dellman had
ever met, a man who commanded respect upon mere sight.

"They have to be to survive, I suppose," Brother Dellman replied.

"Good folk," Al'u'met added with a nod, then he turned from the taffrail
and headed forward, the young monk right behind.

"How long before we see land? " Dellman asked.

"You can see it right now if you look behind us," Al'u'met said with
a chuckle, but the humor was lost on poor Dellman and on several of
the other crewmen who had heard the remark, for they were all weary
of staring out at empty ocean. Captain Al'u'met cleared his throat
and explained, "Two weeks if the wind stays steady, but once land is
in sight, we'll not have far left to run, for our course is straight to Pireth
Vanguard now."

Brother Dellman leaned on the rail and stared ahead. "So be it," he said,
reminding himself silently of the solemn duty Abbot Braumin had put upon
him. He would be the abbot's principal adviser this fall, when the votes
would be cast for the new father abbot. He was to take a measure of Abbot
Agronguerre, and his judgment upon the man alone could well determine
the course of the Abellican Church.

With that in mind, Brother Holan Dellman offered no complaints-to
Al'u'met or to anyone else.

And so it went, day after day, until, just under a week later, the crewman
in the crow's nest called out, "A sail! Due north."

Brother Dellman looked up from his deck cleaning. He saw Al'u'met
stride by, heading for the prow, and so he followed in the dark man's wake.

"The same one? " he asked, for the Saudi Jacintha had been trailing a ship
for a couple of days before she put into Pireth Dancard. It had been barely
a speck on the horizon at first, though the swift Saudi ]acintha had closed
the distance considerably, enough for the lookout to get a decent view
of the small vessel, an older ship with a single mast and a bank of oars.
As the SaudiJacintha had neared, those oars had set to work, keeping their
distance.

"Not many sail this part of the gulf," Al'u'met answered, "at this season
or any other." He looked up at the crow's nest. "What do you make of it?"
he called.

"Single square sail," the crewman answered.

"Same as before?"

"Under no flag that I can see," the man confirmed.

Al'u'met looked at Dellman. "I suspect it is the same ship," he said.
"Though why an old square-rigged reme would be out so far from the
coast, I cannot begin to guess."

Dellman looked up at the Saudi Jacmtha's sails, full of wind, and figured
they'd have their answers soon enough.

*      *      *
"Yach, a chaser!" came the cry from the lookout on that square-masted
reme.

Dalump Keedump kicked a bucket across the deck and stormed to the
taffrail, cursing at every step.

"Yer friend Duke Kalas," another powrie, Dokie Ruggs, grumbled,
storming to the rail beside the powrie leader. "Set us out 'ere to die, 'e did!"

"We're not knowin' that!" the powrie leader screamed. "Could be a
trader or one bringin' supplies to that castle we passed, and now, mighten
be goin' to another up north."

"Yach, but ye're hopin', and not believin' yer own words," Dokie Ruggs
answered, and several others nearby nodded in agreement. "It be Kalas, I
say. Sent us out here in this leaky tub and sent that one out behind to put us
to the bottom, 'e did!"

"She was flyin' a flag o' Palmaris," another remarked.

"Half the stinkin' boats o' the human lands fly the flag o' Palmaris,"
Dalump argued.

"It be Kalas," insisted Dokie. "She'd o' had us afore, if she hadn't blown
her rigging, and now she'll catch us for sure. And us without a way to even
fight back!"

Dalump Keedump leaned heavily on the rail to consider his options-
and those seemed very few to the powrie leader at that time. He wasn't cer-
tain that Dokie Ruggs and the others had it right, for he trusted Duke
Kalas, somewhat. He and his fellows had performed well for the man, and
with their help, Kalas had secured his position in Palmaris. But there was
simply no reason for Kalas to have gone to the trouble of giving Dalump
and his fellows a ship, then chasing them all the way across the Gulf of
Corona to sink them. Kalas could have let them all die in the dungeons of
Chasewind Manor, without anyone knowing about it.

No, Dalump Keedump wasn't convinced that his frightened kindred
were right, but still, whatever this ship might be, it represented danger.
What might she do, even if she was just a trader, if she found a barely sea-
worthy old bucket like this one thick with powries? And powries unable to
defend themselves! Every human sailor had reason to hate powries.

Dalump looked over his shoulder at the empty water before his creak-
ing old ship, then looked back to the southern horizon, though the sail
of the pursuing ship wasn't visible from the deck yet. The powrie leader
knew that he'd have to send his fellows to the oars again, and soon, bending
their backs to compensate for the meager power the little square sail was
providing.

That notion gave Dalump some hope, though, for none in all the world
could row as strong and as long as a powrie, and he had a crew whose lives
depended upon it.

*      *      *
The Saudi Jacintha closed very slowly over the next few days, close
enough to see that the other boat's oars were hard at work. On the morning
of the fifth day, the lookout informed Al'u'met that the reme had turned
more to the east, and the captain, curious as to why this boat was so intent
on staying ahead of his ship, which flew no war flags, ordered his crew to
follow. Soon after, the square-masted reme turned back to the north.

"They are trying to avoid us, obviously," Al'u'met informed Brother
Dellman.

"And to no harm," the monk replied, trying to stay focused on his critical
mission here, though he, too, was more than a little curious about the
strange reme.

Al'u'met considered the man's reply for a few moments, then nodded.
"If she turns again, we'll not pursue," he said, "though I am not fond of
allowing such a ship to sail the gulf without some explanation."

"My dear Captain Al'u'met, you are not in service to Duke Bretherfbrd,"
Dellman said lightly, referring to the King's man who commanded the
Honce-the-Bear naval forces.

"But I am in service to all other traders who sail the region," Al'u'met
replied, "as are they to me and my crew. It is a brotherhood out here, my
friend, one that we all need to survive against the unspeakable power of the
Mirianic. But my debt to you and your brethren is no less-well do I
remember the services your allies performed for my people on the docks of
Palmaris, when all the rest of the world seemed against us. I will deliver
you, as promised, and as soon as I may. Perhaps I will find our reme friend
on my return from Vanguard."

Brother Dellman bowed and went back to his voluntary duties on deck.
Every so often, he glanced northward, shielding his eyes from the glare off
the water, and once or twice he thought he saw the distant sail.

They lost sight of the ship the next morning, when a thick fog came up.
The wind was light, and it took the fog a long time to dissipate. When at
last it was clear again, the reme, as much oar-powered as wind-driven, had
moved out of sight.

Captain Al'u'met, Brother Dellman, and all the rest of the crew tried to
put it out of mind, as well.

And so the days slipped past, and the wind came up strong again, and
sure enough, the square sail appeared at the edge of the horizon once more.

But the weather was worsening, and they found that night full of rain and
the next morning full of fog yet again, and when it at last cleared, the next
evening after that, the captain and crew were greeted not by a distant sail,
but by a distant light, high above the water.

"Pireth Vanguard," Al'u'met informed Dellman and all the others.

The next morning, the Saudi ]acintha floated beside the long wharf of the
northernmost Honce-the-Bear fortress.
+ + + + + + + + + + +
Another ship put in that morning as well, but into a sheltered bay some
five miles north. The powries had pushed the old reme to her limits, and
now she was badly in need of some repairs to oars and to mainmast. The
bedraggled powries, rowing hard for a week and a half, needed the respite,
as well, and more important, to Dalump Keedump's thinking, needed
some real weapons, something they could throw from a distance at the pur-
suing ship or any others they might find on the open Mirianic. Also, the
Weathered Isles, the powries' home and goal, were a long way away, and a
few supplies would surely raise the morale of Dalump's overworked and
underfed crew.

Perhaps that pursuing ship would discover them here and come in for
the kill. Dalump and his tough powries didn't fear humans, not even the
Allheart knights, and while they had no heart for fighting them out on the
open water-not in this rickety and defenseless ship, at least-they'd be
more than happy to do battle on land.

But for that, too, they'd need weapons, something Duke Kalas had flatly
refused to provide-not even a spear for sticking fish. So now half the
weary crew went to work with renewed vigor, cutting branches and fashion-
ing crude bows and spears and clubs, while others worked to ready the
ship, and still others went out to scout the region.

Dalump didn't say it, but he and all the others were also hoping their
scouts might happen upon a cluster of houses, scantily guarded, where the
crew might find some fun at the expense of a few wretched humans.

The docks were quiet that morning; with the inclement weather and a
few days of fine catches before it, the Vanguard fishing fleet had not ven-
tured out in force.

The Saudi Jacintha had been guided in by a pair of soldiers, wearing the
red uniforms of the famed Coastpoint Guards. The two started somewhat,
seeing a Behrenese man piloting the craft, but their trepidation was tem-
pered a bit when they noted an Abellican monk standing beside the cap-
tain, chatting easily.

As soon as the Saudi]acintha was secured to the wharf and its gangplank
lowered, the captain and Brother Dellman made ready to disembark. "Per-
mission to go ashore? " Al'u'met asked.

"Granted, for yerself and the brother," one of the soldiers answered.
"Warder Presso will want to speak with ye before giving a general invitation."

"Fair enough," said Al'u'met, and he and Dellman moved off the ship
and followed the pair up a long stairway carved out of the stone cliff, into
Pireth Vanguard and to the office of Warder Constantine Presso.

"Al'u'met," the warder said as soon as the pair entered. He rose and
came around his desk, obviously familiar with the Behrenese captain. "How
long has it been, my old friend? "
"Back in the days when you served at Pireth Tuime," Al'u'met replied,
"long before the war."

They shook hands warmly, and Al'u'met introduced his old friend to
Brother Dellman.

"I have brought him for a meeting with Abbot Agronguerre," Al'u'met
explained. "Many tidings from the south, some wondrous, some painful."

"We have heard rumors, but nothing substantial," Presso replied.
"Know that, at last, and through the tireless work of our Prince Midalis, the
goblin scum have been cleansed from our land."

Al'u'met nodded. "We will tell our tale in full to Abbot Agronguerre,"
he said. "I believe that Warder Presso would also be welcomed at that
meeting, if he was so inclined." He looked to Brother Dellman as he
spoke, deferring to the man but making it quite clear that he trusted Presso
implicitly.

"If he is a friend of Al'u'met, then welcome he is," the monk said with a
respectful bow.

"To St. Belfour, then," Warder Presso said, and he led the way out of the
office, giving orders to his men to make Al'u'met's crew most welcome, and
to get a detail inspecting the ship.

The trio rode comfortably in the warder's carriage through the wood-
lands to the small clearing and the stone structure of St. Belfour. Abbot
Agronguerre was quite busy this day, but he and Brother Haney made time
for them.

"The College of Abbots will convene in Calember," Brother Dellman
explained as soon as the formal introductions were ended. "We will take
you there in the Saudi ]acintha, if you please."

"Three months?" Agronguerre asked, looking mostly to Al'u'met. "That
is a long time in a fine season for a trader to be tied up, is it not? "

"I am indebted to your-to my-Church, Abbot Agronguerre,"
Al'u'met explained, "and mostly to those who bade me to bring Brother
Dellman here and to deliver both of you to St.-Mere-Abelle. It is a service I,
and my crew, willingly offer."

"Most generous," said Abbot Agronguerre. "But perhaps the second
part will prove unnecessary. If I am to go to the College, as surely I am, then
I will need transport back soon after, and better if it is a Vanguard ship,
that it can dock the winter through at Pireth Vanguard."

Al'u'met looked to Dellman, but the young brother wasn't prepared to
answer that logic at that time.

"We will discuss it at length," Al'u'met said, "but no need for haste. Let
us tell you of the events in Palmaris and in the southern part of the
kingdom, momentous events indeed."

"Father Abbot Markwart is dead," Agronguerre remarked, "so said
one trader who came through. Killed by a man named Nightbird and the
woman Pony."
"Jilseponie," Brother Dellman corrected. "Elbryan Wyndon, known as
Nightbird, and his wife, Jilseponie, who is often called Pony."

"And they are outlaws?" asked the abbot.

"Nightbird was killed in the battle," Dellman explained. "And far from
an outlaw, Jilseponie is now hailed as the hero of the kingdom."

Abbot Agronguerre wore a perplexed expression indeed!

Brother Dellman took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. He had
to go back to the beginning, he realized, to bring this man through the
last tumultuous year in the southern reaches of Honce-the-Bear, and the
western stretch, all the way through the Timberlands and up to the Bar-
bacan and the miracle at Mount Aida.

The three Vanguardsmen listened intently, leaning forward so far in their
seats that they seemed as if they would topple onto the floor. Brother
Haney repeatedly brought his right hand up before his face, making the
gesture of the blessing of the evergreen, particularly when Dellman told of
the events at Mount Aida, at Avelyn's grave, when the blessed arm of the
martyred brother shot forth waves of energy to utterly destroy the horde of
goblins that had trapped Dellman and his companions on that forlorn
plateau.

And Agronguerre, too, made the sign of the evergreen when Brother
Dellman told of the final battle at Chasewind Manor, of the fall of
Markwart-from grace and from life.

When he ended, the three Vanguardsmen sat there silently for a long,
long time. Brother Haney looked to his abbot repeatedly, deferring to
Agronguerre's wisdom before he voiced his own thoughts.

"Where is this woman Jilseponie now?" the abbot asked.

"She went home-to the Timberlands and a town called Dundalis,"
Al'u'met explained. "There lies her husband."

"An impressive woman," Agronguerre remarked.

"You cannot begin to understand the depth of her heroism," Al'u'met
was pleased to reply. "In the time of Bishop De'Unnero and the last days of
Father Abbot Markwart, my people were being persecuted brutally in Pal-
maris, and Jilseponie stood strong beside us, risking all for folk she did not
even know. There is a goodness there, and a strength."

"None is stronger in the use of the sacred gemstones," Brother Dellman
remarked, and both Agronguerre and Haney gasped and made the ever-
green sign.

"Both the Church and King Danube himself recognized it within her,"
Al'u'met went on. "She was offered both the barony of Palmaris and a high
position within your Church, as abbess of St. Precious, or even ..." He
paused and looked to Dellman.

"There was talk of nominating her as mother abbess of the Abellican
Church," Dellman admitted. "Proposed by Master Francis Dellacourt-"

"Markwart's lackey," Agronguerre interrupted. "Well I know Brother
Francis from the last College of Abbots. I found him most disagreeable, to
be honest."

"Master Francis has seen the error of his ways," Brother Dellman assured
him. "He saw it on the face of his dying Father Abbot, and heard it in the
last words, of repentance, that Markwart spoke to him."

"It has been an interesting year," Abbot Agronguerre said with a pro-
found sigh.

"I should like to meet thisJilseponie," Warder Presso remarked.

"She once served in your Coastpoint Guard," Brother Dellman
told him, and the Warder nodded appreciatively. "Indeed, she was at
Pireth Tuime when the powries invaded, perhaps the only survivor of that
massacre."

That widened Presso's eyes, and he stared hard at Dellman. "Describe
her," he demanded.

"Beauty incarnate," ATu'met said with a chuckle.

Dellman was more specific, holding up his hand to indicate that Pony
was about five foot five. "Her eyes are blue and her hair golden," he said.

"It could not be," Warder Presso remarked.

"You know her? " Al'u'met asked him.

"There was a woman at Pireth Tuime who went by the name ofJill,"
Presso explained. "She had been indentured into the King's army-
something about a failed marriage with a nobleman-and had worked her
way into the Coastpoint Guard. But that was years ago."

"A failed marriage to Connor Bildeborough, nephew of Baron Bilde-
borough of Palmaris," Brother Dellman explained, smiling, for he knew
that they were indeed speaking of the same remarkable woman. "A mar-
riage that could only fail, since Jilseponie's heart was ever for Elbryan."

"Amazing," Warder Presso breathed.

"You do know her, then," said Agronguerre.

Presso nodded. "And even then, she was impressive, good Abbot. A
woman of high moral character and strength of heart and of arm."

"That would be her," said a smiling Al'u'met.

"We can decide on your passage at a later date," Brother Dellman said to
Abbot Agronguerre. "In the meantime, I have been instructed to spend the
summer in Vanguard, and truly, I do wish to see this wondrous land."

"And you are most welcome, Brother Dellman," said the congenial
Agronguerre. "There is much room here at St. Belfour, and with so many
brothers off in the north with Prince Midalis, an extra set of hands would
greatly help."

"And Captain Al'u'met and his crew will stay with me at Pireth Van-
guard," said Warder Presso. "I, too, find myself shorthanded, with many
soldiers on the road with my Prince."

"And when do you expect their return?" Al'u'met asked.

"We have heard rumors that it will be soon," Presso replied. "They
ventured to southern Alpinador with the barbarian leader Bruinhelde
and the ranger Andacanavar, repaying the northmen for their aid in our
struggles."

"An alliance with Alpinador? " Captain ATu'met asked skeptically.

Warder Presso shrugged. "That is a story for another day, I suspect," he
answered when there came a soft knock on Abbot Agronguerre's door.

"Vespers," the abbot explained, rising. "Perhaps you would lead us in
our prayers this evening, Brother Dellman."

Dellman rose from his chair and bowed respectfully. He stared at
Agronguerre, continuing to take the measure of the man. If first impres-
sions meant anything at all, though, Dellman suspected that he would
indeed be recommending that Braumin Herde and the others nominate this
man for the position of father abbot.
CHAPTER 16

Too Much Akin

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 bol-
ster 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

i97

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 con-
tinuing 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 Tim-
miney 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 be-
low 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 strong-
featured 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 rea-
soning 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 under-
stood 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 first-
year 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 Tel-
larese 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 volumi-
nous 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 ban-
daged, 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 him-
self. 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 Mark-
wart, 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 pres-
ence 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 Tel-
larese 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 reso-
nated 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 Abel-
lican 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 bed-
sheets, 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.-Mere-
Abelle 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 occa-
sion, 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 Mark-
wart, 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 contem-
plations, 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 Bou-
raiy. "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," Bou-
raiy 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 care-
fully, 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 pre-
vious 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 dif-
ferent 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 com-
passion 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 Bou-
raiy 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.
CHAPTER 17

Pilfering Old Friends

"arrgh! Put it back! Put it back!" Seano Bellick roared. He fell
to his knees, grabbing at his bloody stump, his hand lying a
few feet away, still clutching the handle of his axe.

Pony walked right by him, paying him no heed. " Belli'mar Juraviel? " she
called. "Are you about? Or another of the Touel'alfar, then? To be sure, I
know that arrow!"

"What're ye talkin' about, girl?" Belster O'Comely asked, coming
around the wagon.

"My hand!" Seano howled. "Put it back, I say! Use your magic, I beg
you!"

"I cannot put your hand back on your arm," Pony said sharply, turning
on him with a snarl.

"You must!"

"There is no such magic!" Pony scolded, and it took all of her willpower
to stop her from walking over and kicking the ugly brute in the face.

Seano Bellick wailed pitifully, still clutching at his torn stump. He reached
for the hand with his remaining one, but recoiled as his fingers neared it,
too afraid to even touch the gruesome thing. And he had to bring his hand
back to his stump, for as soon as he let it go, the blood started spurting all
over again.

"I'll bleed out!" the man cried. "Oh, but you killed me! Oh, you witch
woman! You killed me!"

Belster walked up beside Pony, the two staring at the pitiful sight.
"What're ye thinkin'?" Belster asked, for Pony made no move, either for
her gemstone or for any bandages. She just stood there, staring at Seano
Bellick as the man's lifeblood trickled forth.

"Girl?" Belster asked, after a long moment passed without her showing
any intention of responding.

"Bleeding out," Seano said, his voice weaker, breaking with sobs.

"I believe that Belli'mar Juraviel or one of his kin is about," Pony said to

Belster, turning away from Seano. "The archer was felled by a Touel'alfar
arrow, right through the eye."

"What of it?" Belster asked, motioning toward Seano.

"Am I not worthy of your healing, good woman?" Seano pleaded. "You
then," he said to Belster.

"Are ye to be judgin' them ye mean to heal? " Belster asked in all serious-
ness, but to Pony's back, for she'd started away, looking up at the trees in
hopes of catching a glimpse ofJuraviel.

That comment stung Pony and she turned fiercely.

"I'm not sayin' ye shouldn't be," Belster explained. "I'm just askin' so ye
can get it clear in yer own head. Ye got one lookin' for healin', and needin'
yer healin', and ye got the healin', but are ye to tend only those ye're
thinkin' deservin'?"

"I cut them just to fix them? " Pony asked.

Belster gave a shrug.

He wouldn't commit to an answer, but the question alone had given her
his opinion of the matter, of course, had held a mirror up before Pony's
anger so that she could clearly see that growling expression upon her
own face.

She had the power now of life or death over Seano, and over so many.
The gemstone, the gift of God, bestowed that upon her, and thus was she to
play in the role of God, as judge of the man and all the others? She nearly
laughed aloud at the absurdity of it, but she went for her soul stone and
moved close to Seano.

Before she fell into the magic of the gem, she looked the man straight in
the eye and promised coldly, "If ever you try to steal from me again or to
hurt me or any of my friends or any other innocent person, I will hunt you
down and we will replay this fight. My gemstone cannot attach a severed
hand, nor, I promise you, can it attach a severed head."

Pony went into the stone and sealed up the blubbering Seano's wound in
short order.

"What say you, Juraviel? " she called to the boughs. "Would the Touel'alfar
have shown such mercy? "

"The Touel'alfar would have properly finished the job in the first place,"
came the answer of a melodic, and most welcome, voice. "A thrust through
the heart, perhaps, and certainly nothing as messy as you have shown.

"The third archer has long fled," the still-unseen elf informed her. "Have
Belster send this fool along down the south road, and then you come out
into the forest to the north, that we might speak privately."

Pony looked plaintively at Belster.

"Must have somethin' important to tell ye, then," the innkeeper
remarked, and he moved for Seano Bellick. "Come on, ye great feeder of
the pig. Get ye back to Caer Tinella, where ye can tell 'em all that ye met
with Pony, and met with disaster. Aye, that's the way of it, ye met with the
disaster named Pony.'"

"Well put," Pony remarked sarcastically, and she walked northward, as
Belster half walked and half carried the shocked Seano south.

"Did I do well, then?" Pony asked Juraviel when she finally spotted the
elusive elf siting on a bare branch a dozen feet off the ground.

"In fighting or in healing? " Juraviel asked.

"Both."

"If that clumsy thug gave you any trouble in battle, then surely I would
have questioned Nightbird's sanity in ever teaching you bi'nolle dasada,"
the elf replied. Even as he spoke the words. Pony noted that there was
indeed some strain behind his jovial facade. "In healing him, you did as I
knew you would."

"What would Belli'mar Juraviel have done?" Pony asked.

"I would have killed him cleanly in the first place, as I said," the elf
answered matter-of-factly, with that cold and calm pragmatism that almost
always crept into the thinking of any of the unforgiving Touel'alfar.

"But if you did not," Pony pressed, "if you found yourself in the same
situation as I just faced, would you have tended his wound? "

Belli'mar Juraviel spent a long while honestly considering the ques-
tion. Certainly many of his kin, Lady Dasslerond among them, would have
let the man die-elves showed no mercy to any n'Touel'alfar whose ac-
tions labeled them as enemies. "I would have been sorely disappointed
in you if you had let the fool die," was all the answer that Juraviel would
give. "And so would you, a profound failing within yourself, a clear con-
tradiction of that which you are, one that would have haunted you for all
your days."

It was Pony's turn to pause and reflect, and she found herself nodding
her agreement, glad indeed that she had not let Seano die. "Are you to sit
up there all the night?" she asked suddenly. "Or are you to come down
here and give an old friend a hug she sorely needs? "

How Belli'mar Juraviel wanted to go to her and do just that! He
even started propping himself off of the branch. But two words, rosy
plague, echoed in his mind. He had no idea, of course, if there really was
such a plague beginning in the human lands, had no evidence except for
rumors coming from an unknown source about some problems far in the
southland.

But for Belli'mar Juraviel, this moment sang out to him as another critical
choice in his life's course. If there was a plague, and Pony had contracted it,
and, in going to her, Juraviel brought it upon himself, then what would
happen to Andur'Blough Inninness? Could the elven population, so tiny,
survive such a plague?

Belli'mar Juraviel weighed the odds that Pony was so infected, and they
seemed long indeed. Very long. But he was Touel'alfar, and she was not. It
came down to something as simple as that.

And there was one other thing that Belli'mar knew, whether he admitted
it to himself or not: if he went down to Pony and hugged her, if he allowed
himself to recognize the deep and abiding friendship between them, the
love that had bound him to the sides of Elbryan and Pony all the way to the
dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle and back, then how could he not tell this
woman of the child now living in Andur'Blough Inninness? Her child,
Elbryan's child.

"You have a soul stone," he remarked suddenly, needing to change the
subject. "Where are your others?"

Pony shrugged. "I hardly care," she said honestly. "Nor is the Church
overly concerned. More gemstones will find their way out of the abbey
coffers."

"You have heard this?" Juraviel asked, and he truly wanted to know. If
the magical gemstones began flowing out of the various abbeys, the implica-
tions to the Touel'alfar could be significant and dire.

"I sense it," Pony answered. "The era of Markwart, and the centuries of
policies that led to the creation of such an animal as he, has ended, and the
era of Avelyn will soon begin."

"You believe that Avelyn would be careless with the stones? "

"I believe that Avelyn would put them where they could do the most
good," Pony answered confidently. "As he did with the turquoise he gave
to Symphony, to heighten the bond between the horse and Elbryan."

Juraviel let it go at that, understanding Pony's mind in this, and knowing
that any further answers from her would be nothing more than conjecture.
Juraviel understood, and was even a bit envious, of the motivations behind
those avowed followers of Avelyn: a generosity and clear mission to make
all the world a better place. But Juraviel was more pragmatic and realistic
than to believe that their plans would be realized so easily. The gemstones
were power, pure and simple, and letting that kind of power out into the
world could have many more disastrous side effects than those people
blinded by compassion could ever foresee.

Humans did not live a long time, Juraviel reminded himself. They con-
sidered a mere century as more than a lifetime, and so they often acted short-
sightedly; humans would do that which helped immediate situations, often
to disastrous effect for future generations.

But Belli'mar Juraviel was not human; he was Touel'alfar and had seen
the birth and death of several centuries. Pony's words now only strength-
ened the elf's feelings on that which he had to do and made Juraviel wonder
honestly if Lady Dasslerond hadn't foreseen this impending change in
Church policy.

"I tell you this last thing because I am your friend," Juraviel said.
"Understand well the gift that Nightbird gave to you; it is, among my
people, as high an honor as can be bestowed."

"Bi'nelle dasada," Pony reasoned a moment later.

"It was not his to give," Juraviel explained. "And he should not have
done so, not even to you, without Lady Dasslerond's permission."

Pony didn't even begin to know how to answer that surprising remark.

"And it is not yours to give," Juraviel went on, his tone turning grave. "I
have sworn that you will not, and based upon my trust in you, Lady
Dasslerond allowed you to live," Juraviel said. Each word he spoke made
Pony's blue eyes open a bit wider in sheer astonishment. " I pray that you
do not betray that trust."

"I would never," the woman breathed.

"So I told my lady," said Juraviel. "And I would not even have told you
of this, except that I fear that you do not understand the power of that gift
and the need that we have to keep it secret."

"Never," Pony agreed.

"Belster returns," the elf announced, seeing the man bouncing up the
path toward Pony.

"His archer friend found him down the road," the innkeeper said to
Pony when she turned to regard him. "I think the fool dropped his bow
when ye chased him off. Pity for the two o' them if they find highwaymen
waitin' for them down the way a bit!"

Ironic and fitting. Pony thought, and she turned back to the tree and
Juraviel.

But the elf was already long gone.

By the time he neared Dundalis, Juraviel was certain that he had left
Pony and Belster far, far behind. Pony had come after him, once, on that
first night after he had left her with Belster. Using the soul stone, the
woman had flown out of body, covering miles in seconds. Juraviel had felt
her presence, and keenly, had even heard her telepathic call-and not just
her feelings, but actual words, asking for an explanation.

But the elf had pretended not to hear, or at least, not to hear well, so that
he had merely whispered farewell several times and kept on his speedy way.
Soon, Pony had given up the chase.

Truly, the dismissal of his friend was tearing Belli'mar Juraviel apart, as
was the secret of the child being trained in Andur'Blough Inninness. The
entire result of the demon war was not as Juraviel had hoped or predicted.
First he had lost one of his very best friends, Tuntun of the Touel'alfar, in
the bowels of Aida. And then Nightbird had fallen. And now this. Juraviel
had envisioned himself sitting on a hillock with Bradwarden and Nightbird
and Jilseponie, trading stories and listening to the centaur's song. It was a
fantasy Juraviel had played out in his mind a hundred times, and now that it
could not come to pass, it was a continual emptiness, a pang he felt forever
within his heart.

All that he could hold against that pang, all that he could use to battle
back, was the truth of his heritage. He was Touel'alfar, and would have out-
lived Nightbird and Pony, and their children's children's children.

Barely three days after his encounter with Pony, Juraviel found himself in
the forest of the Timberlands again, following the song of Bradwarden, and
found the centaur and Roger at their favorite hillock under the starry sky.
Juraviel noted with interest that the stallion, too, was nearby, tethered to a
tree at the base of the open mound.

"Taked ye long enough," the centaur remarked, lowering his pipes, and
Roger came up on his elbows.

"Sooner than agreed," Juraviel replied. "We said a week, and yet only six
days have passed. Will you need the seventh to finish preparing the horse?"

Roger's groan was telling indeed.

"No, he's as good as he's to get for now," Bradwarden answered. "A
fiery little beastie, don't ye doubt. Ye'll be findin' yer road a spirited run,
but he'll take a saddle, at least."

"Then I will be gone before the dawn," the elf announced, surprising
both his friends.

"In a hurry, are ye? "

"I am not out for pleasure, but on an errand for my lady," Juraviel
explained. "She bade me return with all haste, and so I shall."

Roger looked from Juraviel to the centaur curiously. "Are you coming up
for a drink, at least?" he asked, for Juraviel had stopped halfway up the
hillock, and showed no signs of coming any closer.

"Presently," the elf answered. "I have a bit more to do to prepare for the
road. I met Jilseponie on the road north of Caer Tinella." Roger perked up
at that. "She and Belster should arrive within a few days."

And with that, the elf skittered off into the forest. In truth, he had
nothing left to prepare-he would find his supplies along the road-but he
wanted to minimize his contact with any potential plague carriers, his
friends included.

Bradwarden's song went on for a long, long time, and so in tune was it
with the natural surroundings that Juraviel hardly noticed when the last
delicate notes drifted into nothingness. But when he did register the silence,
the elf knew that it was time for him to move, and quickly.

He went back to the hillock, and took comfort that Bradwarden, who
never seemed to sleep, wasn't about. Up he went, to find Roger snoring
contentedly beside the orange embers.

He found the gemstones, as expected, in Roger's belt pouch-a ruby and
a soul stone, a lodestone and a graphite, and several others-and wasted no
time in pocketing them. He did glance back once, stung by a pang of
guilt-Roger was his friend, after all-but then, remembering who he was
and the needs of his people, the needs of the people, he moved swiftly down
the hillock and untethered the horse, then walked off into the dark forest.

"Way before the dawn, by my countin'," he heard Bradwarden's voice
soon after, for though Juraviel could easily have gotten away from the
region without being noticed by anyone, the centaur included, Bradwarden
could certainly track a horse.

"The sooner I begin, the sooner I find my home," Juraviel replied calmly.

The centaur came into view a few steps down the trail behind him, and
started to catch up, but Juraviel held up his hand, motioning for Brad-
warden to stay back.

"What're ye about, elf?" Bradwarden asked.

"I am in a hurry, as I explained," Juraviel replied.

"No, it's a bit more than that," Bradwarden reasoned. "The Juraviel I
know doesn't refuse an offer of a drink with his friends."

"I had preparations-"

"The Juraviel I know would be askin' his friends for help, then, if his
preparations were so important," Bradwarden interrupted, as he came for-
ward a few strides. "The Juraviel I know wouldn't have left Pony and Bel-
ster on the road, but would've spent the extra couple o' days walkin' with
them, whatever his lady Dasslerond might be needin'. So what're ye about,
elf? Are ye to tell me or not? "

Juraviel thought on that for a long moment. "You take care, Brad-
warden," he said in all seriousness. "On the road south, I heard rumors of
the rosy plague."

"Oh, by the demons, ye say."

" I know not if there is any truth to those words-more likely, they were
the utterances of a gossiping fool and nothing more," the elf went on. "But
I can ill afford to take the chance, any chance, of bringing the plague back
to my people."

Bradwarden shook his head in frustration, but then looked at Juraviel
and nodded.

"You take care of Roger and Jilseponie, as well," the elf said. "I fear that
if the rumors of plague prove true, then this might be the last time I see
you-any of you. Know that if the land becomes ill with plague, the
Touel'alfar will secure our borders and none will leave for many years."

Again, Bradwarden merely nodded.

"Farewell," Juraviel said.

"And to ye," Bradwarden replied, and Belli'mar Juraviel left him there,
in the forest that suddenly seemed all the darker.

Pony and Belster arrived in Dundalis right on schedule, the portly
innkeeper driving the wagon and Pony riding Greystone. What a splendid
sight she seemed to the folk of the Timberland community, many of whom
owed their lives to the heroic deeds of this woman in the days of the demon
armies. The whole town turned out to see the pair, cheering; and Pony,
though embarrassed, felt indeed as if she had come home.

And leading all the cheers was Roger Lockless, his smile so wide that it
seemed as if it would take in his ample ears.

"We've been waiting and waiting," he explained. "Belli'marJuraviel told
us that he found you north of Caer Tinella, but I had hoped you would
arrive sooner, give that strong horse of yours a bit of a workout."

"An easy road, for we've nowhere else we need to be," Pony answered.
"Just as I prefer."

Roger's expression was curious for just a moment, but his smile soon
returned. " No one built upon the foundation of the old Howling Sheila,"
he explained. "We knew that you'd return."

"Olwan Wyndon put down that foundation," Pony answered, her voice
somber. How well she remembered that particular place! When the mon-
sters came to sack Dundalis, when Pony was but twelve years old, she had
crawled under that foundation to escape the swords and spears and fire.
She had emerged after the carnage, to find that all of the town, all of her
family and all of her friends, were dead or missing. She and Elbryan alone
had survived the catastrophe.

But Dundalis had been rebuilt, and that foundation had supported yet
another structure, Bolster's Howling Sheila tavern.

And then Dundalis had been sacked again.

The memories showed Pony the best of human spirit, the resilience, the
ability to fight on and on. Why wasn't she now feeling that way? Where
was her fighting spirit, her willingness to accept the losses and rebuild
everything?

Perhaps some things could not be recovered, she mused, staring at the
foundation and wondering if perhaps she should not have come back to this
place. Here was the legacy of the Howling Sheila, a foundation of cold stone;

and out there, not so far away, was another legacy, a cairn of cold stone.

"Are you all right?" she heard Roger ask, but it seemed to her as if his
words came from far, far away. "Pony?"

She felt his hands on her shoulders, and only then understood that her
shoulders were trembling, and that she was clammy and weak.

Then Belster was there beside her, holding her arm to support her.

Pony reached deep inside and shook away the fit. "I should have eaten
more at breakfast," she said to Belster, smiling sheepishly.

The innkeeper looked at her and politely nodded, but Pony knew, of
course, that he had seen right through her little lie. Belster had come to
know her so very well over the last year, and he understood the source of
her distress.

"Fetch some food!" Roger called to the townsfolk. "As fine a meal as we
can prepare." He started to point out a couple of men to set to the task, but
Pony put her arm on his and held it low.
"Later," she said.

"Nonsense," Roger argued. "We will prepare the finest-"

"Later," Pony said again, more forcefully. "I have something I must do."

"Are ye sure, girl?" Belster asked, and Pony turned back to face him,
took a deep breath, and nodded.

"I'll start setting up, then," Belster said.

"Roger will help you, I am sure," Pony, who wanted to do this thing
alone, replied, and she looked to Roger again and patted his arm, smiling.

Then she went to Greystone and pulled herself into the saddle. She
headed out of town at a swift trot, up the north slope, then walked the
horse slowly down the fairly steep incline into the pine groves and the thick
white caribou moss.

When she came out the other side of that dell, she had Greystone at an
eager canter, running through the forest.

"She's knowin' the woods as well as any," Bradwarden insisted when a
frantic Roger came to him later on, wailing that they had to find Pony. "As
well as any human might," the centaur corrected with a sly wink.

"She's been gone for hours," Roger explained.

"And I'm thinkin' that she'll be doin' many o' these little rides out alone
over the next few weeks. Can ye no' guess where's she's gone to, boy, and
can ye no' be figurin' why she wanted to go there alone? "

Roger looked at him curiously at first, but finally a light of recognition
came over him.

"You are sure that she's all right? " he asked.

"I'd be worryin' about any monsters that might've found the girl," Brad-
warden said with a hearty chuckle. "Ye gived her back her gemstones,
didn't ye?"

Roger's expression spoke volumes to the perceptive centaur.

"What're ye thinkin', boy?"

"I don't have them," Roger admitted.

Now it was Bradwarden's turn to wear the confused expression. "Ye said
ye did," the centaur protested. "Ye even showed 'em to me!"

"I did have them, but they're gone!" Roger tried to explain.

"Gone?"

"I had them a few days ago, but I woke up one morning to find my
pouch empty."

"Ye're sayin' ye lost a clutch o' magic that could flatten a fair-sized town? "
Bradwarden cried. "Ye lost a clutch o' gems that a hunnerd merchants'd
willingly give over all their gold to get their hands on? "

"I had them, and then I did not," Roger insisted.

"And ye didn't think to say anythin' when the thief might still be about? "
Bradwarden roared at him.

"I think I know who took them," Roger replied quietly.
"Well, we'll go and have a talk with the ..." The centaur stopped,
catching a hint of what might be going on here. "When d'ye say ye lost the
damn things?"

"Three mornings ago."

"The night after ..." Bradwarden paused and shook his head. It made
no sense. Juraviel? Their elven friend stole Pony's gemstones?

"Either Juraviel took them or someone else stole up the hillock that night
after we had gone to sleep," Roger insisted.

Truly, Bradwarden had no answers for that. He knew well enough that
no one had come up that hillock to steal from Roger. And yet, unless the
man was lying, those gemstones had disappeared on that very night-the
very night Belli'mar Juraviel made his hasty retreat from the region.

"It might be that them monks found a way to magically come and get
the damn things," the centaur said unconvincingly, for both he and Roger
knew well that if there was such a manner of retrieval, Father Abbot Mark-
wart would surely have discovered it and used it to get the cache of stones
back a long time ago.

"I don't even know what to tell Pony," Roger admitted.

"Has she asked for them? "

"No."

"Is she even knowin' that ye got the damn things? "

"I don't think so."

"Then tell her not a thing until she's askin'," Bradwarden advised. "I'm
thinkin' that the girl's got enough weighin' down her heart at this time."

"More than you know," Roger replied. "I was talking with Belster earlier
and he told me all that Pony walked away from in Palmaris. They offered her
everything, the barony, the abbey. Everything. And she just walked away."

Bradwarden eyed the man and marked well his tone. "And ye're thinkin'
she chose wrong? "

"After all we went through?" Roger replied, his frustration creeping into
his voice. "After all the fighting and all the dying? After Elbryan gave his
very life for a better world? And we could have that world, we-Pony
could make it all worthwhile."

"I'm seein' a new side o' ye, to be sure," the centaur remarked, and that
set Roger back on his heels a bit.

"I fought alongside everyone else," the man protested when he got his
bearings back.

"Never said ye didn't," Bradwarden replied. "But by me own thinkin', ye
was fightin' more for Roger than for any paradise in yer thoughts."

Again, the man had to pause for a bit to consider any response he might
give, for Roger understood that the centaur spoke honestly and accurately.
All through the early days of the war, Roger had indeed been a selfish war-
rior, considering every action based mostly on what fame it might bring
to him.
Elbryan had shown him the error of his ways, as hadJuraviel, with typical
elven bluntness. Only now, however, with Bradwarden so clearly pointing it
out, did Roger begin to understand the depth of the change that had come
over him. Only now did he consciously recognize that Elbryan had died for
a reason, for something bigger than his own life and bigger than Pony's life.
And, to Roger's complete surprise, he found himself frustrated and disap-
pointed that Pony had chosen to run away when all the city was being
offered up to her, when, with a few words and a few actions, she could have
made a profound change upon Palmaris, a change for the better, a change
that would give meaning to their sacrifices made in battling first the demon
and its minions and then the demons that had infected the Abellican
Church.

And she had run away!

"But aren't ye being tough on the poor girl? " Bradwarden remarked.

"She should not be here," Roger replied. "Or at least, she should not be
planning to stay. There is too much to do, and time will work against us if
we do not act."

"Against us?" the centaur echoed doubtfully. "I'm not seem' Roger
Lockless doin' much work in Palmaris. I'm not seein' Roger Lockless doin'
much work at all!" He ended with a laugh, a great belly laugh; but Roger,
too perplexed by these revelations concerning his feelings, didn't join in.

"Ah, but ye're bein' too hard on her," Bradwarden explained.

"The opportunity-"

"And what good might she be doin' if her heart's not in it? " Bradwarden
promptly interrupted, and his voice grew more grim then, and more
serious. "Ye lost a friend, and so ye're stingin', and wantin' to put a meanin'
to it," the centaur explained. "And so ye should be, and so should we all.
But Pony's lost more than a friend."

"I loved Elbryan," Roger started to protest, but Bradwarden was
laughing at the absurdity of the statement, and Roger couldn't honestly dis-
agree. Comparing his relationship with Elbryan to the one the ranger
shared with Pony was indeed absurd.

"She's needin' time to heal," the centaur said after a bit. "She's needin'
time for rememberin' who she is and why she is, and for findin' a reason to
keep on fightin'."

"How long?" Roger asked. "It's been a year."

"A torn heart can take a sight longer than a year," Bradwarden said qui-
etly, solemnly, his voice filled with obvious sympathy for his dear friend
Pony. "Ye give her the time, and it might be that she'll go back and begin
the fight anew."

"Might be?"

"And might not be," the centaur said plainly. "Ye can't be tellin'
someone else what fights they're wantin' to pick, and ye can't be arguin' the
worth o' fightin' to one who's not seein' it."
"And if she chooses not to continue?" Roger asked. "What value, then,
ofElbryan's death?"

"Ask yerself," the centaur replied. "Ye're so quick to be makin' it Pony's
fight, and easy enough for ye, sittin' up here in the Timberlands. Where's
Roger, then? I'm askin'. He's lettin' his friend go cold in the ground, and
not doin' a thing to bring a value to Elbryan's death."

"I was not offered the barony or the abbey."

"Ye weren't lookin' for the offer," Bradwarden said. "Ye could've
ridden the last fight to some power, if ye so chose."

"I came north with you," Roger protested, "to bury Elbryan."

"And ye could've been back in Palmaris before the summer was half fin-
ished," Bradwarden scolded. "Are ye mad at Pony, boy? Are ye really? Or
is it yerself that's botherin' yerself?"

Roger started to answer, but stopped short and stood staring out at the
forest, wondering, wondering.

"Pony's needin' a friend now, and needin' us to let her do all that she's
needin' to do without our judgin' her," Bradwarden remarked sternly. "Ye
think ye can do that? "

Roger looked him right in the eye, considered the question carefully and
honestly, then nodded.

A chill wind came up that evening, and Pony honestly wasn't sure if it
was a natural thing or a consequence of this cold place. In either case, how
fitting it seemed to her as she stood before the two cairns in the grove north
of Dundalis, a place that would have left her cold on the hottest of bright
summer days.

She only glanced at the older of the graves, the resting place of Mather
Wyndon, Elbryan's uncle and the first Wyndon ranger. She couldn't help
but picture the body under those stones, disturbed first by Elbryan on that
dark night when he had earned Tempest, the elven sword, and then again
more recently by Bradwarden and Roger, when they reinterred the weapon
beside its original owner.

And Pony couldn't help but picture Elbryan, and the mere thought of
her love lying cold in the ground nearly buckled her knees. He was there,
under those rocks, with Hawkwing, the magnificent bow Belli'mar Juraviel's
father, Joycenevial, had crafted for him during his years of training with the
Touel'alfar. He was there, with eyes unseeing and a mouth that could not
draw breath. He, who had so often warmed her in his gentle but strong
embrace, was there, alone and cold, and there was nothing, nothing that she
could do about it.

All of her young life had been marred by loss. First her family and
friends-all of them save Elbryan-had been murdered by goblins and
giants. Then her companions at Pireth Tuime-men and women she hadn't
considered friends but with whom she had forged a working relationship-
had been slaughtered by the attacking powries. Then the Chilichunks, who
had shown her only love, had perished in the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle.

Then Paulson, Cric, and Chipmunk and Tuntun and Avelyn, dear
Avelyn, all lost on the road to Mount Aida. And her child, torn from her
womb by the demon Markwart. And finally-in an act that had saved her
life, surely-she had lost Elbryan, her lover, her best friend, the man she
had intended to grow old beside.

It didn't get easier, these confrontations with death. Far from hardening
her heart to future losses, each death seemed to amplify those that came
before.

She pictured them now, all of them, from Elbryan to Avelyn to her
father, walking past her as if in a dream, moving close in front of her but
never seeing her or hearing her plaintive calls. Walking, walking away from
her forever.

She reached out and tried to grab Elbryan, but he was an insubstantial
thing, a formed mist and nothing more, and her hand passed right through
him. He was an image, a memory, something lost.

Pony blinked open her eyes and didn't even try to hold back the tears
that rolled down her cheeks.
CHAPTER 18

Friendships Fast

I hadn't thought we'd be seein' our home again so soon," Liam
O'Blythe remarked to Prince Midalis as they trotted their
mounts at the lead of a long column making its way through the
muggy air of the Vanguard forest. They had gone north with Bruinhelde
and his clan only to be met by barbarian scouts reporting that southern
Alpinador was clear of monsters, that not a sign of any goblins or powries
had been seen in many, many weeks. And so, with Bruinhelde's approval
and a knowing wink and a nod from Andacanavar, the men of Vanguard
had turned about, heading back to their homes to erase the scars of the
demon war.

Andacanavar had come back to the south, as well, though he had taken
a roundabout route and they hadn't seen him in a couple of days. With
Midalis' blessing, the ranger had decided to haunt the region of Vanguard
for the rest of the summer, to learn what he could about his southern
neighbors in the hopes that he could further bridge the chasm between
the two peoples. The ranger had also elicited from Midalis the Prince's
promise that, when he returned home in the autumn, Midalis would accom-
pany him.

There remained the not so little matter of the blood-brothering.

"Pireth Vanguard!" the point scout called back.

"Well, she is still standing, then," Midalis remarked. A few moments
later, rounding a bend and cresting a rise in the trail, Liam and Midalis
came in sight of the fortress, its towers stark against the heavy gray sky
hanging over the Gulf of Corona behind it.

Before they entered the fortress, the pair noted that a trader was in port,
but it wasn't until Midalis saw Warder Presso running toward him that he
realized something unusual was going on. The battle-weary Prince was
relieved indeed to learn the Warder's news, to learn that nothing sinister
had happened in the days since their departure.

222
Still, a monk visiting from Palmaris, come to take Abbot Agronguerre
back to St.-Mere-Abelle, was no small matter; and though he was tired and
hot and dirty, Prince Midalis decided that he should go straight to St.
Belfbur to meet the man. Liam, of course, willingly followed; and the two
were joined by Captain Al'u'met, who was riding Warder Presso's own fine
horse. On the trails to the abbey, Al'u'met told of the happenings in Pal-
maris yet again; and as they nodded, hanging on every word, both the
Prince and his adviser came to understand why Midalis' brother, the King,
had not responded to their request for soldiers.

"I had heard rumors that the Father Abbot had died," Midalis said when
Al'u'met finished. "But never would I have believed that such turmoil and
treacherous circumstance surrounded that tragic event."

"The kingdom will be long in recovering from the scars of the demon
dactyl," Al'u'met said grimly. "Perhaps the Church will choose its next
leader wisely, to the benefit of us all."

"Ye're seein' benefit in anythin' the Abellican Church's doin'?" Liam
O'Blythe asked the dark-skinned southerner bluntly.

"I am Abellican," Al'u'met explained, "and have followed that path to
God for many decades."

"I only meant-"

Al'u'met stopped him with a smile and an upraised hand.

"When will they convene the College of Abbots? " Midalis asked.

"I am bid to transport Brother Dellman, Abbot Agronguerre, and any
entourage the abbot chooses to bring, to St.-Mere-Abelle in the autumn,"
Al'u'met explained. "They will convene in Calember, as they did last time."

Midalis started to answer, but then paused and considered the words
carefully. "This Brother Dellman," he asked, "who sent him? "

"Abbot Braumin of St. Precious."

"I do not know the man," Midalis replied, "nor have I ever heard Abbot
Agronguerre mention him. He is young? "

"For an abbot, very much so," Al'u'met explained. "Abbot Braumin has
earned his rank by deed, and not by mere age. He stood with Nightbird and
Jilseponie, even under promise of torture by the Father Abbot. He would
not renounce his beliefs, though his refusal seemed as if it would'surely cost
him his life. Brother Dellman, too. A fine young man, by my estimation."

Al'u'met started to take the conversation that way, but Midalis would not
let him, more concerned with the one thing that nagged at him, just below
his consciousness, about this visit.

"Why have you come so early? " he asked plainly.

"It is a long voyage, and one unpredictable," Al'u'met explained. "The
weather was not so foul, and yet we had to put in at Dancard for repair."

"You could still be in Palmaris dock," Midalis countered, and he noticed
the concerned expression come over Liam's face, and realized then that he
might be giving away his suspicions. "You could have waited out the rest of
the month in the south and still have had more than enough time to come
up here, fetch Agronguerre, and return to St.-Mere-Abelle."

"I could not chance the weather," Al'u'met answered, but Midalis saw
right through that excuse. Every sailor along the gulf knew well that the
late-spring weather was much more treacherous than that of late summer
and early autumn. Not only had Al'u'met come up prematurely, but he had
done so against the conventional wisdom of the gulf sailors.

What was it, then? Prince Midalis wondered. Why had this protege of
the new abbot come running all the way to Vanguard with an invitation that
could have been delivered by any one of the many traders that would ven-
ture here over the next month and a half? And certainly a man as promi-
nent as Abbot Agronguerre would have had little trouble in finding his own
passage south. Following that same line of thought, it struck Midalis that
it made more sense for the abbot to use one of Midalis' ships, and not
go south with Al'u'met, that he might return before the winter season set
in deep.

Unless Abbot Braumin and his cohorts weren't expecting Agronguerre
to return to Vanguard any time soon, Midalis reasoned; and it occurred to
him then that this was much more than an invitation. He had a difficult
time holding his smile in check all the rest of the way to St. Belfour.

They arrived late in the afternoon, and met immediately with Brother
Dellman, Abbot Agronguerre, and the ever-present Brother Haney. Dellman
told his tale yet again, more quickly this time, since the Prince had already
heard all ofAl'u'met's contributions. What most interested the Prince, and
what he made Dellman repeat several times and elaborate on, were the
parts concerning his brother's actions in the city.

Brother Dellman took care to paint King Danube in a positive light, and
it was not a hard task for the young monk. He explained that Danube had
wisely held back to allow Elbryan and Jilseponie to settle their war with
Markwart. "He understood that this fight was about the soul of the Church
more than any threat to his secular kingdom," Dellman explained. "It was
the proper course for him to take."

Midalis nodded, not surprised, for ever had his older brother been wise
in the ways of diplomacy; and one of the primary lessons they both had
learned at a young age was never to engage the kingdom in a fight that did
not directly involve them.

"His wisdom after the battle was no less," Brother Dellman went on,
resisting the temptation to offer the glaring exception of Danube's choice
for the new baron, installing the hostile Duke Kalas instead of a more diplo-
matic soul. "He begged Jilseponie to take the barony."

That raised Prince Midalis' dark eyebrows and those of Liam O'Blythe,
as well.
"If you knew the woman, you would better appreciate the correctness of
that choice," Captain Al'u'met put in.

"Then I will have to make it a point to meet this most remarkable
woman," Prince Midalis sincerely replied.

"You will not be disappointed," said Warder Presso, which caught all
of the Vanguardsmen by surprise. "If she is the same woman, Jill, who
served with me at Pireth Tuime many years ago, then you will be duly
impressed."

"A pity that she'll not be at the College of Abbots," Agronguerre
remarked.

"An invitation will surely be extended," said Dellman. "And just as cer-
tainly, Jilseponie will refuse. She has gone north, back into the Timber-
lands, to heal her heart. Better will all the world be if that process is
successful and Jilseponie returns to us soon!"

His obvious enthusiasm and sincerity had all the heads bobbing in agree-
ment, and had all of those who had not met the woman-including Warder
Presso, who had not seen her in years-anxious indeed to gaze upon this
growing legend.

They talked long into the night, informally, mostly trading anecdotes of
their experiences during the war. Abbot Agronguerre excused himself from
vespers, and allowed Brothers Haney and Dellman to do likewise, so that
they could continue this most productive and enjoyable meeting. When
finally they ended, past midnight, there had been forged an honest friend-
ship between them all, and all the secular guests were invited to remain at
the abbey for as long as they desired.

Still, Brother Dellman was surprised indeed when Prince Midalis bade
him to hold back a moment while all the others filed out of the abbot's
audience chamber.

"I find it curious that you have come up here so early," the Prince
explained.

"We simply wanted to make sure that the message of the College of
Abbots was properly delivered and in a timely enough manner for Abbot
Agronguerre to make his preparations," Brother Dellman replied.

"That could have been done in an easier and more convenient manner,"
the Prince observed.

Brother Dellman shrugged, having no practical answer and not wanting
to get into the discussion at that time.

"You are a good and trusted friend of the new abbot of St. Precious,"
Midalis observed.

"Abbot Braumin Herde," Dellman replied. "I traveled with him across
the land, running from Markwart and running toward Avelyn. I was beside
him at the miracle of Aida, and again beside him when he was taken captive
by Markwart, and by the King's soldiers."
"And now, with Markwart dead and discredited, the new abbot of St.
Precious, your friend Braumin Herde, will have a strong voice at the Col-
lege, yes?"

Brother Dellman considered the strange question for a moment, then just
shrugged.

"The tide flows in his favor," the Prince observed. "He who was instru-
mental in the fall of Father Abbot Markwart, he who leads those of the
other philosophy, Avelyn's philosophy, will certainly be heard clearly at the
College of Abbots."

"If the other abbots and masters are wise, they will listen to Abbot
Braumin's every word with great care," Brother Dellman remarked.

"And does Abbot Braumin intend to try for the highest position in the
Church?"

That set Dellman back on his heels. "Forgive me, my Prince, but it is not
within my province to discuss such matters."

"Of course," said Midalis. "Yet you said that he was a young man-too
young to be so nominated and elected, I would guess, given my under-
standing of your Church."

"You know much of us," replied Dellman, who was growing increasingly
uneasy with this whole train of conversation.

"But perhaps Abbot Braumin has set his sights toward nominating
another for the position of father abbot," Prince Midalis said. "Perhaps he,
like many others, no doubt, is seeking a person who will lead the Church in
a better direction."

"That would be his charge, my Prince," Brother Dellman said, "as it is
now the charge of every abbot and every master."

A wry smile came over the handsome young Prince's face. "And so, given
that, would not this young abbot send out his most trusted friends to study
those likely candidates? " he asked.

"Again you ask of me that which I cannot answer," Dellman replied,
which, of course, was an answer in itself, and one that pleased Prince Midalis
greatly.

"I will say this to you without any personal motives," Midalis offered. "If
you and your friend the abbot are indeed thinking that Abbot Agronguerre
might be a proper selection for that most important position within your
Church, then know that I second that nomination with all of my heart.
He is a wonderful man, a man of diplomacy-his work in quelling the trepi-
dations of the Alpinadoran leaders in our recent truce was marvelous and
generous-and, foremost, a man of God. I have never truly considered myself
overreligious, good Brother Dellman, but when I hear Abbot Agronguerre
speaking-and always his words come from the truth that is in his heart-I
know that I am hearing the will of God."

"Strong words," Brother Dellman gasped, for they were indeed, words
that would border on heresy if Midalis were speaking them with any intent
of personal gain! And yet, in looking at the man, in considering the situa-
tion faced by both Church and State, Dellman understood that the Prince
was speaking from his heart.

"If you are considering Abbot Agronguerre for nomination, then look as
deeply as you may," Prince Midalis went on. "For surely, the more familiar
you become with Abbot Agronguerre, the more firmly you will desire him
as your new father abbot. This I know, Brother Dellman, for I have served
beside the man for many years and have not once found error in his ways.
Oh, I have not always agreed with his choices; but even for those over
which we were at odds, I knew that his choice had come from a logical and
consistent philosophy, one based on the highest and most noble traditions
of your Church."

"I will consider your words carefully, Prince Midalis," Brother Dellman
answered.

"Then you admit that you are here for more reasons than to deliver an
invitation? " Midalis asked with that wry grin again.

Brother Dellman, too, couldn't help but smile. "Forgive me, my Prince,"
he answered yet again, "but it is not within my province to discuss such
matters."

Midalis laughed aloud and clapped Dellman on the shoulder as he
walked past, collecting the man in his wake.

Dellman retired to his room soon after, but was far too excited to even
think about sleep. He paced his small room, digesting all that he had
learned, thinking that Abbot Braumin had been wise indeed to send him to
this place, and that the Abellican Church might soon elect the leader it
needed to get through this dark time.

Abbot Agronguerre hustled down to the front courtyard of St. Belfour a
couple of days later, when he learned that a most unexpected visitor had
arrived, seeking audience with him and with Prince Midalis, who was still
within the abbey. Along the way, the abbot managed to find Haney and
Dellman, and bade them accompany him, though he didn't pause long
enough to fill them in on the details.

As soon as they came in sight of the courtyard, the source of the abbot's
nervous excitement became clear-in the nearly seven-foot frame of mighty
Andacanavar.

"Greetings, friend Andacanavar," Agronguerre said, huffing and puffing
to catch his breath. "Good tidings, I pray, bring you to us at this time. You
remember Brother Haney, I am sure, and let me introduce to you a visitor
from the south, Brother-"

"Holan Dellman," Andacanavar interrupted, and both Haney and
Agronguerre looked curiously from the ranger to their southern brother.
"Greetings again, Andacanavar ofAlpinador," Brother Dellman remarked,
and Agronguerre detected a bit of nervousness along with the obvious
familiarity.

"We have both walked a long road, it would seem, to come to the same
place," the ranger said with a grin. But it seemed to Agronguerre as if
Andacanavar, too, was straining to be polite. These two had a history, he
realized, and one that had not been without conflict.

Indeed, Dellman and the ranger had met first spiritually, and not physi-
cally. Dellman had gone along with Master Jojonah, then Brother Francis
and other brothers from St.-Mere-Abelle on their caravan journey to the
Barbacan to investigate the demise of the demon dactyl. Their road had
taken them through Alpinador, and after a fight with monsters outside of
one Alpinadoran village, Brother Dellman, scouting out of body, had found
that they were being shadowed by Andacanavar. Master Jojonah had then
sent Brother Braumin out to the man spiritually with soul stone magic, to
quietly suggest that he should turn around and go home. Failing that,
Braumin had been instructed to possess the man and walk his body back to
the southland.

But Andacanavar, stronger of will than the monks could ever have
expected, had turned the tables, had walked through the spiritual connec-
tion to possess Braumin, and then had used the monk's physical body to go
into the encampment and learn more about the brothers.

The two had come to terms over their misunderstanding, but still there
remained some tension between them-and between the ranger and
Braumin's supporters, who had seen their leader magically and spiritually
overwhelmed by the man. The act of possession was among the most dis-
tasteful products of gemstone magic, a rape of the spirit; and two who had
known such intimate battle as that would never, ever forget it.

"I had thought you to be back in Alpinador, with Bruinhelde," Abbot
Agronguerre remarked.

"Bruinhelde is not back in Alpinador, either," the ranger explained,
slowly turning his gaze away from Brother Dellman. "We found the road
clear."

"We heard as much," replied Agronguerre. "My brethren returned to us
several days ago, and glad we were to learn that Alpinador was spared the
trials of the demon dactyl."

"We fought our share," Andacanavar informed him. "But good tidings
indeed that the threat to our homeland had ended. And yet it was tidings of
further war that brought us back to the south, soon after Prince Midalis
and the others left us."

A shadow crossed over Abbot Agronguerre's chubby face.

"Prince Midalis is here, by the reports," the ranger remarked. "Take me
to him that I have to tell my tale but once."

They found Midalis eating his breakfast on the flat top of the abbey's
northwestern tower. Predictably, Liam O'Blythe was there as well; and it
occurred to everyone there, Liam included, how similar the man and his
relationship to Prince Midalis was to that of Brother Haney and his rela-
tionship to Abbot Agronguerre. Both had been born peasants, and through
deed alone had risen to important, if little recognized, positions, for both
were sounding boards for their respective leaders, confidants who first
heard the policies the men would institute. Both were younger than the
men they followed, proteges of sorts: one the likely successor as abbot of St.
Belfour, the other already appointed an earl, and likely in line for the duchy
of Vanguard.

Midalis seemed no less surprised by the ranger's appearance than
Agronguerre had been. He wiped his mouth quickly and rose from the
table, moving fast to greet the man away from the plates of half-eaten food,
and subtly motioning for Liam to clear up the mess.

"Tidings of war, so says Andacanavar," Abbot Agronguerre said imme-
diately. "And Bruinhelde and some of his warriors have returned, as well."

"Trouble?" Midalis asked the ranger.

"So says one of our scouts, who spoke with one of your own," the ranger
informed him. "To the east of here, in a rough bay. A boat put in, a boat
full ofpowries."

"Barrelboat," Midalis reasoned.

"Not so," Andacanavar replied. "A masted ship. They put in to the bay,
but did not, it seems, know the waters well, for when the tide went out,
their boat came down hard to the rocks and mud. So you have got powries
again, my friend, and so we came down to join in the fun of being rid of the
wretched bloody caps."

They rode out in force from St. Belfour soon after, Abbot Agronguerre
in his coach leading the same twenty brothers who had just returned from
Alpinador, plus Dellman and Haney. Beside them went Midalis, Liam, and
Andacanavar. Their numbers swelled five times over when they crossed
through the town of Vanguard and the fortress, where Warder Presso and
Al'u'met came out to meet them, along with many of the Pireth Vanguard
soldiers. After a brief meeting to try to determine the exact location of this
bay, Al'u'met returned to the Saudi Jacintha and, after bringing aboard
some more of Warder Presso's archers, put out, shadowing the marching
army to the east.

With Bruinhelde and his warriors already in place in the east, and
another two towns to cross through, where more volunteers would join, it
seemed as if this would be one battle where the odds, at last, favored
Midalis' side.

"Prop it, pull it, and peg it!" Dalump Keedump roared at his crew, and
the powries did just that, tugging the heavy lines, bringing the boat up the
ramp an inch, and then pegging the crank to hold it in its new position.
They had come in for repairs and supplies, and perhaps a bit of sport,
but-curse their luck-the tide had dropped too low for the heavy
boat, and had damaged the hull.

"Prop it, pull it, and peg it!" the powrie boss cried again enthusiastically,
for they were making progress now in getting the ship repaired and in get-
ting themselves on the way home. Dalump had led a raid upon a nearby
village, a few farmhouses clustered together, and though-to the dismay of
all the fierce bloody caps-there were no humans about to slaughter, they
tore down the walls of the buildings and found enough rope and other sup-
plies to come back and complete their repairs. Now, with the front half of
the boat clear of the water, the crack in her hull visible and seeming not
too severe, Dalump figured they could be back out to sea with the next
high tide.

"Prop it, pull it, and peg it!" he cried again and again, the boat creaking
out of the water more and more. "Yach, but we'll be back to our home in
short order, lads, and then we'll turn about with another army to go and
pay back the dog Kalas!"

And so it went, the growling, untiring powries bending their backs and
pulling hard.

Midalis was not surprised to see them, for his scouts had reported that
about three families of refugees were on the road. Still, the image of his
people being uprooted yet again by monsters brought a fire into the young
Prince. He'd see them back to their homes and give them a few powrie
heads to stake about the grounds for decorations.

"Me Prince!" cried the man trotting beside the lead wagon, a sturdy
farmer of about forty winters, and he ran forward and fell to one knee
before Midalis.

"Have powries so chased you from your homes? " Midalis asked.

"And would've burned us in our homes, don't ye doubt, had not some o'
his kin-" he indicated Andacanavar "-come to rouse us."

Midalis gave a resigned chuckle. "It would seem that I, and my people,
are in Bruinhelde's debt yet again," he remarked to Andacanavar.

"Blood-brothering erases all debt," the ranger replied with a wink.

"Come, and let us be quick," Midalis said to his men, "before Bruinhelde
and his men take all the fun from us." He turned back to the farmer. "You
need run no farther," he explained. "I will leave some soldiers and brothers
with you for your protection. Camp here and wait-and for not too long, I
would guess-before we signal you that you may return to your homes."

"If there's anything left o' them," the man remarked.

"And if not, then we will help you to rebuild them!" Prince Midalis
replied with enthusiasm.

They picked up their pace after that, quick-marching all the way out to
the east, to the bay. The Prince, who knew well the region, decided to take
a northerly route and approach the bay heading south, where they would
come in sight of the place high on a wooded cliff, overlooking the water.

"I will find you there," Andacanavar promised; and the ranger ran off,
seeking Bruinhelde and his kin so that the attack might be coordinated.

"There are the beasts, and what's left of the houses," Liam O'Blythe
remarked when they got to the spot, to see the powries hard at work at their
impromptu, but wonderfully constructed, dry dock.

"They are cunning fellows," Prince Midalis replied, and he looked up
and noted that Brother Dellman, in particular, wore a surprised expression.

"You know of them? " he asked the young monk.

"It may be that we chased this same boat across the gulf," the brother
explained.

"They are trying to get home," Abbot Agronguerre remarked.

"A pity for them," Midalis said grimly. There was no argument from the
soldiers and the monks or from the Van^uardsmen who had suffered so ter-
ribly at the hands of the vicious bloody caps. "Set your archers all along the
cliff," he instructed Warder Presso. "Tell them to pick their shots carefully
and to wait for the signal." Midalis turned to Abbot Agronguerre. "I pray
you do the same with your crossbowmen and any gemstone magic you wish
to throw at our enemies. I doubt that you will be needing much energy with
the soul stone when this battle is finished."

Abbot Agronguerre nodded his agreement with the tactic and the assess-
ment. As far as they could see, the powries numbered less than a score, and
Agronguerre doubted that any would even survive the first volley.

Andacanavar returned to them a few minutes later, explaining that Bru-
inhelde and his force were in position just to the southwest of the dry dock,
in the trees at the western edge of the little bay's mouth, ready to strike.

Midalis looked to Liam, who ran off at once, assembling a force to com-
plement the barbarians'.

"Bruinhelde has more than enough men to finish this task," Andacanavar
assured the Prince. "When they break from the forest edge, rain your death
upon the powries, and it will be finished."

"This is Vanguard," the Prince replied. "My men should be among the
attacking force."

"We've not the time," the ranger explained, pointing down to the dry
dock. "It seems that we've come upon our enemies at the last moment.
They are preparing to leave, and Bruinhelde will not allow that!"

"Nor will Captain Al'u'met," Brother Dellman added, and all eyes
turned his way, to see him smiling widely and looking out past the bay, to
the open gulf. And there, around the western lip of the bay, they all saw the
sails of the Saudi]acintha, as the boat glided to intercept the powries' craft.

Apparently, Bruinhelde and his kin spotted those sails as well, and, not
knowing their intent, decided to make sure that those powries already
landed found no reinforcements. Or, Midalis mused, perhaps the barbarian
leader was just trying to make sure that he and his brethren did indeed find
all the fun!

Whatever the case, the barbarian horde came crashing out of the brush,
howling wildly, launching their chained hammers.

Prince Midalis leaped up and cried out, and down went the devastating
volley, arrows and crossbow bolts and streaks of lightning.

Dalump Keedump recognized his doom clearly enough when the bar-
barian horde, a hundred strong at least, came roaring out of the forest, and
that fear was only multiplied when death rained down upon his compan-
ions from above.

Fortunately for the powrie leader and a couple of his associates, they
were tucked in close to the boat at that moment, with the bulky craft
between them and the archers, and thus escaped the volley.

Dalump ordered his minions-those few still standing!-to meet the
charge, but he held back the two beside him and motioned for one to go up
on the ship with him and for the other to run forward and cut the line.

The powrie could only hope that his foolish soldiers would keep the bar-
barians busy long enough for him to get out into the bay.

"They're running!" Midalis cried as the powrie boat slid down the dry
dock to splash into the water. The powrie who had cut the line ran wildly
along the beach, trying to keep up, and when he found that he could not, he
dove down in the sand and grabbed up the rope, getting pulled along.

Midalis' archers focused their next shots on that sliding dwarf, and when
he hit the water, all around him turned crimson.

Bruinhelde, too, cried out against the escape, and he rushed around
those few charging powries, letting his able companions cleave the dwarves
down, while he ran full out down the beach.

Already the boat's square mainsail was filling with wind, but Bruin-
helde's long stride got him close enough. He dove into the water and
snatched the trailing rope, pulling himself along its length.

From up above, the archers and the monks focused their missiles and
their magic at the deck of the boat, but no clear targets could they see. The
craft, groaning and creaking, began its turn for the bay mouth.

"Al'u'met will get them," Midalis remarked. "Keep putting arrows across
the deck," he instructed Liam.

"Hold them!" Agronguerre overruled the Prince. The abbot pointed
down to the water, indicating Bruinhelde, working hard to get to the boat.

"Go for the sail, then!" Midalis commanded. "And keep your shots
high!"
*       *       *

Dalump Keedump kept his head low, cursing and spitting as yet another
thunderous lightning bolt flashed overhead, ripping a line in one sail. But
then the ship lurched as it came about, its sail filling with a strong breeze,
rushing in diagonally from behind.

"Yach, catch us if ye can!" the powrie shouted, but his words died in his
mouth when he looked forward and saw the SaudiJadntha closing fast, her
deck crowded with archers.

"We got to quit," the other powrie said.

"And go back to a human jail? " Dalump answered, and he slapped his
companion on the back of the head. "Yach, I'll go to the bottom o' the bay
afore I'll sit in a smelly dungeon again!" With that, he tied off the wheel to
keep her sailing straight and rushed forward, dragging his reluctant com-
panion beside him, howling curses at the approaching ship.

"Come on then, ye dogs! I'll give ye a hit or ten!"

Bruinhelde tugged furiously, pulling his body closer and closer alongside
the speeding craft. The rope was tied off in front, but the thought of
following that course daunted the barbarian, for he'd surely drown in
the prow waves before he ever dragged himself out of the water. Besides,
the deck was low.

Bruinhelde wrapped one arm tightly about the rope, then pulled in the
slack behind him. He coiled the loose end and tossed it up, looping it on a
spur along the railing, then caught it as it came back down. He nearly lost
his grip altogether when he let go of the towing end and jerked to the end
of the slack on the other piece of rope, but again, with sheer determination
and strength, the powerful barbarian drove on. Soon he was back to the
spot where he had thrown the rope, and then, with a great tug, he came out
of the water, scrambling up the side of the boat.

He peeked over to see only two powries, and both of them up front, with
their backs to him.

Bruinhelde drew a long dagger from his belt and pulled himself up
higher.

"Hold your shots," Al'u'met instructed his many archers as the boats
continued to close.

The powrie curses came at him, along with a flying club, as Dalump
launched the missile. "I'll ram ye to the bottom with me!" the powrie
promised.

"Take them out," Captain Al'u'met said grimly, and the bows bent back
and the arrows flew.

Unfortunately, at that same moment, Bruinhelde appeared, charging
hard at the powrie pair.
The barrage dropped Dalump Keedump and his powrie companion.
Behind them, Bruinhelde went down.

The mood in the two distinct camps on the beach that night was somber
indeed. Abbot Agronguerre, along with Brothers Dellman and Haney, went
to the Alpinadoran encampment, offering their bandages and services.

Captain Al'u'met, all apologies, accompanied Prince Midalis, Liam, and
Andacanavar, to join the Alpinadoran council.

"We did not see Bruinhelde," the captain explained, and Andacanavar
translated, with equal sincerity, for his excited kinsmen. "Else we would
have held the shot and let him finish the powries."

One Alpinadoran answered gruffly, using words that none of the
Vanguardsmen understood, and then another agreed. When Andacanavar
turned back to the Vanguardsmen, he offered a comforting wink.

"Bruinhelde was injured in battle," the ranger explained. "There is no
shame in that. As for your error, they do not doubt your honesty, though I
will admit that they are surprised, as am I, to see a man with skin so dark."

Captain Al'u'met bowed low.

"We all pray that Bruinhelde will survive his wounds," Prince Midalis
offered.

"He is made of tougher stuff than you understand, if you fear that he will
not," Andacanavar determinedly replied.

"He's unconscious," Brother Haney remarked. "He'll not even know."

Abbot Agronguerre stared hard at the younger brother. "And what think
you, Brother Dellman?" he asked. "Should I use the soul stone upon our
friend Bruinhelde, though he has forbidden me to do so with any of his
warriors? "

"I do not know enough of the situation or the history to make such a
judgment," Dellman deferred.

"Without the magic, he might well die," Haney argued. "And if Bruin-
helde's to die, then all of our gains with Alpinador these last months might
be for naught. Andacanavar takes little of the praise for the friendship,
giving it to Bruinhelde."

"True enough," Abbot Agronguerre conceded.

"So you will go to him with the soul stone? " Brother Dellman asked.

Abbot Agronguerre paused for a long moment and stroked his hand
against his chin. "No," he decided. "No, whatever the cost, then so be it.
I'll not take the man's soul for the sake of his body; and to use the hematite,
in Bruinhelde's thinking, I would be doing just that. Let us continue our
conventional work upon him and let us pray."

Brother Dellman stared long and hard at Abbot Agronguerre at that
moment, and the old monk, obviously feeling that gaze upon him, turned a
questioning stare the brother's way.
"If we are to hold any friendship with Alpinador, then it must be a bond
forged in truth and in respect," Agronguerre explained. "It will bring me
great sorrow if Bruinhelde, so wise for one of his heritage, passes from our
world this night, but greater would my regret be if I dishonored the bond of
friendship."

In that moment, Brother Dellman knew. Beyond any doubt, he knew this
man would become the next father abbot of the Abellican Church, a nomi-
nation Dellman would wholeheartedly embrace.

They waited a long time beside Bruinhelde's bed, bandaging him.
Brother Haney finally managed to cut through the shaft of the last arrow, its
tip embedded deeply in the barbarian's hip. They could not dare to try to
extract it, not without gemstone magic assistance, but at least now the
whole of it was contained within the man.

Another hour passed, and Bruinhelde seemed to be resting more com-
fortably. He even opened one eye, to find Agronguerre close to him.

"It hurts," the abbot remarked, and Bruinhelde gave a slight nod.

"Good Bruinhelde, I offer this only in the truest sense of friendship,"
Agronguerre said, and he held the soul stone up before the barbarian's
blue eyes.

And those eyes widened-in horror, it seemed to Dellman. Bruinhelde's
breath came in rasps and he shook his head violently, though every move-
ment seemed to pain him greatly.

"Then we'll not!" Abbot Agronguerre assured him, grabbing him to
hold him steady. "Only on your word would we ever presume such a thing.
Fear not!" He knew that Bruinhelde was only partially understanding him,
but the man seemed to relax somewhat.

Soon, Bruinhelde was asleep.

At Agronguerre's bidding, Brother Dellman went to the barbarian council
tent to inform them of the progress. When he arrived, he found an embar-
rassed Midalis holding a flag, the pennant of Bretherford, Duke of the Miri-
anic, his brother's naval commander.

"It was indeed the same ship we chased across the gulf," Captain
Al'u'met explained. "An Ursal ship, no doubt, likely fresh out ofPalmaris."

"How can this be, Brother Dellman? " Midalis asked, and the monk swal-
lowed hard. On his way over, he had passed the lines of powrie bodies
stretched on the beach, and he was fairly certain that he recognized at least
one of the dwarves, an orange-bearded creature he had seen on a misty
morning, taken prisoner in the last Palmaris battle, from the western fields.

"Duke Kalas," he remarked, and all eyes turned his way. He started to
tell the tale of the fight that long-ago morning, and of the Duke and his bril-
liant Allheart knights marching the powries in from the field.

"An escape from the Palmaris dungeons?" Prince Midalis asked
incredulously.

That notion seemed like the only possible answer; and yet, it, too, seemed
impossible. How could a small band of powries break out of the fortress
known as Chasewind Manor and somehow commandeer a sailing ship out
of Palmaris' busy and well-guarded port?

Then it hit Dellman, like a slap in the face. Why hadn't he and Al'u'met
heard of any such escape, or theft of a ship, before they left, since the
powries had obviously sailed out just ahead of them? And even beyond
that, why hadn't the powries been summarily executed after the battle on
the western fields, as had been announced and would certainly have been
proper?

And why, Dellman wondered-and he wondered, too, why he hadn't
thought of this those many weeks before-hadn't any of the AUheart
knights been even slightly injured in that fight? They were great warriors, to
be sure, perhaps the best in Honce-the-Bear, but the powrie numbers had
been much greater that day-so proclaimed the victorious Duke-and that
battlefield hadn't even been prepared properly.

"No escape," Dellman blurted, shaking his head incredulously, for the
alternative stuck in his throat. He started to go on, to admit his suspicions
that these particular powries had been in league with Duke Kalas, but he
looked at the Prince standing before him, and then at the barbarians
hanging on his every word, and wisely changed-his mind.

"No escape from the dungeons," he said with clear conviction. "Likely
these dwarves were being transported-back to Ursal, I would presume-
for proper execution or interrogation, when they overwhelmed the crew of
the ship and turned her back for the open waters."

Andacanavar promptly translated, and the other Alpinadorans nodded
their agreement. When the young brother looked back to his own country-
men, though-particularly at Midalis and Al'u'met, he saw the obvious
doubts shadowing their expressions.

Al'u'met spoke those concerns clearly on the return journey to the Van-
guardsmen encampment. "We would have heard of any transport of pris-
oners," he reasoned. "Duke Kalas would have made a grand spectacle of it,
an occasion for furthering his own glory."

"You do not speak as one enamored of the Duke of Wester-Honce,"
Prince Midalis said with a chuckle.

"I heard many recountings of his return to the city with his prisoners,"
Al'u'met argued. "If these were indeed the same dwarves, and they were
being taken out of Palmaris, then Duke Kalas would have done so with
fanfare."

"Fair enough," the Prince replied. "Then they did escape from the dun-
geons of Palmaris."

"Or they were released," Brother Dellman remarked. "An agreement
between the Duke and the powrie leader? "

"You have reason to believe this? " Midalis asked sharply.

"Duke Kalas has been a friend to King Danube, the Prince's own
brother, for all their lives," Liam O'Blythe said to Dellman, a clear warning
to the man to take care with his words.

"A prisoner exchange, perhaps," Dellman remarked. "Whatever the
case, I cannot dismiss my suspicions that if these powries sailed out of Pal-
maris, they did so under the guidance of the Duke or one of his high-
ranking associates."

Midalis mulled that blunt statement over for a moment, then nodded.
" I know not if I agree with your assessment, Brother Dellman, but I am
glad that you did not speak of such possibilities in the presence of our bar-
barian friends. Andacanavar, and particularly Bruinhelde, have a much
simpler understanding of how to deal with these monsters. One does not
parlay with powries or goblins or giants. One kills them and moves on to
the next."

"I am not sure that I disagree with that philosophy," Dellman remarked.

"But we do know that the world is a much more complicated place than
that," Midalis went on. But though he spoke the words firmly, it seemed
obvious to Dellman that he wasn't thrilled at the possibility that one of his
brother's closest advisers and friends, the commander of the most elite
force in the Honce-the-Bear military, was somehow in league with bloody
caps. "If your suspicions have grounds, then I am certain that Duke Kalas
had his reasons, and that those reasons were to the benefit of the kingdom,"
Prince Midalis finished.

To the benefit of the kingdom over the benefit of the Church? Brother
Dellman wondered, for he remembered well how much Duke Kalas had
gained in popularity after that saving battle on Palmaris' western fields and
how well Kalas had then used his popularity against Abbot Braumin in
their constant squabbles.

Midalis and his soldiers, Al'u'met and his crew, Agronguerre and the
brothers of St. Belfour, and Andacanavar and the Alpinadorans kept a
solemn vigil over Bruinhelde for the next few days.

And then, one quiet afternoon, the barbarian leader came out of the tent,
limping badly but with the same determined expression that had earned
him the position of respect among his clansmen.

Once again, Brother Dellman was reminded of how wisely Abbot Agron-
guerre had chosen, for Bruinhelde made a point of going to the old monk
and warmly clasping his hand. Agronguerre had been spoken of as a poten-
tial healer for the wounded Church, and it seemed to Dellman as if they
could not have found a better candidate.

The Alpinadorans hosted a great mead hall celebration that night-it
never ceased to amaze the Vanguardsmen just how much of the drink these
men could carry around with them!

All were in attendance, a night without tension, as Bruinhelde made a
point of dismissing any thoughts of blame against Al'u'met or his men.
Brother Dellman, like everyone else in attendance, drank heartily, and it
seemed to him as if his mug was more quickly filled-by both Brother
Haney and Liam O'Blythe-than any of the others. He thought little of it,
though, just enjoyed the drink; and by the time Liam and Haney came to
him and took him by the arms, explaining that he looked as if he needed a
walk in the nighttime air, the young brother was in no condition to argue.

They brought him out and walked him along the beach, down to the
shore, and there they remained for a long time, as the moon Sheila made
her slow pass overhead and the roars of laughter and cheers from the mead
hall gradually diminished.

Leaning on the powrie boat, Dellman started to nod off, but then awak-
ened, harshly, as Liam O'Blythe splashed a mug full of cold seawater in
his face.

"What?" the monk sputtered.

"We know that ye came out to tell us o' the College," Brother Haney
began, and only then did Dellman begin to understand how in league these
two truly were. "And to take us there, so ye say."

"But what else're ye for, Brother Dellman? " Liam O'Blythe insisted.

Dellman, still groggy from the drink, looked at them both incredulously.

"Oh, tell us, ye fool, and be done with it," Brother Haney prompted. "Ye
came to spy on Abbot Agronguerre, didn't ye? "

"Spy?"

"What're ye about, Brother Dellman?" Haney went on. "Ye tell us or
we'll put ye in the water."

Dellman straightened and blinked the grogginess out of his bloodshot
eyes. "Indeed," he said indignantly, eyeing the young Haney directly.

"Not to be hurtin' ye, just to cool ye off a bit," the other monk replied.

"Ye came to see what he was about," Liam O'Blythe reasoned. "That's
me thinkin', and me Prince's, too. So what're ye about, mysterious Brother
Dellman? Why'd yer abbot send ye halfway around the kingdom? "

Dellman merely shrugged, and his lack of denial spoke volumes.

"And what will ye tell yer abbot?" Brother Haney demanded, coming
forward, but he hesitated, for now Brother Dellman was grinning.

"I will tell Abbot Braumin that Abbot Agronguerre is as fine a man as his
reputation makes him out to be," Dellman explained. "I will tell Abbot
Braumin that his nomination of Abbot Agronguerre for the position of
father abbot would be a great service to the Abellican Church." There, he
had said it, and he almost wondered if the dumstruck Brother Haney would
simply fall over in the sand.

"Vanguard's loss'll be yer Church's gain, then," an equally stunned Liam
O'Blythe remarked.

"Does he know? " Brother Haney asked.

"No, and you are not to tell him!" Dellman instructed. "I believe that
Abbot Agronguerre should be informed of the entirety of the plan to nomi-
nate him by one more worthy and knowledgeable than either you or me.
Abbot Braumin, or oldJe'howith of St. Honce, perhaps."

"Suren he's got his suspicions, as we had ours," Liam reasoned.
Dellman nodded. "And he will know the truth of it, soon enough," he
said. "Now promise me that you will say nothing to him."

Both men nodded, Haney wearing a silly grin, and that led to a toast, and
to another, and when they ran out of mead, Liam O'Blythe ran back to the
tent to fetch more, that their private celebration could continue long into
the night.

CHAPTER 19

Practical Indifference

Master Bou-raiy had offered to send several younger brothers
with De'Unnero on his journey, but he had flatly refused, both
because he didn't need any of Bou-raiy's lackeys reporting
back on his every move, and because he desired speed.

And Master De'Unnero knew how to travel fast. He fell into the
weretiger, became a great cat under the glow of Sheila, and covered the
miles more quickly than he might have even if he had been riding a fine
horse. All those traveling hours were a trial for the monk, though, as every
scent of every type of prey, of conies and deer, of cattle and sheep-and
mostly of humans-drifted his way. He knew that to give in, to feast even
upon the flesh of a squirrel, would defeat him, would allow the great feline
spirit that had found its way into his corporeal form to take over his sensi-
bilities: he would hunt down and devour a squirrel, and before he awak-
ened again would find himself covered in human blood. He knew it, and so
he fought it. And De'Unnero, so strong of will, again conquered the spirit
of the weretiger.

He used the form of the great cat for transportation only, and in that
guise covered as much as seventy miles in a single night. His first des-
tination, on order of the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle, was to be St. Gwen-
dolyn by the Sea, an important abbey, the fifth largest of the Abellican
Order and the one housing the only women in the Order, the Sisters of St.
Gwendolyn, named for a relatively minor martyr of the third century.
De'Unnero's plan was to remain at St. Gwendolyn for as short a time as
possible, then to catch a sailing boat out of the abbey's docks along the
Mantis Arm coast, sailing south for Entel and St. Bondabruce, the residence
of powerful Abbot Olin. De'Unnero was confident that he could get more
cooperation and alliance from the man than from anyone at St.-Mere-
Abelle, and so he was anxious to get there before Olin sailed for the College
of Abbots. He thought he could make it if he could find seaborne transport
at St. Gwendolyn.
After a week of hard travel, when he at last came in sight of St.
Gwendolyn by the Sea, a white-walled abbey of soaring minarets, Master
De'Unnero abandoned his plan, and knew from the scene about the abbey
that all future plans would also be altered.

Inevitably.

For there, spread about St. Gwendolyn's grounds, De'Unnero saw the
truth of Honce-the-Bear's future, saw the sickly masses huddled under torn
tents in dirty robes, all the area about them full of waste and refuse and
dead bodies.

That first image of the tarnished fields about St. Gwendolyn burned into
the heart and soul of Master Marcalo De'Unnero, assaulted him as the
worst, the very worst, sight he had ever witnessed, a prophecy of abject
doom and despair, the proof positive that God had altogether abandoned
his land and his Order.

No, the master thought. No, God had not deserted his Church, but his
Church had surely deserted the ways of God. This foolishness with Avelyn,
the murderer, the thief; this insistence-even by those who did not believe
in Avelyn or Jojonah, or in the humanistic, sympathetic, and pathetically
weak message that was being attributed to them-that the former, and per-
haps the latter, as well, would be canonized! This ascension by Braumin
and his cohorts to positions of almost dictatorial powers in the Order-
voices they earned only because they happened to be on the right side when
the secular forces of the kingdom destroyed the figurehead of their opposi-
tion! This general belief that the Abellican Church had to become a great
nursemaid to the populace!

Yes, that was it, De'Unnero understood. The new Church leaders
wanted to become as nursemaids, and so God was now showing them the
folly of their beliefs, the weakness of their softened hearts. De'Unnero
knew the old songs and children's rhymes. Like every brother indoctrinated
into the Abellican Order, he had learned of the efforts of previous genera-
tions to try to heal those afflicted with the rosy plague, knew that only
one in twenty could be healed, and that monks seeking such miracles
would contract the disease and die, on the average of about one in seven
attempts.

"Would Avelyn Desbris be among those running out with soul stone
in hand?" De'Unnero asked himself, and he knew the answer well-
knew that Avelyn, if he were alive and at St. Gwendolyn, would be out
in that field even then, working tirelessly to try to save someone, anyone.
Avelyn would be too ill to continue his efforts within a week or two, and he
would be dead soon after. "Yes, Avelyn, and when you had died in such a
manner, when they had thrown your body on the pyre so that your rotting
flesh could not pass the disease to others, would they then call you a saint or
a fool?"

In that moment, up on that bluff overlooking the field of wretches,
Marcalo De'Unnero saw things very clearly, saw the foolishness that had
invaded his beloved Order, the selfishness of Pride and Arrogance, among
the most deadly of sins, that had come into the seemingly generous hearts
of those brothers calling for humanistic reform.

That was not the Church that Markwart had envisioned or had striven
toward as father abbot. And though, in truth, Marcalo De'Unnero had
been no enthusiastic supporter of many of Dalebert Markwart's visions,
thinking them limited in scope, he recognized that the man had at
least attempted to keep the Church on its rightful and righteous course,
a path toward leadership, not friendship, toward instruction and not
hand-holding.

They were the brothers of Saint Abelle, the mouthpieces of God, those
whose concerns had to be the souls and not the bodies, whose compassion
had to focus on the afterlife, not the present life. People suffered and peo-
ple died every day, and in every conceivable horrible way. But that was not
important, in De'Unnero's vision. Preparation for inevitable death was a
process of cleansing the soul while the body rotted away; and this new
vision of the Church, these hints that the errors of Avelyn would be
ignored, that the man might be made a saint, this notion that the sacred
gemstones were not exclusively the province of the Abellican brothers, that
they were meant to alleviate the suffering-the physical and not the spiri-
tual suffering!-all of it, screamed at Marcalo De'Unnero that his beloved
Church had not only turned down the wrong fork in the road but also had
turned completely around and was walking the path toward the demon
dactyl and not toward God.

Marcalo De'Unnero knew at that moment of epiphany what he had to
do, or at least, what he had to fight for. But how might he begin to bring it
about?

He looked more carefully at the scene spread before him, at the scores,
no hundreds, of huddled wretches, and at the long bed of various flowers-
a tussie-mussie bed, it was called-that had been planted in front of the
gates of St. Gwendolyn. The scholar brothers and the secular healers of
the day, and of generations past, had come to the conclusion that the
plague was spread mostly by the rotting smell of its victims; and the scents
that could most effectively block that deadly odor were certain combina-
tions of the various aromatic flowers.

De'Unnero glanced behind him, to the road that led to the main square
of Gwendolyn village, which he saw nestled in a dell north of the abbey. He
could picture the scene along Gwendolyn village's avenues, people walking
with nosegays, smaller versions of the same floral combinations. People
walking about with that telltale look of despair, of utter terror.

He kept his human form now, but De'Unnero ran full out down that
road and into Gwendolyn. He purchased a nosegay from a market, flour-
ishing despite-or actually, because of-the pall that lay over the town.
Then he ran back to the bluff overlooking the field. For the first time since
he had left St.-Mere-Abelle, De'Unnero wished that he had taken some
gemstones, something to help get him by that desperate crowd, or to clear
the way before him. Lacking that, the master fell into the tiger yet again,
grimacing with the pain as his lower half transformed into the shape of the
great cat, with muscled, powerful legs that could propel him away from any
danger in an instant.

He checked the folds of his robes to ensure that the transformed limbs
could not be seen, then went with all speed down onto the field, trying to
circumvent the rabble. They came at him, the pitiful things, shuffling and
wailing; but De'Unnero outran most, and when some circled to block his
path to the monastery, the monk leaped on tiger legs, clearing them easily,
landing lightly and running on, toward the tussie-mussie bed.

"Hold fast!" came the cry from the wall, and De'Unnero paused long
enough to see several crossbowmen leveling their weapons his way. " None
to cross the posies!"

"I am Master De'Unnero of St.-Mere-Abelle, you fool!" the monk roared
back, and he charged on, right through the flower bed.

He heard the archers cry out again, to a couple of peasants chasing him,
and then, to his satisfaction, he heard the click of their crossbows and the
agonized cries behind him. At last, he thought, brothers with the courage to
do the right thing.

The main gate of St. Gwendolyn swung wide and the portcullis beyond it
cranked up, up, and De'Unnero skittered through, his smile wide, prepared
to congratulate the brothers of St. Gwendolyn for their vigilance and will-
ingness to do that which was right.

But he paused, stunned, for the scene inside the abbey courtyard nearly
mimicked that without! Several brothers and sisters were stretched out on
the ground under makeshift tents, moaning, while others peeked out at
De'Unnero from various doors and windows or looked down upon him
from the parapets. The portcullis behind the master slammed down.

"Where is Abbess Delenia?" De'Unnero barked at the nearest appar-
ently healthy brother, a crossbowman on the parapet beside the gate tower.

The young monk shook his head, his expression grim. "We are without
our abbess, all of our masters, and all but one sovereign sister," he
explained. "Fie the rosy plague!"

De'Unnero winced at the grim news, for St. Gwendolyn had not been
thin of high-ranking monks, as were some of the other abbeys. At the last
College of Abbots, Delenia had brought no fewer than five masters and
three sovereign sisters with her, and she had told De'Unnero personally
that she had three more sisters nearing promotion to that rank, the equiva-
lent of master.
"We unafflicted number fewer than fifty," the monk continued. "The
plague caught us before we understood its nature."

"And how many have gone out to try and cure those diseased upon your
field?" De'Unnero demanded. Though he was wounded by the near-
complete downfall of St. Gwendolyn by the Sea, he transferred that pain
into anger and neither sympathy nor sadness.

The monk shrugged and started to look away.

"How many, brother?" De'Unnero demanded, and a twitch of his legs
lifted him up the twelve feet to the parapet, to stand before the stunned
man. "That is how it entered your abbey, is it not?"

"Abbess Delenia ..." the man stammered, and De'Unnero knew that his
presumption had hit the mark perfectly. Never had Abbess Delenia failed
in matters of sympathy, a weakness that De'Unnero considered general in
her gender. She could debate and argue with the best minds in the Abel-
lican Order, and she had been a friend to Abbot Olin; but De'Unnero had
always considered Delenia sympathetic to Avelyn and even more so to
Jojonah, for she had shown no stomach for watching the heretical master
burn at the stake in the village of St.-Mere-Abelle.

"Convene all the healthy brothers and sisters in the abbess's audience
chambers," the master instructed the scared young monk. "We have much
to discuss."

Merry Cowsenfed walked past her stunned, sobbing companions to the
body lying in the tussie-mussie bed, a man who had come to the field out-
side of St. Gwendolyn only three days before. He had lost his wife and two
of his three children to the plague; and now his third, a young daughter,
had begun to show the telltale rosy spots. Thus the desperate man had
ridden hard, and then when his horse had faltered, had run hard, carrying
the child nearly a hundred miles to get to St. Gwendolyn.

He wasn't even afflicted with the plague.

How ironic, it seemed to Merry, to see the healthiest one of the bunch
of them lying dead on the flowers. She bent down and turned the man over,
then spun away, dodging the flying blood, for the crossbow quarrel had
broken through his front teeth, tearing a garish wound through the bottom
of his mouth and into his throat.

Then Merry heard the cries, the pitiful screams of a child barely strong
enough to hold herself upright. She came at the body then, barely five years
old, half walking, half crawling, begging for her da. Merry intercepted the
child, scooped her in her arms, and carried her away, motioning, as they
went, for some others to go and collect the body.

"There ye go, child," Merry cooed softly into the frantic girl's ear.
"There ye go. Merry's got ye now and all'll be put aright."

But Merry knew the lie, as well as anyone alive. Nothing would be put
aright; nothing could be put aright. Even if the remaining monks-that new
one who ran through the field, perhaps-came running out and offered a
cure for them all, nothing would be put aright.

How well Merry Cowsenfed knew the awful truth! She looked down
at her bare arm, at the scars left over from her fight with the rosy plague.
She had been the one in twenty who had been saved by the monks and
their work with the soul stone. Abbess Delenia herself had tended to
Merry.

"One in twenty," the woman said, shaking her head. The monks had
come out to tend dozens, dozens, yet only Merry had survived thus far. And
so many of those brave and generous monks were now dead, the woman
mused. Delenia and the sovereign sisters who had used their magic to help
those from Falidean town. All dead, every one.

Delenia had pronounced Merry cured, and there had been great cries of
rejoicing from the abbey walls, and Merry had been invited to go inside and
pray. But the battered and weary woman understood the ridiculousness of
the abbess' claims that she was healed, knew that nothing could be farther
from the truth. Her body had survived the plague, perhaps, but her heart
had not. She refused the invitation, preferring to stay out on the field with
the rest of the group that had come in from Falidean town.

They were all dead now, Dinhy and Thedo and all the rest, dead like her
Brennilee, and not even in the ground with a proper coffin. No, just burned
on the pyre-the first ones who had died, at least, for the pitiful folk had
later run out of wood. The more recent deceased had merely been rolled
into a hole in their dirty clothes, food for the worms.

Merry looked about the field now, at the empty eyes, the pleading
expressions, at all of those who wanted so desperately that which Merry
had found. They wanted the monks to come out and tend them, to take the
disease away, because they thought that then everything would be put
aright.

It would not, Merry knew, not for her and not for them. The rosy plague
had come and destroyed her world, had destroyed their world, and nothing
would ever be the same.

An older woman, bent and nearly choking on her own phlegm, came up
and offered to take the child from Merry, but Merry refused, explaining
that she'd tend this one.

The child died that same night, and Merry gently put her on the cart that
came by to collect the bodies.

"She was the one ye should've tried to save, ye fools!" a frustrated and
furious Merry yelled at the abbey walls a short while after that. She stood
behind the tussie-mussie bed, shaking her fist at the silhouettes of the
monks up on the parapets. "Ye fix the children, and they'll heal, body and
soul. Ye don't be wastin' yer time with the likes o' me, ye fools! Don't ye
know that I've got hurts yer stones canno' find? Oh, but where are ye,
then? Ye've not been out o' yer walls in days, in weeks! Are ye just to sit in
there and let us all die, then? Are ye just to stand on yer walls and shoot us
dead if we come too close? And ye're calling yerself the folk o' God-bah,
but ye're just a pack of scared dogs, ye are!"

"Who is the hag?" De'Unnero asked one of the other brothers, the trio
standing atop the abbey gate tower, looking out over the field.

"Merry Cowsenfed of Falidean town," the young monk answered, "the
only one saved by Abbess Delenia and the others."

"And no doubt at the cost of Delenia's own life," De'Unnero quipped.
"Fool."

Raised voices from the courtyard behind and below turned the pair
about.

"The sick brothers are not so pleased," the young monk remarked.

"They are without options," De'Unnero replied, for at the meeting of
those still healthy within St. Gwendolyn, the master from St.-Mere-Abelle
had forced some difficult but necessary decisions. All of the sick monks
were to leave the abbey ground, to go out on the field beyond the tussie-
mussie bed with the other diseased folk. De'Unnero had offered to bring
the tidings to the sick monks personally, but several of the remaining sis-
ters had asked to do it. Now they were down in the courtyard, carrying
their warding posies before them, telling their sick brethren that they must
be gone.

The argument continued to swell, with more and more of the diseased
monks crowding by the sisters, shaking their fists, their voices rising.

"Surely you see the reason for this," De'Unnero called down to them,
turning all eyes his way.

"This has been our home for years," one brother called back at him.

"And the others of St. Gwendolyn have been your family," De'Unnero
reasoned. "Why would you so endanger your brethren? Have you lost all
courage, brother? Have you forgotten the generous spirit that is supposed
to guide an Abellican monk? "

"The generous spirit that throws sick folk out into the night?" the monk
answered hotly.

"It is not a duty that we enjoy," De'Unnero replied, his voice calm, "nor
one that we demand lightly. The salvation of the abbey is more important
than your own life, and to that end, you will leave, and now. Those who can
walk will carry those who cannot."

"Out there, without hope? " the brother asked.

"Out there, with others similarly afflicted," De'Unnero corrected.

There was some jostling in the crowd, a few shouts of protest; and the sis-
ters who had delivered the tidings fell back, fearing a riot.

"I will offer you this one thing," De'Unnero called down, and he pulled a
gemstone from the small pouch in his robe, a gray stone he had just taken
from St. Gwendolyn's minor stores.

"Take this soul stone out with you and tend one another," De'Unnero
went on. He tossed it down to the closest ailing monk. "You will show it to
me each night, and inform me of its every possessor, for I will have it back."

"When we are all dead," the young brother reasoned.

"Who can speak God's will?" De'Unnero replied with a shrug, but
it was obvious to him, and to all the others, that this group was surely
doomed. They might find some comfort with the soul stone, but never
would any of them find the strength to drive back the rosy plague. "Take it
and go," De'Unnero finished, and his voice dropped low. "I offer you no
other choice."

"And if we refuse?"

It was not an unexpected question, but the master's response certainly
caught more than a few of the onlookers by surprise. He reached over
to one of the nearby young brothers and pulled the crossbow from the
man, then leveled it at the impertinent diseased monk. "Begone," he said
calmly, too calmly, "for the good of your abbey and your still-healthy
brethren. Begone."

The monk puffed out his chest and assumed a defiant pose, but others
near him-correctly reading the grim expression on Master De'Unnero's
face, understanding beyond any doubt that the fierce master from St.-Mere-
Abelle would indeed shoot him dead-pulled the man back.

Slowly, without enthusiasm and without hope, the ailing brothers and
sisters of St. Gwendolyn collected those who could no longer stand, gath-
ered all the warm blankets and clothing that they could carry, and began
their solemn procession out the front gates of the abbey.

"The walk of the dead," the young monk standing on the parapet beside
De'Unnero remarked.

All the monks expelled from St. Gwendolyn were dead within the week,
their demise hastened, De'Unnero regularly pointed out, by their feeble
attempts to alleviate the suffering of one another. "It is akin to diving into
the mud to help clean a fallen brother," De'Unnero explained to all of the
healthy brethren at one of their many meetings, "Better would they be if
they found healthy hosts that they might use the soul stone to leech the
strength."

"But how many peasants might then become ill?" one of the sisters
asked.

"If a hundred peasants gave their lives to save a single brother, then the
reward would be worth the cost," De'Unnero insisted.

"And how many brethren sacrifices would suffice to save one peasant? "
the same sister asked.

"None," came the harsh answer. "If one Abellican monk saved a dozen
peasants but forfeited his own life in the process, then the cost would be
too high. Do you place no value on your training? On your years of dedica-
tion to the highest principles? We are warriors, do you hear? Warriors of
God, the holders of the truth, the keepers of the sacred stones."

"Beware the sin of pride, brother," the sister remarked, but before she
had even finished the sentence, the fierce master was there, scowling at her.

"Do you believe that you can save them all, sister? " he asked. "Do you so
fear death that you must try? "

That set her back a bit, as she tried to sort through the seeming illogic.

"We will all die," De'Unnero explained, spinning away from her to
address the entire gathering, the remaining monks of St. Gwendolyn.
"You," he said to one young monk, "and I, and he and he and she and she.
We will all die, and they will all die. But we bear the burden of carrying
the word of God. We must not be silenced! And now, when the world
has gone astray, when our Church has wandered from the holy path, we-
you brethren and I-who have witnessed the folly, must speak all the
louder!"

He stormed out of the room, full of fire, full of ire, stalking through the
courtyard and calling for the portcullis to be lifted and the gate to be
thrown wide.

Outside, he found Merry Cowsenfed wandering about the flower bed,
like some sentinel awaiting the arrival of death.

"With all them other monks dead, have ye and yer fellows decided to
come out and help us again?" she asked hopefully when she spotted
De'Unnero. "Ye got to help Prissy first, poor little one-"

"I came for the soul stone and nothing more," De'Unnero replied
sharply.

Merry looked at him as if she had been slapped. "Ye can't be for-
gettin' us," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "The abbess and her
friends-"

"Are all dead," De'Unnero reminded her. "Dead because they refused to
accept the truth."

"The truth, ye're sayin'?" Merry questioned. "Is it yer own truth, then,
that I should be dead and buried? The plague had me thick," she said,
raising one bare arm to show the master her ring-shaped scars.

"The soul stone," De'Unnero insisted, holding out his hand.

"Ye got more o' them things inside, more than ye could need," Merry
argued. "We're wantin' only the one."

"You could not begin to use it."

"We'll find one that can, then," said Merry. "If yerself and yer fellow
monks aren't to help us, then ye got to at least let us keep the stone. Ye got
to at least let us try."

De'Unnero narrowed his gaze. "Try, then," he said, and he looked to
another nearby fellow, one obviously quite sick with the plague. "Go and
fetch . . . what was the name? "

"Prissy," Merry answered. "Prissy Collier."

"Be quick!" De'Unnero snapped, and the man ran off.

He returned a few moments later, bearing a small girl, two or three
years old. Gently he laid her on the ground near Merry, and then, on
De'Unnero's wave, he backed off.

"She's near to passin'," Merry remarked.

"Then save her," De'Unnero said to her. "You have the soul stone, so
invoke the name and power of God and rid her of the plague."

Merry looked at him incredulously.

"Now!" the monk roared at her.

Merry looked all around, very conscious of the growing audience, the
many sick folk looking on from a distance and the many monks now lining
the abbey's parapet and front gate tower.

"Now," De'Unnero said again. "You desire a miracle, so pray for one."

"I'm just a washerwoman, a poor-"

"Then give me the stone," De'Unnero said, holding forth his hand
once more.

Merry reached into her pocket and did indeed bring forth the stone, but
she didn't give it to De'Unnero. She clutched it close to her bosom and fell
to her knees beside poor, sick Prissy. And then she began to pray, with all
her heart and soul. She invoked every prayer she had learned as a child, and
made up many more, words torn from her heart. She kissed the soul stone
repeatedly, then pressed it to Prissy's forehead and begged for God to let
her and the girl join, as she had done with Abbess Delenia.

Merry prayed all through the rest of the day and long into the night. Tire-
lessly she knelt and she prayed, and tirelessly did De'Unnero stand over
her, watching her, judging her.

The dawn broke and Merry, her voice all but gone now, begging
more than praying, still cried out for a miracle that seemed as if it would
not come.

Prissy Collier died that morning, with Merry sobbing over her. After a
long while, De'Unnero calmly reached down and helped the woman up.

"The soul stone," he said, holding forth his hand.

Merry Cowsenfed seemed a broken woman, her face puffy and blotchy,
streaked with tears. Her whole body trembled; her knees seemed as if they
would buckle at any moment.

But then she straightened and squared her sagging shoulders. "No, ye
canno' take it from us," she said.

De'Unnero tilted his head in disbelief and a wry smile came over him.

"It did no' work with Prissy, but it will," Merry insisted. "It has to work,
for it's all we got."
As she finished, she felt the sudden, burning explosion as De'Unnero's
tiger paw swiped across her face, tearing the flesh. She felt the sharp tug on
her arm next, saw her hand fly out and fly open.

Then she was falling, falling, and so slowly, it seemed!

The last thing Merry Cowsenfed saw on the field outside St. Gwendolyn
was Marcalo De'Unnero's back as the monk callously walked away.
CHAPTER 20
The Bringer of Dreams

(own south, it was still autumn, but up here, in Alpinador and on
the slopes of a steep mountain, winter had set in.

The stinging winds and snow hardly seemed to bother Anda-
canavar as he led Bruinhelde and Midalis. The ranger walked lightly,
despite his years, despite the storm, as if he were more spirit than corporeal,
as if he had somehow found a complete unity and harmony with nature-
something made even more painfully obvious to poor Prince Midalis,
trudging on, plowing through the snow up to his knees.

Bruinhelde's steps were even more strained, for the barbarian leader had
not fully healed, and never would, the embedded arrowhead grinding
painfully against his hipbone. Still, he had no trouble pacing Midalis, who
was not used to such climbs nor such heights, for they were nearly two
miles higher than Pireth Vanguard now, approaching the cave of the snow-
crawler, the spirit shaggoth.

Finally, Andacanavar stopped and shielded his eyes with his hand, point-
ing to a windblown, rocky spur up ahead. "The opening," he announced.

Midalis came up beside the ranger, staring hard, but he could not make
out any opening in the snow and rocks.

"It is there," Andacanavar assured him, seeing his doubtful expression.

"The home of the spirit shaggoth?"

The ranger nodded.

"How do you know? " the Prince asked.

"Andacanavar has walked this range for many years," Bruinhelde put in,
catching up to them.

"But how do you know that the beast is still alive? " Prince Midalis asked.
"How many years have passed since you have seen the creature? "

"As long as men are alive, the spirit shaggoth is alive," the ranger
answered confidently. "With haste, now," he said, starting away, "before
the night catches us on the open face."

251

There was indeed a cave entrance up ahead, though Midalis was practi-
cally on top of it before he even discerned it. Andacanavar led the way in,
and they had to crawl beneath the low-hanging rock ceiling for some dis-
tance, along a dark, winding corridor-something that didn't bring much
comfort to the Prince, with a legendary monster supposedly residing just
within!

They came into a chamber, dimly lit by daylight creeping in through a
small opening where the overhanging rock of the western wall overlapped
a bit but did not join with the western edge of the floor. It was a small
room, barely large enough for the three to get apart without bumping
elbows, with only two exits: the one they had crawled through and another
tight tunnel across the way, this one ascending at a steep angle.

Andacanavar methodically went about his preparations, building a small
fire near that tunnel. He produced a hunk of venison, a thick and juicy
steak, and set it on a spit above the fire, then sat back, fanning the smoke,
letting the aroma of cooking meat drift up the natural chimney.

"Whetting his appetite," the ranger explained with a wink.

From his large pack, the ranger then brought forth the items the pair
would need: two pairs of iron spurs, which angled downward rather than
backward; a palm-sized ornate item of flint and steel; a metal pole tipped
on both sides by lengths of chain; a pair of javelins, specially crafted to hook
to the free end of each chain; and finally, reverently, a disc-shaped object
wrapped in deerskin. The ranger put this on the ground before the three of
them and spoke several prayers in his own tongue as he gently unfolded
each layer of leather.

Prince Midalis stared at the revealed item curiously, at the beauty of the
thing in light of the knowledge that it had been crafted by the fierce
Alpinadorans. It was a burnished wooden hoop, holding within it what
seemed like a spiderweb set with dozens and dozens of crystals, or dia-
monds, perhaps. In the very center, and suspended back from the web, was
a single candle.

"What is it? " he dared to ask.

"Your only hope of getting out of there alive," the ranger answered with
a wry grin. He lifted the hoop and the flint and steel, and with a flick of his
fingers, created a spark that ignited the candle. Then he turned to face the
other two, with the candle flame pointing toward him.

Slowly, Andacanavar moved the hoop, left and right. The crystals caught
the candle's flame and reflected it and brightened it and bent it into dif-
ferent colors so that Bruinhelde and Midalis felt as if they were sitting in the
middle of a brilliant rainbow.

"Behold Towalloko," the ranger said, and quiedy, so that his voice did
not break the mounting trance, "the bringer of dreams."

"Towalloko," Midalis repeated softly, and he was falling, falling, deeper
and deeper into the web of colors and images, his mind soaring from the
cave on the side of the mountain to a different place, a quieter and more
peaceful place.

With a puff, Andacanavar blew out the candle, and Midalis' eyes popped
wide as if he had just awakened from a restful sleep. He stared at Towal-
loko, trying to piece it all together. There was magic here, he knew, gem-
stone magic; and Andacanavar had spoken of the hoop as if it were one of
the many Alpinadoran gods. And yet the Alpinadorans rejected the sacred
stones outright and completely. Midalis furrowed his brow at the apparent
contradiction. He stared hard at Andacanavar, seeking some explanation,
but the ranger only smiled knowingly, and went back to sorting the many
items.

Then the ranger explained, in precise detail, the procedure for this task
that lay before the two leaders. The ritual of blood-brothering had ancient
traditions in Alpinador, ever since the tribal ancestors, who worshiped the
spirit shaggoth as the mountain god of snow, had captured the beast in this
cave. Once, the feat of riding the creature had been a passage of manhood
for every tribal youngster, but as the years had passed with many, many of
the adolescent boys losing their lives or limbs in the attempt, the ritual had
been moved to a more remote and even more special place in Alpinadoran
culture, the blood-brothering.

This blood-brothering between Midalis and Bruinhelde, Andacanavar
explained, would be the first in over a decade.

"And how did the last one end? " a clearly worried Midalis asked.

Andacanavar only smiled.

"You are not to harm the shaggoth," the ranger explained a moment
later, "in no way, not even at the cost of your own life."

Bruinhelde nodded, his jaw set, but Midalis gave a doubtful smirk.

"Not that you could bring harm to the great beast anyway," Anda-
canavar said, his tone somber, "not even if you brought fine weapons in
there with you. This is a test of your courage, not your warrior skills, and a
test of your trust in each other. If either of you fails, then you both will
surely die, and horribly."

Midalis wanted to remark that he doubted Andacanavar would risk such
a loss, but he held the thought and considered, then, that the ranger would
not do this thing, would not bring them here and risk so very much, if he
didn't trust both Midalis and Bruinhelde. The Prince turned to regard this
giant man who would become his blood-brother. In truth, he didn't care
much for stubborn Bruinhelde, found him driven by honor to the point of
callousness, but he did trust the man would keep his word. And in battle, in
any test where he had to depend upon the honor of an ally, Midalis couldn't
think of another man, except perhaps Liam, with whom he would rather be
allied.

"Are you prepared to begin? " the ranger asked solemnly; and both men,
after a glance at each other, nodded.
Andacanavar took a small pot out of his seemingly bottomless backpack,
and then produced packets of various herbs from his many belt pouches.
He poured them all together in the pot, added a little snow, and set it over
the fire. Soon a sweet aroma filled the small chamber, permeating Midalis'
consciousness with rainbow dreams and blurring images.

He felt light, as if he could glide on mountain winds. He felt sleepy, and
then strangely energetic. He watched Andacanavar's movements as if in a
dream, as the ranger took the venison off of the spit, then unhooked one
chain from the metal center bar and skewered the venison upon it. He re-
attached the chain and handed it to Bruinhelde. Then the ranger, with a
final salute to both men, crawled back into the tunnel that had brought
them to this chamber and began to sing softly outside.

Bruinhelde gathered a pair of spurs and began tying them on his heavy
boots, and Midalis did likewise; then, without even a glance at the Prince,
Bruinhelde collected the rest of the items and began crawling up the steep
tunnel. Midalis, feeling as if he was simply floating up the shaft, followed
closely.

The Prince couldn't see much through the smoke, but he sensed that
Bruinhelde had exited the chimney, and then heard the barbarian's sharp
intake of breath, as if in fear.

Fighting his own fears, reminding himself that Bruinhelde was depend-
ing on him, Midalis clawed up the last ten feet of tunnel, pulling himself
onto the floor of a higher chamber, beside the barbarian. Midalis followed
the man's gaze across this larger chamber to a light-colored mound on the
floor. Midalis at first thought it was a pile of snow.

But then it moved, uncoiled, coming toward them slowly, sniffing. As his
eyes adjusted to the light, Midalis could make out more and more of the
creature-this shaggoth spirit-and it took every ounce of will he could
muster not to simply dive back down the tunnel!

It resembled a great centipede, perhaps ten times the length of a man and
thrice as thick, its wormlike torso gleaming white, with one line of glowing
bright orange along its back. Even from this distance, Midalis could feel the
heat of that stripe and realized that the spirit shaggoth used that hot strip to
help it burrow under the snow.

It kept its monstrous head off the ground as it clattered toward them, its
single, bulbous, black insectlike eye glittering eagerly from the middle of its
flat face, and its many legs skittering. Midalis shivered at the sight of the
creature's ample teeth: great elongated fangs and tusks, too large to be con-
tained even by its considerable mouth.

"We go now," Bruinhelde whispered, and he thrust one of the chains
into Midalis' hand. The Prince looked at it curiously for just a moment; but
Bruinhelde was already moving, so he, too, leaped up, working rapidly to
take up the slack.
The spirit shaggoth sprouted small white wings from the sides of its
upper torso, beating them furiously to lift its head farther off the ground,
raising its front quarter up, like one of the great hooded snakes of Behren.

And that eye! That glittering eye! Looking right through him, Midalis
believed. He nearly lost all hope then, nearly threw himself on the ground
before the mighty creature that it could kill him swiftly.

But Bruinhelde kept moving, and the barbarian's calm allowed Midalis
to keep his wits about him. A moment later the pair, swinging their chains
in unison, sent the skewered venison steak flying out before them, to land
on the ground near the spirit shaggoth.

The creature eyed the meat curiously. Midalis heard it sniffing again and
recognized the spirit shaggoth's nose was a mere hole in its face right below
the bulbous eye.

"What if it does not strike the meat?" Midalis asked quietly, working,
fastening his javelin to the free end of his chain, as was Bruinhelde.

The spirit shaggoth began to sway, back and forth. Hypnotizing move-
ments, back and forth, back and forth. Andacanavar had warned them
about this, had told them that to stare into that eye was to forget all plans,
was to freeze in the face of the spirit shaggoth and be devoured.

Midalis glanced at Bruinhelde and saw the barbarian was standing per-
fectly still, staring at the creature. The Prince lashed out, punching the bar-
barian's shoulder. Then he and Bruinhelde both jumped in terror as the
spirit shaggoth struck, taut muscles propelling the head forward with
blinding speed at the venison and the bar, snapping it up.

"Now!" Bruinhelde yelled. Both he and Midalis launched their javelins
past the spirit shaggoth's head, which was up high again, to the floor
behind. Bruinhelde immediately brought forth Towalloko, snapping flint
against steel to light the wick. Then he ran before the great beast, holding
out the bringer of dreams, turning the ring slowly, slowly.

Prince Midalis knew what he was supposed to do-run past the dis-
tracted monster, scoop up one chain as a rein, and mount it, straddling the
orange line of fire to catch the other chain. He knew that the sooner he
went, the better their chances of success, and silently screamed at himself to
move. But he couldn't bring his legs to action.

"Go!" Bruinhelde called to him.

Midalis tried to move. He thought of the disaster this day would bring if
he did not go-if, because of his cowardice, Bruinhelde was killed, or they
both were forced out in disgrace. What loss to Honce-the-Bear, to Van-
guard, which had been saved by the Alpinadorans.

Yes, that was it, the image of St. Belfour besieged, of the goblins closing
in on Midalis' small force. Surely those creatures would have destroyed the
Vanguardsmen had not Bruinhelde and his clansmen come to their aid.

Now Midalis was running low in a crouch, his spurs crunching into the
ice-covered floor or sparking whenever they struck bare stone. He tried to
keep his movements fluid, to make no abrupt move that would break the
swaying spirit shaggoth from its Towalloko-induced trance.

He Came around the side of its swaying neck and saw the first chain on the
floor. Then it seemed to him as if everything was happening in a dreamlike
fog, his own motions slow, so slow! He gathered up the chain and leaped for
the spirit shaggoth's back, planting one foot on the bony ridge separating
the outer segments from that glowing orange stripe. Midalis didn't even con-
sider the plain good luck that kept his foot securely in place, for to slip here
and fall upon that superheated back would have melted the skin from his
bones! Nor did he even consider his next motion, but quickly swung his free
leg over that glowing stripe and planted his foot on the opposite bony ridge,
then reached down low and scooped up the other chain.

Then he saw the many bones littering the chamber-whitened skulls and
charred leg bones-and the Prince nearly froze in horror.

But he growled away his fear. In a moment, he was standing straight,
holding the chains, frantically taking up the slack.

The spirit shaggoth turned suddenly to the left and reared even higher;

and Midalis, thrown off balance, fell forward and just managed to throw his
arm out and stop himself, his chest and face barely an inch from the
glowing stripe.

He realized that Bruinhelde was moving, heading for a side exit, holding
forth Towalloko, luring the creature out.

They went down a corridor and came out on a long, snow-covered ledge,
with a thousand-foot drop to Midalis' left and a towering cliff face to his
right. Now Bruinhelde scrambled out of the way, and Midalis was on
his own.

Immediately, the spirit shaggoth began to tug and buck, but Midalis held
the reins, keeping the creature's head high.

The Prince heard the wind in his ears as the creature ran down the length
of the ridge, scattering the snow from the rock, its hundred feet clacking on
the stone. At the far end, the Prince tugged hard on the right rein, bringing
the creature around in a dizzying turn, and before he had even oriented
himself, he discovered that they were almost back to Bruinhelde.

Now the barbarian put up Towalloko again, entrancing the creature. Prince
Midalis found getting off the beast was even more trying than getting on,
out here in the wind, where one slip could burn his leg or send him flying to
his death.

He managed it somehow and went to Bruinhelde, taking Towalloko, keep-
ing the mesmerizing rainbow working.

He retreated into the creature's chamber as Bruinhelde rode the beast
the length of the precipice and back again, and was ready to catch the crea-
ture's attention and hold it as the barbarian dismounted and joined him.
But of breath, hardly believing what they had just done, the pair slowly
backed toward the chimney.

Without warning, the candle went out; the mesmerizing rainbow hues
were no more.

Midalis knew beyond doubt that the creature would strike at Bruinhelde.
He knew, too, that he could escape in a wild slide down the steep tunnel.
But how could he do that to this man, his new brother?

He leaped in front of Bruinhelde-or tried to, for the barbarian, har-
boring the same thoughts, tried to leap in front of him at the same moment.
They crashed together, Midalis' forehead smacking Bruinhelde's shoulder,
their knees crashing together, and then they stumbled, certain that they
were doomed.

The spirit shaggoth inexplicably missed the strike, as if their sudden
movements and collision had confused it.

The pair scrambled all over each other, pushing each other toward the
downward-slanting tunnel, then falling into it together, bouncing and tum-
bling, and finally crawling out the lower opening, to find Andacanavar
waiting for them.

"A fun ride, then." The ranger laughed at the disheveled pair, for
Midalis' forehead was bleeding and Bruinhelde was holding one knee. "We
could go up and ride it again."

"With all our blessings," Midalis said, holding out Towalloko. "You go."

But Andacanavar only laughed again and led them out of the cave.

Midalis hardly noticed the first part of their descent, for he was lost in
a haze of smoky dreams. Then, as his thoughts cleared, he found himself
with a most profound headache, could feel his pulse throbbing in his tem-
ples. At first, he thought it the result of the collision with Bruinhelde, but
when he looked at him, he found that the barbarian was similarly rubbing
his head.

The herbal smoke, Midalis reasoned; and a strange notion occurred to
him then. How much of this experience had been real and how much had
been hallucination? Was there even really a creature within that cavern?
And if so, was it as they had seen it, so terrifying, so mighty? Yes, that was
it, Midalis thought. This whole experience had been naught but an elabo-
rate deceit!

"What are you thinking?" Andacanavar asked, seeing Midalis' per-
plexed expression; but then the ranger exploded in laughter, and so did
Bruinhelde.

Midalis stared at them both curiously.

Andacanavar, laughing still, produced a small sheet of polished metal
and held it out to the man. "Your face," he explained.

Midalis took the mirror and held it up before him, then gasped and had
to reconsider his assumption.
For the Prince's face was bright red, burned by his close encounter with
the spirit shaggoth's back.

"You have some ugly monsters in Alpinador," Midalis remarked.
"We say the same of your women," Bruinhelde replied; and they laughed
again, all three.

"You are brethren now," Andacanavar remarked in all seriousness.
Midalis and Bruinhelde nodded-each had willingly risked his own
safety to save the other. Even in that moment of victory, the Prince won-
dered how his natural brother would feel about the newest addition to the
family.

"I'm only eight years in the Church," Brother Haney said to Liam
O'Blythe and Brother Dellman as they walked along the docks of Pireth
Vanguard, toward the waiting Saudi Jacintha. "There be two brothers older
than meself in all of Vanguard, not counting Abbot Agronguerre."

His doubts touched Dellman, for he had heard the rumors that had
named Haney as Agronguerre's choice for abbot, if he was indeed elected
father abbot. Haney wasn't of the correct age, of course, wasn't even a
master, but such premature appointments were not unusual at all in Van-
guard, where brothers were few. On occasion, St.-Mere-Abelle had been
forced to send a master north to replace a fallen abbot. Given the turmoil in
the southland these days, and the absence of masters and other high-ranking
brethren, Dellman thought that unlikely. And if Abbot Agronguerre did
indeed become father abbot, then his faith in Haney would likely secure the
man's ascent as abbot at St. Belfour.

"Will ye come back to us? " Liam O'Blythe asked Dellman.

"My course is not my own to decide," the brother answered, then quickly
added, "but if given the chance to name my road, it will indeed include
Vanguard. Perhaps I will take my first appointment as master in service
to Abbot Haney of St. Belfour." It was just the right thing to say, a remark
that widened a smile on Brother Haney's face, and just the right time to
say it, for they had come to the gangplank leading aboard the Saudi
Jacintha, with Captain Al'u'met looking across at them approvingly. The
three, their friendship forged that night on the beach, and grown since,
joined hands then.

"Would that we had a jigger o' single malt to toast," Liam said with
a wink.

Dellman looked at him curiously. "I have but one fear of returning to
Vanguard," he said seriously, drawing concerned looks from his companions.

"I fear that I will begin to speak like you!" Dellman explained, and all
three broke down in laughter and fell into a great hug.

"Ye do return to us, Brother Dellman," Brother Haney remarked as the
man started up the gangplank. Dellman glanced back over his shoulder and
nodded sincerely, for he had every intention of doing just that.
*        *        *

"And if I do not return-" Abbot Agronguerre began to Prince Midalis,
the two standing in a side room off the docks of Pireth Vanguard while the
SaudiJacintha was readied for leaving,

"Then Brother Haney will be named as abbot of St. Belfour," the Prince
assured the monk. "We are no strangers to succession, my friend. Is there
an abbey more independent than St. Belfour in all Honce-the-Bear? "

"More renegade, perhaps," the abbot answered with a laugh, but his
visage quickly sobered. "It pains me to leave Vanguard."

Prince Midalis, whose own heart was equally tied to this wild and beau-
tiful land, understood. "You are called to serve, and there could be no
better choice."

"We do not know the outcome," Agronguerre reminded him.

"But we do," the Prince insisted. "Your Church is not so foolish a body
as to ignore the obvious. You will become the next father abbot in a
month's time, and the world will be a brighter place because of it, though
Vanguard will suffer without your wisdom."

"Somehow, I think that Vanguard will survive," the abbot remarked
dryly. It was his turn to give a congratulatory pat on Midalis' shoulder.

It was true enough. Bruinhelde and the ranger had gone back to
Alpinador, and the barbarian leader, though walking with an even more
pronounced limp now, had left as a friend of Midalis, their bond forged in
battle and in blood-brothering. It seemed obvious to all that the potential
for true peace in Vanguard had never been greater. The way was open now
for friendships among the people of the two countries, permission granted
by respective leaders. A Vanguardsman who saw an Alpinadoran walking
the southern roads could invite the man in for a meal and a bed without
fear now, and an Alpinadoran who completed a successful hunt could now
go south to find trade with the Vanguardsmen. Midalis and Bruinhelde had
done all that up on that mountain, in the cave of the spirit shaggoth. They
had become as brothers, bonded forever, and by extension, had bonded
their kingdoms together.

Of course, the Prince continued to wonder with more than a little trepi-
dation how his brother would receive these tidings, but it was a fear he
easily suppressed. Vanguard was his responsibility-Danube had made that
point all too clear by sending no help in their struggles against the demon's
minions-and thus, it was his province to forge such necessary bonds. He
still didn't understand the barbarians and their fierce culture, and didn't
pretend that he did. But he did know, beyond doubt, that his beloved Van-
guard was more secure, and that his people would live better lives because
of the alliance.

"The world has changed much," Agronguerre remarked.

"For the better," Midalis replied.

"Perhaps," said the man who would be father abbot. "The passage of
time will show us the truth. I wonder, though, need it take a war to bring
about such change? Are we men creatures of habit, locked into routines
and rituals that have long since lost their purpose, that have long since
degenerated into worthlessness? "

"That is a proper question for any father abbot to ask," said Midalis.
" That is the question of a visionary, of one not complacent with that which
is but who seeks that which can be."

" I remember well when Father Abbot Markwart burned Master Jojonah
at the stake," Abbot Agronguerre explained. "The man's one crime was to
disagree with that which was, to seek that which he thought could be."

"You said that he allowed criminals into St.-Mere-Abelle."

Agronguerre shrugged. "Criminals?" he asked skeptically. "The woman
Jilseponie, who has since been declared a hero, who came with Nightbird
to rescue the centaur, Bradwarden, one of those who battled and destroyed
the demon dactyl."

"Father Abbot Markwart could not have known that at the time of
Master Jojonah's demise," Midalis reasoned.

"Could not, or would not?" Abbot Agronguerre replied, and he gave a
resigned sigh. "I am not a visionary, I fear; and if they believed that I was, I
would not now be considered for the position of father abbot."

"Then you will show them the truth," Midalis replied, but Agronguerre
gave him a skeptical look, an expression that showed Midalis that the old
monk wasn't certain of what that truth might be.

"You will follow your heart always," the Prince insisted. "You will do
that which is best, not for you, but for your Church and for the world. That
is my definition of a man of God, and the very best quality that anyone
could ask in a father abbot."

To those claims, Agronguerre had no response, nor any doubts. He
smiled warmly at his friend-this young, but so wise, Prince-and gave the
man a hug, then turned for the docks and walked the first steps of the most
important journey of all his life.

CHAPTER 21

Calm Captain in a Stormy Sea

fhe mood was somber that Calember at St.-Mere-Abelle, where
all the abbots and masters and many of the immaculate brothers
had gathered for their second College of Abbots in recent years.
That first College, wherein Markwart had declared Avelyn a heretic and
had burned Avelyn's primary follower, Master Jojonah, at the stake, had
been marked by excitement and action, with rousing speeches and grand
rhetoric. But this one, though the times seemed more peaceful and the
future in many ways more promising, was a quiet yet foreboding event.
Two noteworthy absences-that of Abbess Delenia of St. Gwendolyn and
that of Master Marcalo De'Unnero-had set the grim tone, especially when
De'Unnero's messenger, a peasant, had arrived with the news of the tragedy
at St. Gwendolyn.

Abbot Braumin and Master Viscenti spent their first hours at the great
abbey enjoying a reunion with Brother Dellman, and it didn't take Dellman
long to convince them that Abbot Agronguerre was indeed the best choice
for the position of father abbot. Dellman spoke mostly of Agronguerre's
easy temperament and of the man's handling of Bruinhelde and the other
Alpinadorans.

"I have spent several months with the abbot," Dellman finished, "and I
am certain that he was no lackey of Markwart. No, when Abbot Je'howith
told you that Agronguerre was not pleased with the handling of Master
Jojonah, he was speaking truthfully."

Abbot Braumin looked at Viscenti, who was nodding enthusiastically.
"Abbot Agronguerre, then," he remarked, "and may God grant him the
wisdom to lead us through these difficult days." Abbot Braumin patted
Dellman's shoulder, thanking him for a job well done, and then rose to
leave-to confer with Master Francis and then with old Je'howith, who had
only arrived an hour earlier, obviously exhausted.
"There is yet another matter we must discuss," Brother Dellman
remarked, his tone grave.

Abbot Braumin turned, studied the man for a moment, then took
his seat.

Brother Dellman began this part of his report dramatically, throwing a
bright red beret, a powrie's infamous bloody cap, "on the table before his
two companions. "It concerns Duke Kalas," he began.

As expected, Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour was quickly nominated
and elected father abbot. Abbot Braumin and his followers backed him
enthusiastically, as did old Je'howith and Master Francis, along with Bou-
raiy and Glendenhook and several others from St.-Mere-Abelle.

Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce of Entel was not pleased, but as Abbess
Delenia was dead, he could rally no real support for his own cause.
Delenia's self-appointed successor, De'Unnero, surprisingly backed Olin in
absentia, but that only seemed to hurt the man's chances even more.

So on a cold morning in God's Year 827, on the very first vote of the Col-
lege, Abbot Fuesa Agronguerre of Vanguard became Father Abbot
Agronguerre of the Abellican Church, the second most powerful man in all
Honce-the-Bear.

He ascended the podium to offer his acceptance speech to moder-
ate applause. Even his most fervent backers had voted for him only be-
cause they believed him to be a peacemaker, a fence-mender, someone
who could appease both that group rooted in the traditions of the Church
as expressed by Father Abbot Markwart and those followers of Avelyn
Desbris, determined to reform what they saw as tragic flaws in the
Church.

"As you know, I have spent almost all my long life in Vanguard,"
Agronguerre said, measuring his words carefully, after he had completed
the formal regards to his hosts and a recitation of the virtues of Abbot
Olin, his only competition for the position, that went on for nearly five min-
utes. "Many of you might wonder, then, if that experience-or lack of
experience-might prove a detriment to me as I seek to lead the Church
that is mostly based outside that isolated region. Put those fears in a hole
deep and dark, I pray. Vanguard is not so different a place from St.-Mere-
Abelle, and living among the small numbers of people up there has pro-
vided me an understanding of the world at large.

"I have served the Prince of Honce-the-Bear for many years now,"
Agronguerre went on, "as fine a man as I have ever known. With his guid-
ance, the folk of Vanguard have forged an alliance, a bond of necessity,
with the barbarians ofAlpinador." That news brought more than a few sur-
prised expressions and more than a few gasps and groans. The Abellican
Church had a long and disastrous history with the Alpinadoran barbarians.
Many times, the Church had sent missionaries, had even established minor
chapels inside Alpinador; and every one of those excursions had ended dis-
astrously, with missionary monks never heard from again.

"Our ways, our beliefs, our entire lives are very different from those of
our northern neighbors," Agronguerre went on, "and yet we found strength
in unity against the minions of Bestesbulzibar, curse his very name; and
from that necessary moment of peace, we found more to agree upon than
ever we would have believed possible. And so I see our current situation
within our own Order. We are faced now with the task of understanding
the tragedy of Father Abbot Markwart, his reign and his demise, and with
understanding the truth of Mount Aida, and of Avelyn Desbris. How
widely opinions differ on this point and on this lost brother, Avelyn! Some
would proclaim him saint; others, heretic. But there is a truth out there, my
brethren, one that we, as a united Church, must discover and embrace,
wherever it leads us."

He went on for many minutes, recalling his own anger at the fate of
Jojonah, speaking of Abbot Braumin and the others who claimed to have
witnessed the miracle at the blasted mountain. He spoke of the relationship
of Church and Crown, of the encroachment made on both independent
forces in the battle-torn city of Palmaris, and the continuing struggle that
Abbot Braumin now faced with Duke Kalas.

And then Agronguerre, after a pause and a most profound sigh, came
around to the most pressing issue of all. He asked for a moment of silent
prayer for Abbess Delenia, who had been a friend to so many of those in
attendance and who had served the Church with honor and distinction for
more than three decades.

" It appears that our hour of darkness has not yet passed," he said quietly.
"Upon its discovery by Master Francis, the other masters wisely dispatched
one of their own to the south to investigate rumors of the return of the rosy
plague. Well, my brethren, those rumors seem well-founded. Master
De'Unnero has reported the disaster at St. Gwendolyn, where the plague
has devastated the ranks of our brethren, where pitiful refugees have
crowded the fields around the abbey, begging for relief that we have no
power to give. Let us pray, each of us, that the plague is restricted to that
region, that it will not encompass the world as it did in centuries past, and
that its presence in our time will be short indeed."

He finished with a recitation of the entire litany of prayers, where all the
gathered brothers joined in, and then opened the floor for comments.

And how they came pouring in, opinions from every quarter concerning
how the Church should deal with the rosy plague. Some called for the com-
plete isolation of the Mantis Arm-though Francis was quick to remind
them that Davon Dinnishire lay between St.-Mere-Abelle and Palmaris, far
from there. Others called for the immediate isolation of every abbey, bar-
ring the doors, holding masses outside with presiding monks standing atop
gate towers and the like.
On and on it went, with no practical answers, only suggestions wrought
of abject terror. Father Abbot Agronguerre listened to them all attentively,
hopefully, but all that he came away with was the understanding that this
budding crisis was far beyond them, was something that only God could
alleviate. The last call of that day, from the Father Abbot at the podium,
was for all of them, for every brother in the Abellican Church and the few
remaining sisters, to pray for guidance and for relief.

It seemed a meager weapon to the gathering of a Church that had just
battled the armies of Bestesbulzibar, to monks who had used mighty gem-
stone magic to fell giants and powries by the score.

But it was all they had.

"I was no better a guest than you were a host, Father Abbot," a blushing
Brother Dellman responded after Agronguerre spoke highly of him to
Abbot Braumin that evening after vespers.

"You were more than a guest," the new Father Abbot replied. "In your
short time in Vanguard, you became as family to us of St. Belfour."

Dellman searched for a reply, but merely bowed his head.

"Which is why I have asked you to join me at this time," Agronguerre
went on to Dellman and particularly to Abbot Braumin.

"Brother Dellman's integrity and graciousness come as no surprise to
me, Father Abbot," Braumin Herde replied, but there was an edge to his
voice, telling Agronguerre that he understood where this was leading.

Given that, the Father Abbot got right to the point. "I know how valu-
able a companion Brother Dellman has been to you," he said, "and I do
appreciate your work in Palmaris at this troubled and delicate time, but I
have answered the call of my Church at great risk to St. Belfour. Brother
Haney, who will soon become abbot of St. Belfour, is an excellent man
indeed, and I could not have asked for a more suitable replacement."

"But..." Abbot Braumin prompted, looking at Dellman.

"He is all alone," Agronguerre answered. "Almost all the other brothers
at St. Belfour are young and inexperienced, and though Prince Midalis is
certainly a friend of the Church, the new alliance with the barbarians of
Alpinador will place great demands on the abbot of St. Belfour. I think it
prudent to give our young abbot a strong ally and a voice of experience and
wisdom."

"Surely there are others m-more qualified than I," Brother Dellman
stammered, obviously overwhelmed. His tone showed that he was not
upset about the request, just stunned. "Masters from St.-Mere-Abelle."

"Abbot Braumin," Father Abbot Agronguerre said with a great sigh, "I
know not in which of the masters here I can place my trust. Nor do I know
any of them well enough to guess if they could tolerate the hardships of
Vanguard. Master Francis comes to mind, of course, for he seems the most
worldly of the group, but I believe from all that I have heard-from your
own Brother Dellman-that I should keep Master Francis close at hand for
a time."

"An assessment with which I heartily agree," said Braumin.

"Then?" Father Abbot Agronguerre asked. "Will you lend your friend
Brother Dellman to Brother Haney and St. Belfour? "

Braumin turned to Dellman. "What say you, brother? This is your life
we are discussing, after all, and I would say that you have earned your
choice of abbeys. Will you return with me to St. Precious or sail north for
Vanguard?"

Dellman seemed completely at a loss. He started to answer several times,
but stopped and merely shook his head. "Which would be of greater ser-
vice to my Church?" he asked.

"St. Belfour," Abbot Braumin said before the new Father Abbot could
answer. He looked directly at Dellman as he spoke, staring into the younger
man's eyes, showing his sincerity.

Dellman turned to the new Father Abbot and nodded. " I go where my
Church most needs me, Father Abbot," he said. "And, truly, I would be
glad in my heart to spend more time in Vanguard, to learn more of the folk
and of the good brothers of St. Belfour."

"I will sorely miss him in Palmaris," Abbot Braumin remarked. "Brother
Dellman was among the wisest of advisers and the most steadfast of sup-
porters during the ordeal of Father Abbot Markwart's last days."

"You make my heart glad, then," the Father Abbot said, "and this will
not merely be to the beneŁt of St. Belfour and our friend Brother Haney.
Up there in wild Vanguard, you will attain the rank of master very quickly,
perhaps within a few months."

"I am not nearly prepared," Brother Dellman replied.

"You are more prepared than most who attain the rank," Abbot
Braumin was quick to put in, "and more prepared than I, certainly, in the
role God has now chosen me to play."

"Vanguard is not thick with brethren," the Father Abbot said. "And St.
Belfour at this time, as in so many times, is without masters. I will send
word to Brother Haney to rectify that situation as soon as he is established
as abbot."

Abbot Braumin nodded his agreement, his smile wide; and Brother
Dellman, too, was beaming.

"Now for a less pleasing matter," Father Abbot Agronguerre announced.
He rose from his chair, motioning for Abbot Braumin alone to follow him
into an adjoining room, where several masters and abbots were waiting,
including Francis, Bou-raiy, Glendenhook, and Machuso.

"I had asked Abbot Je'howith to join us, as well," Agronguerre remarked
to them all, taking his seat at the head of the table and motioning for
Braumin to sit right beside him-again a subtle but distinct hint about his
attitude concerning the last days of Markwart's reign. "But he has already
departed, well on his way back to Ursal and St. Honce."

Abbot Braumin nodded, recognizing that he understood that departure
better than did the new Father Abbot. Braumin knew, and Je'howith
knew, that they now had gathered to discuss the disposition of Marcalo
De'Unnero. Abbot Je'howith, so tied to Markwart, certainly wanted no part
of this potential battle.

And it did become a battle, immediately.

"He has declared himself abbot of St. Gwendolyn," Master Fio Bou-raiy
spouted angrily, "an unprecedented act of arrogance."

"Or of necessity," Master Machuso, ever the peacemaker, put in.

"St. Gwendolyn is traditionally led by an abbess, not an abbot," one of
the lesser abbots argued.

"That may be true enough," Father Abbot Agronguerre conceded, "but
by Master De'Unnero's words, there are no suitable women to take the
position at this time. All but one of the sovereign sisters are dead, and the
remaining one has become ill."

"Or had her heart removed by a tiger's paw," Master Bou-raiy remarked
under his breath but loud enough for several seated near him, including
Agronguerre and Braumin Herde, to hear.

"Interim abbot, then?" Machuso innocently asked.

"No!" Bou-raiy flatly declared, pounding his fist on the table. He turned
to Agronguerre. "Deny him this, I beg of you. His record is one of destruc-
tion, and if the plague is thick in the southland, St. Gwendolyn will be key
to holding the common folk loyal to the Church."

Surprised by the forcefulness of the master's argument, Agronguerre
looked to Abbot Braumin, who, in turn, motioned to Master Francis. "You
served beside him," Braumin said. "You know him better than any other in
this room."

Francis narrowed his eyes as he stared hard at Braumin, obviously not
pleased to be so put on the spot. "We were never friends," Francis said
evenly.

"But you followed him to Palmaris and served in positions vacated by
Master De'Unnero," Father Abbot Agronguerre reasoned.

"True enough," Francis conceded. "Yet I want it made clear here before
I speak my opinion that you all understand that I harbor little friendship for
Master Marcalo De'Unnero and that I would have preferred to remain
silent on this matter.

"But I have been asked, and so I will answer," Francis went on quietly.
"Master De'Unnero's record in Palmaris was less than exemplary. The
people there would not have him back, I am sure."

"They would have him on a gallows," Abbot Braumin remarked.
"Indeed, I requested that he leave the city because his mere presence
within St. Precious was bringing us disdain that bolstered Duke Kalas."

"But Master De'Unnero is not known in the region of St. Gwendolyn,"
Master Machuso pressed. "Can we presume that his actions in Palmaris
were at the explicit instructions of Father Abbot Markwart and, thus, are
mistakes that will not be repeated? "

"A dangerous assumption," Master Glendenhook replied.

"Am I to replace him? " Agronguerre asked distastefully. It was obvious
to all in attendance that the gentle man did not want his first official act in
office to be one of division. And yet, given the mood of all around him, of
masters as diverse as Bou-raiy and Francis-obviously not in any alliance-
what choice did Father Abbot Agronguerre have?

"Recall him," Master Bou-raiy said determinedly. "We will not find it a
difficult task to find a more suitable abbot or abbess for St. Gwendolyn, I
assure you."

That call was seconded by many about the table, including Abbot
Braumin, who made a note to speak with the new Father Abbot at length
about his true feelings concerning Marcalo De'Unnero-the man, in
Braumin's honest opinion, who posed the greatest threat of all to the Abel-
lican Church.

Father Abbot Agronguerre took in all the nods and calls with a resigned
nod of his head. Yes, the year would end on a grave note, Agronguerre real-
ized, and given the confirmation of the rosy plague, he doubted that the
next year would be any better.

Part 3

Where is the balance, I wonder, between community and self?
When does the assertion of one's personal needs become mere
selfishness?

These are questions that followed me to Dundalis, to haunt me
every day. So many hopes and dreams were placed upon me, so many
people believing that I somehow magically possessed the power to
change their world for the better. If I had fought that battle, I believe
that not only wouldIhave accomplished little, and perhaps nothing
lasting, but also I would have completed the destruction of myself that
the wretch Markwart began in the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle when
he murdered my parents; that he continued on the field outside
Palmaris, when he stole from me my child; and then, in Chasewind
Manor, when he wounded me deeply and when he took from me my
husband, my love. This was my fear, and it chased me out of Palmaris,
chased me home to a quieter place.

But what if I was wrong? What if my efforts might have had some
impact upon the lives of so many deserving innocents? What
obligation, what responsibility, is then incumbent upon me?

Ever since I first witnessed Elbryan at his morning routine of
bi'nelle dasada, I longed to learn it and to understand all the lessons
that he had been taught by the Touel'alfar. I wanted to be a ranger, as
was he. But now, in retrospect, I wonder if I am possessed of that same
generous spirit. I learned the sword dance, and attained a level of
mastery in it strong enough to complement Elbryan's own, but those
other qualities of the ranger, I fear, cannot be taught. They must be a
part of the heart and soul, and there, perhaps, is my failing. Elbryan-
no, not Elbryan, but Vightbird-so willingly threw himself into my
battle with Markwart, though he was already grievously wounded and
knew that doing so would surely cost him his very life. Yet he did it,
without question, without fear, and without remorse because he was a
ranger, because he knew that ridding the world of the demon that
possessed the father Abbot of the Abellican Church was paramount, a
greater responsibility than that of protecting his own flesh and blood.

I, too, went at Markwart with every ounce of my strength and
willpower, but my motive at that time was not generosity of spirit but
simple rage and the belief that the demon had already taken everything
from me. Would I have been so willing to begin that battle if I
understood that it would cost me the only thing I had remaining? If I
knew that Elbryan, my dearest husband, would be lost to me forever?

I doubt that I would.

And now, with all those questions burning my every thought, I
came north to the quiet Timberlands to find peace within myself. But
this, I fear, is yet another of life's twisted and cruel paradoxes. I am
moving toward inner peace now-I feel it keenly-but what awaits
me when at last I attain that level of calm? When I find the end of
turmoil, willIfind, as well, the end of meaning? Will inner peace be
accompanied by nothing more than emptiness?

And yet, what is the other option? The person who strives for peace
of community instead of inner peace must find just the opposite, I fear,
an unattainable goal. For there will always be trouble of one sort or
another. A tyrant, a war, a despotic landowner, a thief in the alley, a
misguided father abbot. There is no paradise in this existence for
creatures as complex as human beings. There is no perfect human
world, bereft of strife and battle of one sort or another.

I know that now, or at least I fear it profoundly. And with that
knowledge came the sense of futility, of running up a mud-slick steep
slope, only to slide back over and over again.

Will the new father Abbot be any better than the previous one?
Likely, since those electing him will be cautious to seek certain
generous qualities. But what about the next after that, and after that?
It will, it must, come back to Markwart, I fear; and, given that, how
can I see anything more than the futility of sacrifice?

And, given that, how can I agree with Elbryan's gift of his own life?

And so here I am, in Dundalis, the place quiet and buried in deep
snow as the world drifts into God's Year 828. How I long/or seasons
far past, for those early years when Elbryan and I ran about Dundalis,
oblivious of goblins and demons and men like father Abbot Dalebert
Markwart!

Perhaps the greatest thing of all that has been stolen from me over
these years was my innocence. I see the world too clearly, with all of its
soiled corners.

With all of its cairns over buried heroes.

-JILSEPONIE WYNDON

CHAPTER 22

Playing Trump

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 peni-
tence 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 peni-
tence 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, fin-
ished, 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 confi-
dent 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 cor-
rected 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 unin-
tentional 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 chum-
ing. 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 sup-
posed 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, per-
haps the closest adviser in all the world to King Danube Brock Ursal him-
self, 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 was-
surprisingly 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 sar-
castically, 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 Pemble-
bury's condition, then he learned it from someone else."

"The same Dellman from Palmaris? " King Danube asked, for he remem-
bered 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 sec-
onded 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 won-
dered. 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 Con-
stance looked at him, he merely shook his head and waved his hand dismis-
sively. 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 transi-
tion, 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 Kil-
ronney 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 encir-
cled them, closing in. Shamus Kilronney had stood tall and proud, pre-
pared 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, motion-
ing 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 under-
the-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. Pre-
cious. 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.
CHAPTER 23

Doc'alfar

Too many wonders have I seen! the man wrote, the edges of many
parchments hanging raggedly about his open pack. Oh, for the eyes
of one man to so engulf the splendor of the untainted world! What a
true blessing God has bestowed upon me, humble Tetrafel, to grant me these
visions. And the world will long remember me, I am sure, for when the
kingdom of Honce-the-Bear engulfs these western Wilderlands, the wonders
they will see-the gigantic waterfalls, the majestic mountain peaks, the
forests so thick that beneath their canopy dwells eternal twilight-will be
made all the more wondrous by their recollections of these, my words.

The Duke of the Wilderlands glanced up from his parchment to scan
the workings of his encampment, the many servants and soldiers going
about their typical late-afternoon routines, preparing the tents and the
meals, setting up the perimeter guard-and that line of sentries had proven
most necessary in the three years Tetrafel and his fellow explorers had been
out far to the west of Ursal, in untamed, unmapped lands, seeking a direct
pass through the towering Belt-and-Buckle Mountains into the To-gai
steppes of western Behren. King Danube desired a direct trading route
with the To-gai clansmen, without the costly interference of the Behrenese
merchants.

The initial reluctance of Tetrafel, a man of nearly fifty years, who spent
more time on a large pillow than on a horse, to accept the offered mission
had been washed away by a grander vision that had come to him. He would
be the explorer who opened up the vast western Wilderlands, a region
known to be rich in natural resources, towering trees, and coveted peat.
Once Danube had agreed to send along a large contingent of soldiers-
nearly a score now traveled with the Duke-and a similar group of
servants-several men and a few young women who would also see to other
needs-Tetrafel had recognized the opportunity to bring himself a bit of
immortality.

Now, after three years, the man did not regret his decision, not on this
particular day, at least, when he and his companions had easily traveled
nearly twenty miles along a huge river-a river the Duke planned to name
the Tetrafel-to find, at its end, the most tremendous, stupendous waterfall
they had ever heard tell of; Tetrafel Falls, of course.

There had been troubles in the three years, mostly in the form of huge
bears, great cats, and other beasts. They had found one tribe of goblins, but
their superior training and weaponry enabled them to summarily destroy
the ugly creatures; and a fairly indelicate disease had caught up with them
several times. But after three years, they had lost less than a handful of their
band, including just two soldiers.

All that they had to do now, Tetrafel realized, was find a pass through the
mountains when spring opened the trails, and then return to Ursal, heralded
as the greatest explorers of the modern age, their names, Duke Timian
Tetrafel's at least, etched in tomes and stamped indelibly upon natural and
majestic wonders. And finding that pass did not seem like such an impossi-
bility, now that they had gone even farther west, to a point, Tetrafel
believed, where crossing the mountains would put them in western To-gai.
The peaks were not nearly as towering here, and were wider spaced. The
higher elevations still showed snowcaps, though down in the foothills, the
winter here was no worse than in Ursal, with the occasional inch or two of
snow, but inevitably followed by milder weather that soon cleared the
ground.

They were not in sight of the great River Tetrafel now, but they could
hear the thunder of the distant falls. For their campsite, they had chosen a
small clearing within a ring of towering pines, high natural walls so thick
that they blocked out the light of Sheila completely as the moon rose in the
east; and they knew that they would see only the slightest hints of the
glowing orb until she climbed high in the sky, nearly directly overhead.

The camp was quiet and organized, with the occasional bursts of laughter
from one quarter or another, or more embarrassing sounds from under the
boughs of a nearby pine, where a soldier and a servant had stolen off to pass
the hours. Dinner was not an organized and set event in Tetrafel's camp,
but rather a personal option of wandering over to the large cook pots and
scooping a bit of broth, or walking by one of the many spits and tearing a
limb from whatever creatures the huntsmen had managed to bag that par-
ticular day.

Secure in his sentries and satisfied that he had entered enough in his all-
important diary that day, Duke Tetrafel headed for the cook fires. He
started for one of the pots, but changed his mind and went to the roasting
deer instead, tearing off a huge hunk of meat, dropping as much to the
ground as found its way to his mouth.

His actions were not unnoticed.

In a tree not so far away, and well within the set perimeter of the
encampment, a pair of slender, white-skinned, blue-eyed humanoids with
hair the color of ravens' wings, sat quietly-perfectly quietly-upon a pine
branch, studying the scene before them.

They care nothing/or the creatures they slay, one of them motioned to the
other in an intricate combination of hand gestures, eye movements, and
facial and body expressions.

V or for the spirituality of the mating dance, the other, equally disgusted,
returned, a point made even more acute by the grunting sounds from a
copulating couple on the ground beneath them. They are killer animals and
nothing more.

The other nodded his agreement. "Twick'a pwess fin," he whispered in
the tongue of the Doc'alfar, a language not unlike that of the Touel'alfar,
distant, unknown cousins of the wingless, white-skinned elves.

"Twick'a pwess fin," the other echoed in agreement, which translated into
"a fitting end."

Then they were gone, as silently as they had arrived, slipping past the
lumbering sentries with no more noise than a shadow.

"Curse the rotten luck," one sentry muttered, for the wind shifted later
that night, bringing the fine spray thrown high into the air by the distant
falls over the field and the encampment.

"Not so bad," his companion replied from a short distance away. "Stay
close to the pines; they'll keep ye dry."

"A warm bed in Ursai'd keep me drier," the first returned. "Are we ever
to get back there? "

"The Duke's seeing a chance to put his name on mountains," the second
replied. "But we're all to gain, and if we find the pass, Tetrafel's promised
us enough gol'bears to each buy a grand house."

The other nodded, and that promise did seem to warm his weathered
bones. But the spray continued, filtering through the trees as a fine, cold
mist. And then a foul, rotting odor accompanied it.

"Now what's bringing the stink? " the first sentry asked, crinkling his nose.

"Smells like a carcass," said the other. "Could be a great cat coming back
from a hunt. Get on yer guard now!"

And they both did, setting arrows to their bowstrings and peering into
the gray, misty moonlight.

The stench got worse, filling their nostrils, making their eyes run; and
then they saw a shape, not of a great cat, but of a humanoid-a man, it
seemed-walking stiff-legged through the mist and the sparse underbrush.

"Hold where ye are!" the first sentry commanded. "Ye got two bows
aiming at ye!"

Now they did recognize the approaching form-he was barely a dozen
strides away-as a man, skinny and grizzled, with long hair and a huge
beard. He had to have heard the command, they knew, but he kept on
coming in that stiff-legged gait, his arms straight out before him.
And he was filthy! Covered in dirt, or peat, and smelling like a rotting
and dirty carcass.

"Hold now! I'm warning ye!" the sentry commanded.

He kept on coming; and the sentry, a trained and seasoned soldier, fol-
lowed his orders to the word and let fly his arrow. It hit the approaching
man's chest with a dull splat, and burrowed in deep, but the man kept
coming, didn't even flinch!

"I hit him! I hit him!" the confused sentry protested; and now his com-
panion let fly, a shot that took the intruder in the side, just below the rib
cage, a shot from a bow so strong of pull that the arrow disappeared com-
pletely into the body, its tip breaking through the other side.

The approaching man flinched, the sheer force of the blow knocking him
a step sideways. But he kept on coming, coming, his arms outstretched, his
expression blank.

"Awake! Awake!" the second sentry yelled, falling back through the wall
of pines toward the camp. His companion, though, didn't retreat, but drew
out his heavy sword and leaped ahead.

The approaching intruder didn't change his speed or his route, coming
straight in; and the soldier exploded into motion, bringing his sword up
and over, cleaving one of those reaching arms above the elbow, severing it
easily.

A bit of blood rolled out, but more than that came a sickly greenish
white pus.

The soldier knew then the horrible truth, understood the stench to be a
mixture of peat and rot, the sickly smell of death, but tainted even more
with earthen richness. He knew then that he was fighting not a man but a
corpse! Gagging, horrified, he fell back; but the zombie caught his sword in
its bare hand as he turned, in a grip tremendously strong.

He screamed out-somehow he found his voice enough to make noise-
and tugged and tugged at the sword, then gave it up altogether and tried to
scramble away. But as he turned, he saw them, dozens and dozens of
walking dead, coming through the mist. Overwhelmed, he stumbled and
went down.

He cried out again as the one-armed zombie fell over him, grabbing him
by the elbow, crushing his joint in its iron grip. He shouted and flailed,
beating the thing about the head and shoulders, to no avail.

But then his companion was beside him again, and with one mighty
swing, he decapitated the zombie.

Still it held on stubbornly. The other soldier, seeing the monsters
approaching from everywhere, it seemed, hacked wildly at that clasping
hand, severing it, too. He pulled his friend to his feet and dragged him to
the pines, but the man was still screaming, for that severed hand was still
clutching him!
Duke Tetrafel rubbed his bleary eyes and peeked out from his bedroll.
The sight of the encampment, of the panic, brought him wide awake, and
he scrambled to his feet.

"Attack! Attack, my Duke!" one nearby soldier cried to him, running
forward, bearing Tetrafel's sword belt.

Tetrafel struggled to clasp it on, turning, trying to keep up with the
dizzying scene.

"The dead, they are!" screamed a sentry crashing through the pine wall.
" The dead've risen against us!"

"From the forest, from the forest!" another yelled. The pines all about
the small clearing began to shake, and the monsters strode through, in that
stiff-legged gait, their peat-covered arms out straight before them. From the
back of the camp came a horrified cry that turned Duke Tetrafel about. A
pair of sentries scrambled through the pine wall, but got yanked right back
in, grabbed and tugged so hard that one of them left one of his shoes
behind.

The screams that followed were, perhaps, the most awful sound Duke
Tetrafel had ever heard.

"Form a defense!" the captain of Tetrafel's contingent cried, and his
men moved back near the fire, forming a ring about it, with the servants
and their Duke behind them.

The zombie ring closed slowly, ominously.

"Go for their heads," cried one of the sentries who had first encountered
them.

But then, above the tumult, they heard a melodic song, a gentle, sweet
harmony of beautiful, delicate voices, drifting on the evening breeze,
singing in a language that they did not know, something preternatural, a
sylvan song of an ancient forest. As if on cue, the zombies stopped and low-
ered their arms.

The wind blew a bit stronger, as if flowing with the song.

"What is it? " more than one man asked anxiously.

"Be still," Duke Tetrafel told them all. "Allies, perhaps."

Between the men and the zombies, the ground began to tremble and
then to break apart, and then . . .

Flowers sprouted. Huge flowers, with great petals shining silver in the
moonlight, the likes of which the men of Honce-the-Bear had never seen.

And the smell of them! Overwhelming, overpowering, burying even the
stench of the zombies.

An inviting smell, Duke Tetrafel thought, compelling him to lie down
and rest, to close his eyes and sleep. Yes, Tetrafel realized, he wanted
nothing more at that moment than to sleep. He saw several of his compan-
ions go down beside him, nestling comfortably on the ground, and without
even registering the movement, he found himself on his hands and knees,
having trouble, so much trouble, even keeping his head up.

"Get up!" He heard the captain's voice from far, far away. "All of ye!
They're coming on again! Oh, get up, ye fools!"

And then he heard the cries and the shouts, the swoosh of cutting blades,
the hum of bowstrings.

And then he heard . . . nothing at all, just felt the warmth of a deep, deep
sleep.

Duke Tetrafel woke up as if in a dark nightmare. The fog clung to the
ground all about him-not a watery mist like the one from the falls, but an
opaque, soupy blanket. He was sitting now, tightly bound with his hands
behind him around a small stake. He was in a forest, still, but not the same
one, as far as he could discern; for instead of the thick rows of pines, the
trees about him now were mere skeletons, black and twisted and leafless.

Groans to either side of him made him glance about, to see many of his
party, similarly seated and bound, in a neat line, which told him that these
stakes had been purposely placed, that their captors, whoever they might
be, were skilled at this.

"Where are the others?" he asked one soldier near him.

"They took them!" came the nervous, completely unsettled reply. Duke
Tetrafel followed the sweating man's gaze to a pair of smallish, very slender
creatures walking toward them. Flanking the duo came several of the
walking dead.

Trying hard to ignore their horrid escorts, Tetrafel studied the pair care-
fully, their creamy white skin and penetrating blue eyes that seemed to glow
with an inner sparkle. They wore dark-colored robes, the cowls back, and
at times seemed to simply disappear into the landscape, except for their
exposed heads. Tetrafel tried to sort things out. These weren't merely small
humans, he knew, and that was confirmed as they neared and he noted
their pointy ears and angular features.

"Touel'alfar? " he asked, for he had heard some tales of the elves, mosdy
children's fireside stories.

The two robed figures froze at the word, glancing at each other with
obvious rage.

"Doc'alfar!" one of them said sharply. He strode over and hit Duke
Tetrafel with a backhanded slap across the face that nearly left the mar
unconscious. He could hardly believe that a creature so lithe and small hac
hit him so damned hard!

By the time Tetrafel had recovered his senses, the two robed Doc'alfa)
had selected their next victim, a woman seated several places to the Duke'i
right. They motioned to her and turned away; and their unthinking, unques
tioning servants moved to her, pulling her free of her bindings and hoisting
her up. She cried pitifully, and her legs would not support her, but thai
Hardly mattered to the zombies. They kept moving, holding her fast; and if
she did not work her legs to keep up, they dragged her along.

"What are you doing with her? " Duke Tetrafel demanded, and when the
two robed Doc'alfar didn't even glance back, he turned to the soldier next
to him. "What are they to do with her? "

"To the bog with her," the man replied grimly, "Watch yer own fate, me
Duke."

Duke Tetrafel stared back into the fog, to the receding figures, seeming
like ghosts now.

He saw the Doc'alfar pause and pour various liquids over the squirming
woman, and then watched the zombies drag the woman to the side, and
then up a small platform that he had not noticed before, for in the fog it
had seemed like just another of the many twisted trees.

The zombies took her, screaming and sobbing, out to the end of the plat-
form and held her there; and all of her wriggling and screaming and kicking
did her no good at all.

The two Doc'alfar began chanting, one after another, their melodic voices
filling the wind with sound, complementing each other perfectly. Gradu-
ally, their song blended together, until they were chanting in one voice.
Others, unseen among the trees and in the fog, joined in, Tetrafel realized
after a while; and the whole forest seemed to be singing.

What garish ritual is this? the Duke wondered. Was it religious?

And then, abruptly, all sound, even the woman's sobs, stopped, as if
compelled by one of the Doc'alfar, the lithe creature thrusting his arms up
into the night air, his voluminous sleeves falling back to show his white,
slender arms. All the world seemed to pause, as if the creature had stopped
time itself.

And then the zombies pushed the woman forward, and she screamed as
she fell, breaking the spell.

Tetrafel could barely make her out through the shifting fog, buried to her
waist in the bog, scrambling and crying; her movements only made her sink
down even farther.

"Oh, help me!" she cried, sinking slowly, slowly. "Help me. I don't want
to die! I don't want to be one o' them zombies!"

It went on and on, for several agonizing minutes, the woman unable to
get out and being dragged down, slowly, slowly. The Doc'alfar began their
song again, a prayer of sacrifice, apparently, drowning the woman's shrill,
horrified cries. Soon that song was the only noise carried on the wind.

When it was over, the Doc'alfar methodically headed back again, their
zombies in tow, and despite the shouting protests, they selected another, a
soldier this time; and all the man's vicious fighting proved to be of no avail
as the zombies dragged him away.

Duke Tetrafel could hardly breathe! What horror had he stumbled
upon, out here beyond civilization? He knew then, as they all did, that the
woman's assessment of her fate was correct, that through some magical
ceremony, he and all his party would be given to the bog, then returned to
the Doc'alfar as unthinking, undead servants!

He thought of all his work, of all the glory, of his aspirations for immor-
tality. Now he would find that immortality, but in no way he had ever
wanted!

"They'll go off for a bit after the second," the soldier next to him whis-
pered harshly. "Two at a time, they do, and then they're away for a bit."

Tetrafel instinctively struggled with his bindings. "Too tight," he replied
to the man, trying hard to keep his voice steady, to not cry out in fear.

"But I've got me post loose," the man replied.

The chosen soldier went into the bog then. At first they heard nothing,
the man apparently facing his death bravely, but then, as the thick, wet bog
rose to his neck, he began to scream out in protest, and then to cry. And
then . . . silence.

As the soldier beside the Duke had predicted, the Doc'alfar and their
zombies disappeared soon after, melting into the fog.

The man gave a grunt and a great tug, and he fell over onto his side, his
head right behind the seated Duke. Tetrafel strained his neck to glance
back, wondering what good that movement might have done.

The soldier opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue-a tongue
pierced by a stud set with a small gray stone.

"Magical," the man explained, "a gift from a friend, put in to put a spark
in the ladies, if ye get me meaning."

"What are you babbling about?" Duke Tetrafel replied rather loudly,
and he glanced back as if he expected a host of zombies to rise up and
throttle him.

"Ye might feel a bit of a charge, a spark," the soldier explained. Before
the Duke could even ask what the soldier was talking about, he did indeed
feel a sharp sting on his wrist. He didn't protest, though, for he felt, too,
that the rope holding him had loosened, the binding burned by the electric
charge.

Tetrafel pulled his hands free and fell over the soldier, working furiously
at the man's bindings. Then he was free, too, and the Duke moved to the
next in line, a servant woman, who was crying wildly. He had just finished
with her bindings and moved to the woman beside her when he realized
that the song had begun again, and he turned back to see ghostly forms
appearing in the fog.

With a cry of terror, Duke Tetrafel abandoned the woman and ran off
into the night.

He heard the screams of those still tied, or of those who had just
begun to flee and were not quick enough, as they got hauled down and
dragged back.

A part of Tetrafel demanded that he go back, that he die with these men
And women who had served so well beside him for these three years. A
noble part of him screamed at him to face his fate bravely.

But he pictured the zombies, the horrid peat-covered undead, and he ran
on. He wanted to go back, but he could not. His legs kept moving. He fell
hard and scraped his face, but he scrambled right back up and ran on, into
the fog.

Others were running in the fog-enshrouded forest, he knew; and pursuit
was all about-the heavy dragging steps of the zombies and, even more
dangerous, the nimble Doc'alfar, some running in the boughs above.

Duke Tetrafel ran until his legs ached and his breath would not come,
and then, driven by the sheerest horror, he ran on and on and on. For all of
his life, he ran. For his eternal soul, he ran.

The sun rose before his eyes, and still he ran, and he thought for a
moment that it had all been only a terrible dream.

But he knew better, knew the truth. And Duke Timian Tetrafel of the
Wilderlands, a nobleman of the court of King Danube Brock Ursal, a man
who had planned to engrave his name in the histories of his people and
upon some of the greatest natural monuments in all the world, crumpled
into the grass and wept.

Tetrafel met two other soldiers of his band that day, men as frightened as
he. There was no talk of returning to try to save any of the others; there was
little talk at all.

They just ran on and on, to the east, to lands where the dead did not rise
out of peat bogs.

More than three weeks later, the three came back into the somewhat civi-
lized lands of Wester-Honce, and a week after that, riding in the back of
a farmer's sleigh, Duke Tetrafel arrived home in Ursal. The very next
day, Duke Kalas returned to the city, vowing never to go back to wretched
Palmaris.

A week later, King Danube's son was born to Constance Pemblebury.
CHAPTER 24

The Brothers Repentant

You hate everything, and everyone," Sovereign Sister Treisa insisted, coming forward and poking her accusing finger. De'Unnero's way. Outside the abbey, spring had passed its
midpoint, and the number of pitiful, plague-ridden, desperate folk had swelled once more, adding to the sovereign sister's foul mood. She was the one remaining sovereign sister at the abbey, and thus had become the spokeswoman for all fifteen of the sisters still alive at St. Gwendolyn.

The man, the self-appointed abbot of the devastated abbey, glanced around,
his smile wry, reminding Treisa that she was not among friends here in his
office. Several brothers of St. Gwendolyn, converts to De'Unnero's defini-
tion of the Abellican faith, desperate men seeking answers, lined the room.

Treisa backed off a step and followed the abbot's gaze about the
room, staring incredulously at the faces of men she had once considered her
brothers. What a different abbey she had found when she had hastily
returned after hearing of the demise of her friend and mentor Abbess
Delenia and several others! What a different place was St. Gwendolyn, with
Marcalo De'Unnero as abbot! That had been De'Unnero's first tactic, she
understood, separating the remaining brothers from the remaining sisters
of St. Gwendolyn. He had installed a patriarchal, male-dominated order
here in the one abbey that had been established to see to the religious ambi-
tions of those few women who managed to earn, through bribery of rich
fathers or through sheer, undeniable goodness, a place in the Church.

"You claim that the followers of Avelyn brought the plague to us," she
said, quietly but not meekly.

"Plausible," the abbot replied calmly.

"Unproven," Sovereign Sister Treisa retorted.

"Plausible," De'Unnero repeated. "And if we are to believe that the
plague is a punishment from God, as we know it must be, then the proof
lies before you."

Treisa stared at him curiously, not catching the link.
"With the murder of Father Abbot Markwart, the Abellican Church has
shifted its purpose and its direction," De'Unnero explained; and it was
clear to Treisa that he was preaching to his followers more than explaining
to her. "Rumors from the College of Abbots hint that the process to canon-
ize Avelyn Desbris will begin this very year. Canonization? The man mur-
dered Master Siherton of St.-Mere-Abelle-I was there and remember
well! The man stole a huge treasure of sacred gemstones and ran across the
world as an impostor brother, ignoring law and commands to cease and
return. Canonization? Saint Avelyn?"

"Is not the process one of investigation?" Treisa asked, but De'Unnero
scoffed at her before she Łnished.

"It is political," he argued, "a way to placate the masses who have
become very afraid-a way to fabricate a hero, that those who seek per-
sonal gain might raise that hero's name in their own honor." He paused and
eyed Treisa suspiciously. "Such was the canonization of St. Gwendolyn."

The woman gagged and nearly choked on that proclamation! Many in
the Church throughout the last centuries had secretly questioned the ascen-
sion of Gwendolyn to sainthood, some claiming that impurities had been
overlooked, others arguing that the woman, a healer and then a warrior of
the third century, should have been dismissed simply because she had not
recognized her place as a member of the fair sex. But rarely, if ever, had
anyone within the Church so publicly denounced Gwendolyn or any other
saint!

Treisa looked around for support against the blasphemer, but she found
her brothers of St. Gwendolyn, men she had served beside piously for
years, standing firm with the monster from St.-Mere-Abelle.

"How can you claim to be of the faith and yet doubt? " De'Unnero asked
dramatically, storming about the room and waving his arms. "Witness the
trials that have befallen the world, the suffering, the death! We are the
guardians of the word of God, the guides to holiness. If the world is fallen
to ruin, then we of the Abellican Church cannot diminish our part in it. No,
we must accept the blame, and use it as guidance to right our straying
road."

"Is that not what the new abbot of St. Precious claims to do?" Treisa
dared to remark.

De'Unnero laughed. "Do you not understand, sovereign sister?" he
asked. "It was the error of Avelyn that began all this. The theft and the
murder."

Several of the St. Gwendolyn brothers shook their fists and cheered their
agreement. This place was becoming dangerous, Treisa realized, and from
more than the plague!

De'Unnero went on and on, railing against Avelyn and Jojonah, against
Braumin Herde and the traitor Francis, and against anything or anyone not
in agreement with his philosophy. He ended, standing right before the
Incredulous Treisa, his eyes wild; and she shrank back, fearing that he
would strike her.

"Go to your room, sister," he said quietly, "or go wherever your heart
leads you. I am the abbot of St. Gwendolyn now. I will give you a short
while to adjust to that reality. But I warn you, here and now and in front of
all these witnesses, if you cross me, I will demote you. I will push you back
within the Order, until you find yourself performing tasks with the first-
year sisters. Discipline alone will get us through these dark times, and I'll
not have that compromised by Sovereign Sister Treisa."

He turned and waved at her to leave.

And she did, after letting her gaze linger about the room to the gathered
brothers-to the followers, it seemed, of Marcalo De'Unnero.

As De'Unnero expected, Treisa gave him no trouble over the next couple
of weeks. The abbot went about his days in the humid air solidifying his
grasp on those eager young brothers seeking answers to a world gone crazy.
He continued his tirades against his enemies, including Fio Bou-raiy in the
customary mix, and each of his increasingly excited speeches was met with
increasingly excited applause.

But De'Unnero knew that it could not go on forever, knew that his posi-
tion of abbot had not been, and would not likely be, sanctioned. Thus, he
wasn't surprised at all one muggy morning when one of the brothers hus-
tled into his office to announce that Masters Glendenhook and Machuso of
St.-Mere-Abelle had arrived, along with a contingent of twenty brothers,
several immaculates among them.

"Shall I bring them? " the brother asked.

De'Unnero started to nod, but then changed his mind. "Not here," he
explained. "I will meet them in the courtyard.

"And brother," he added as the younger monk turned to go, "let the
word go throughout the abbey, that all may bear witness to this."

"Yes, my abbot," the young monk said, and he ran out of the room.

De'Unnero lingered there for a long while. He wanted to make sure that
he gave his followers ample time to get out there to watch this event, as
Glendenhook and the others from St.-Mere-Abelle no doubt tried to exert
their will over that of the brethren of St. Gwendolyn. Yes, this would be a
critical moment for him, De'Unnero knew: the moment when he learned
the truth of the courage and loyalty of his followers.

He came out into the courtyard, not in the decorated robes of an abbot,
but in his normal, weathered brown robes, hood thrown back. There stood
Glendenhook and Machuso, flanked by the other brothers of their abbey,
all scowling and trying to appear intimidating.

Marcalo De'Unnero was rarely intimidated. With a nod to his many
watching followers, he strode across the courtyard to stand before the two
visiting masters.
"If you had better announced your intentions, I could have better pre-
pared the abbey," De'Unnero remarked casually, almost flippantly.

"Perhaps we would be better served in your private offices," Master
Machuso said softly.

"Why so, Master Machuso?" De'Unnero loudly replied.

"We have come on official business of the Abellican Church," Master
Glendenhook said firmly, "sent by Father Abbot Agronguerre himself."

"Ah, yes," De'Unnero replied, walking about, glancing up at his friends
and followers lining the courtyard wall. "And how fares the new Father
Abbot? I trust that my in absentia vote was counted."

"Recorded and noted," Master Machuso assured him.

"And still Abbot Agronguerre counted more votes than did Abbot
Olin?" De'Unnero asked, again loudly; and his words made Glendenhook
glance about suspiciously, for he understood that De'Unnero's announcing
that he had voted for Olin would bolster his popularity among the brethren
of St. Gwendolyn, who had many ties to Olin's Entel abbey.

"Indeed," Master Glendenhook added dryly. "Agronguerre of St. Belfour
was well supported by many different factions within the Church. Thus, he
is the rightful father abbot, whose word initiates canon law. Now, good
Master De'Unnero, may we retire to a more private setting and conclude
our business efficiently? "

"I doubt that your business and my own are the same," De'Unnero
replied.

"My business concerns you," Glendenhook insisted.

"Then speak it plainly!" De'Unnero demanded angrily.

Glendenhook stared at him long and hard.

"You have come to inform me that I am recalled to St.-Mere-Abelle,"
De'Unnero stated, and several of the gathered St. Gwendolyn brothers
gasped.

Glendenhook continued to glower.

"And what of my appointment as abbot?" De'Unnero went on. "Sanc-
tioned, or not? Not, I would guess, else how might I be recalled? "

"You were never appointed as abbot of St. Gwendolyn!" Master Glen-
denhook shouted.

"What say you, brethren? " De'Unnero was calling out before the visiting
master even finished the declaration.

"Abbot De'Unnero!" one young brother cried; and then others joined in,
howling their approval for this man they had accepted as their leader.

Master Machuso came forward and took De'Unnero by the elbow-or at
least tried to, for the fiery master yanked away from him.

"Do not do this," Machuso warned. "We are sent with the strictest of
orders and backed by all of the power of St.-Mere-Abelle."

De'Unnero laughed at him.

"Master De'Unnero is not your abbot!" Master Glendenhook called
loudly, addressing all the gathering. "He is needed in St.-Mere-Abelle, in
the court of the new, of your new, Father Abbot."
"While we twist," cried one young brother.

"A new abbot will be appointed presently," Glendenhook assured the
man, amid the murmuring of discontent. "You have not been forgotten,
nor is your plight of minor concern."

"Of no concern at all, then?" De'Unnero was quick to quip.
Glendenhook just looked at him and sighed profoundly.
The crowd about them began jostling then, some brothers coming down
from the parapets, others hanging back but shaking their fists. Glenden-
hook looked back, to see his escorts from St.-Mere-Abelle shifting ner-
vously and glancing all about-until they saw him. He gave a nod and
produced a gemstone; and all of his brethren-except for Machuso, who
started praying-did likewise.

"You are a bigger fool than even I believed, if you allow this to continue,"
Glendenhook said quietly to De'Unnero. "Did you think that Father Abbot
Agronguerre would not anticipate this from you?"

"Fio Bou-raiy, you mean," De'Unnero said coldly; and he was not
laughing, not smiling at all. He held up his hand, and those brothers who
had begun to approach stopped in their tracks. The tense pose held for a
long while, Glendenhook and De'Unnero staring, staring, neither blinking.
"Do not do this, I beg," came Machuso's soothing old voice.

De'Unnero broke into a chuckle, a sinister, superior, and threatening
sound. "You have come for St. Gwendolyn," he said, "and so she is yours.
You have come for Marcalo De'Unnero, but he, I fear, is not yours. No,
Master Glendenhook. I see the road before me, the path where I might
preach the true word of God, rather than the petty and self-serving procla-
mations issuing forth from St.-Mere-Abelle. My path," he said loudly,
moving out and reaching with his voice for his many followers, "our path,"
he corrected, "is not within the shelter of a secluded abbey, oblivious even

or the cries of those dying of the rosy plague right outside our doorway. No,
our path is the open road, that our words might reach the ears of the needy
peasants, that they might find again the course of righteousness!"

Cheers went up from every corner or the courtyard, and Glendenhoofe
and the others from St.-Mere-Abelle could only watch and groan. Glenden-
hook tried to appeal to the brothers of St. Gwendolyn, but De'Unnero's
words drowned out his, in both volume and impact.

Finally, an outraged Glendenhook looked back directly at De'Unnero
his eyes full of hatred.

"You came here seeking the abbey, and so St. Gwendolyn is yours,"
De'Unnero said innocently.

"Do not do this," said Glendenhook, and his tone was nothing like the
begging, pleading words of Master Machuso, but one dripping with threat.
"You go against Church doctrine here, walking a dangerous road."
"And who will rise up against me?" De'Unnero asked. "Against us?
Your friend Fio Bou-raiy, the lackey of gentle Agronguerre? The King? No,
brother, we recognize the truth of it all now. We understand that the
Church has stepped from that truth, and we will not be deterred from the
righteous road."

"Master De'Unnero!" Machuso cried, horrified.

"Join with us!" De'Unnero offered suddenly and apparently sincerely,
"before all the world is fallen into darkness. Help us put the Church aright,
and thus end the misery of the plague."

Glendenhook stared at him incredulously.

"Now is the time for action and not words," De'Unnero insisted.

"You believe the plague to be a punishment from God?" Glendenhook
whispered harshly.

"On a deserving populace," De'Unnero growled back at him, "on those
who have forsaken the truth."

"Absurd."

"Obvious," De'Unnero countered. "I see it, and they see it." He swept
his arm about to encompass the gathered brothers of St. Gwendolyn. "We
know the truth and we know the source-and no edicts from Father Abbot
Agronguerre will sway us from that path."

"You cannot-" Master Machuso started to say, but Glendenhook
knifed an arm across the older man's chest, bidding him to be quiet.

" You risk the wrath of Father Abbot Agronguerre and all the masters of
St.-Mere-Abelle," Glendenhook warned.

"And you, Brother Glendenhook, risk the wrath ofMarcalo De'Unnero,"
De'Unnero said evenly, moving right up to the man, his posture and the set
of his eyes and jaw a poignant reminder to Glendenhook of the reputation
of this monk, Brother Marcalo De'Unnero, widely accepted as the greatest
fighter ever to walk out of St.-Mere-Abelle, ever to train in the Abellican
Order. "Which of us, then, do you believe in the worse situation?"

The question obviously unnerved Glendenhook profoundly. The man
held a gemstone in his hand-a graphite likely, or perhaps even a lode-
stone. But he'd never try to bring up the magic, De'Unnero knew with con-
fidence, because Glendenhook realized that De'Unnero could kill him with
a single, well-placed blow. No, Glendenhook would never find the courage
to take such a risk.

"Take your abbey and be glad that I deemed our path to be out there,"
De'Unnero said quietly, staring unblinkingly with each word. "We are
beyond you now, all of us. We will follow the true course of the Abellican
Order, that perhaps our actions will inspire others-even Master Glenden-
hook, perhaps-to walk beside us."

"You have gone mad," Glendenhook remarked.

"As much has been said of many prophets," De'Unnero was quick to
respond. He held up his hand, then, and all about him hushed. "To the
road!" De'Unnero demanded with a powerful signaling movement, and the
brothers of St. Gwendolyn gave a cheer and led the way to the front gate.

"If you try to stop us, you may prove victorious," De'Unnero said
calmly-too calmly! "But I warn you that I will come for your throat first
and foremost." He finished and lifted one arm, revealing that it was no
longer a human arm but the paw of a great tiger.

Master Glendenhook watched De'Unnero and nearly every one of the
remaining twenty-seven brothers of St. Gwendolyn walk out of the abbey
gate soon after, all the brothers bending to scoop up flowers as protection
against the plague.

And then they walked away, from St. Gwendolyn and from the Abellican
Church.

And so on that day, the fifth day of summer in God's Year 828, the
Brothers Repentant were conceived, led by Marcalo De'Unnero, the former
abbot of St. Precious, the former Bishop of Palmaris, the former abbot of
St. Gwendolyn, and the greatest warrior ever produced by the Abellican
Church.
CHAPTER 25

Summer Heat

What news from Palmaris?" Duke Kalas asked, sitting astride his short and muscular pinto To-gai-ru pony.King Danube, riding a taller snow-white gelding,turned to regard the man, but it was Constance Pemblebury, trotting her chestnut up between them, who was first to answer.

"Is it midweek already, then?" she asked sarcastically, for they all knew
well that the week had Just begun. "Is not that question normally reserved
for midweek and the end of the week? "

Duke Kalas glared at the woman, but Constance only laughed and kicked
up an even swifter pace, outdistancing her fellow riders across the mani-
cured, hedge-lined field behind Castle Ursal.

"I have heard not a word from our friends in the northern city," King
Danube replied to the original question, "nor do I care."

"Nor should you, my King," said Kalas. "The folk of Palmaris are a diffi-
cult lot, and made all the harder by their recent experiences in war and in
civil strife. If you commanded me back to the place, I would renounce my
title of duke of Wester-Honce!"

That made King Danube raise an eyebrow, but he merely nodded; for
Kalas had made it quite clear to him from the very first day he had returned
to Ursal the previous winter that he had no intention of going anywhere
near the wretched city of Palmaris again.

"Still," Danube remarked, "I do wonder about my legacy."

"Your legacy?" Kalas asked incredulously, purposely dramatizing his
surprise. "You defeated the demon dactyl and the demon Markwart, who
overran the Abellican Church. You-"

"Let us not exaggerate the role that I played in either event, my friend,"
Danube said. "Indeed, I understand that I will be thought of fondly in
decades hence, but there are other matters that I see before me now. Per-
haps the strife in Palmaris, and much of the discontent that often rumbles
about Ursal's avenues, is the result of too many people too close together.
We both know, after all, how disagreeable some are by their very nature."

He ended with a chuckle, and so Kalas joined in.

"Perhaps it is time for us to consider the expansion of Honce-the-Bear's
borders; and in that regard, Palmaris might prove a very important loca-
tion," King Danube reasoned.

"The Timberlands? " Duke Kalas asked doubtfully.

" Impossible, by treaty, and I do not mean to leave a legacy as one who
dishonored his word," King Danube replied. "But there are many places in
between Palmaris and the Timberlands. The Church has recognized this
small town-Caer Tinella by name, I believe-and with the mood of the
folk in the north, perhaps we should look in that direction, as well."

"I pray you do not act rashly," Kalas said, "or hastily. The north is much
glamorized today because of yesterday's events; but in the end, it remains a
savage and untamed place, filled with savage and untamed folk."

"I hear well your words," said King Danube, "but I'll not leave Palmaris
without a proper and strong baron at this time."

Kalas' expression dropped and his shoulders sagged.

"Oh, not you, my friend," King Danube said with a laugh. "Nay, even if
you were so inclined, I value your advice too much to send you back across
the kingdom and away from my side. But there is another Duke, recently
returned to my court, whose province actually extends beyond Palmaris to
the north and the west."

"Tetrafel," Kalas easily reasoned. "But is he recovered? "

"Nearly well enough, I would say," replied Danube. "He has even begun
talking of rewriting his lost journal, though I doubt that any of the maps he
draws from memory will prove of much use to future expeditions. But if
our Duke is determined to immerse himself in his work, then what better
place for him than Palmaris? I will allow him to spend the season in Ursal,
recovering, and then I will afford him a strong contingent of supporters
for his journey, and in truth, I doubt that Abbot Braumin will prove too
difficult to manage."

Duke Kalas nodded and even managed a smile, but given his own
experience in Palmaris, he doubted those last words strongly.

The hamlet of Juniper in the rolling green hills of southern Honce-the-
Bear, the county known as Yorkey, was a quiet and unassuming commu-
nity. Not an old cluster of houses, Juniper traced no deep roots into the
past but was, rather, a fairly new community, a place where any settler
might step right into the highest social circles, and where new folk were not
generally treated with suspicion and derision.

Thus, many of the less acceptable wanderers of southern Honce-the-Bear
found their way to Juniper, to a place even they, the unwanted, the dif-
ferent, might call home.
That made Juniper a growing community, and, when the brothers of St.
Gwendolyn mentioned the place to De'Unnero, a prime target for the
Brothers Repentant.

They came one wickedly hot late-summer afternoon, in a line single file,
heads down, dressed in their thick woolen Abellican robes with the hoods
pulled low, chanting, chanting for forgiveness of their sins and for the sins
of all the men in all the world.

De'Unnero led the procession to the small town's central square, the
brothers forming a semicircle behind him as he threw back his hood and
began his cry to the people. "I am Brother Truth!" he declared. "Hear my
words if you value your life and your eternal soul!" Like any other town in
Honce-the-Bear in God's Year 828, entertainment was not often found,
and a charismatic speaker was a rarity indeed. Soon, the entire village of
Juniper had turned out to watch the spectacle.

And what a show De'Unnero and his fanatical followers gave them! The
self-proclaimed Brother Truth spoke of the sins of some unnamed man in
some unnamed community, and one of the brothers ran forward, stripping
off his robes so that he was clothed only in a white loincloth, and pros-
trating himself on the ground before De'Unnero.

Another brother rushed up with a short, three-stranded whip, and on
De'Unnero's orders, proceeded to give the prone brother twenty vicious
lashes, drawing deep lines of blood on the man's back.

On and on it went, with De'Unnero's followers, the Brothers Repentant,
accepting the sins of the world into their own flesh and blood, and then
beating those sins away.

When at last, after more than three brutal hours, De'Unnero's cries
diminished, when every Repentant Brother had shed his blood and tears,
the show was over. But to the crowd, that was unacceptable; and now, on
De'Unnero's cue, it was their turn to proclaim their sins, and more impor-
tant, to proclaim those sins of their neighbors, openly.

And the Brothers Repentant went at the offending peasants with even
more vigor than they had lashed each other.

When two men were accused of an "unnatural friendship," they were
beaten into unconsciousness and then publicly castrated. When a young
boy was accused of stealing a neighbor's chickens, De'Unnero forced the
boy's own mother to cut off his hand. And she did it! Because the folk of
Juniper knew of the rosy plague and did not doubt this holy Abellican
brother who had come to them to tell them why the plague had arisen, and
more important, how it could be put down.

The last order of business in Juniper came long after sunset. The
Brothers Repentant were still in the public square, completing their ritual
with an orgy of self-flagellation, when De'Unnero spotted a dark-skinned
Behrenese among the onlookers. The heathen was dragged forward to face
the fierce master.
"Who is your God?" De'Unnero demanded.

The man didn't answer.

"Chezru?" the master asked, naming the deity of the Behren yatols. "Do
you fall to your knees to worship Chezru? "

The man didn't answer, but he was trembling visibly now, as De'Unnero
walked around him, slowly, scrutinizing his every aspect.

"Deny him," De'Unnero instructed the man when he came around to
face him squarely once again. "Publicly denounce Chezru, here and now, as
a false idol."

The man didn't answer.

"If you'll not do it, then you have already answered my first question,"
De'Unnero said slyly. "Denounce Chezru, I say! Name him as the betrayer
of souls."

One of the other Brothers Repentant rushed up, as if to tackle the man,
but De'Unnero held him back.

"We see the plague growing in our lands," the master explained to the
frightened dark-skinned man. "We know its source: the errant course of
worship. Denounce Chezru now, I warn you, else you reveal yourself as a
heretic and, thus, a sire of the plague."

That last statement seemed to bolster the poor Behrenese man. He took a
deep breath and looked evenly at De'Unnero. "You beseech me to
abandon my soul to save my flesh," he said in his thick Behrenese accent.
"That I cannot do."

"Hang him!" came one cry, but De'Unnero stifled it, and all subse-
quent ones.

"Where are his people?" the master asked loudly. Then he had his
answer; and he was pleased to learn that an entire enclave of Behrenese
were living on an old farm just outside Juniper.

"Bring him," he instructed his Brothers Repentant, and the Behrenese
man was dragged away. On went the procession, through the night, torches
in hand. They encircled the large farmhouse and saw the frightened faces-
old folks and children included-peering out at them through the windows.

De'Unnero ordered the Behrenese out of the house, but they refused.

"Who is your God?" he called to them. "Do you serve the Abellican
Church or the Chezru chieftain of your homeland? "

No reply.

De'Unnero signaled to two brothers flanking him, each brandishing
blazing torches, to approach the house.

"You will answer me or we will burn your house down around you!"
De'Unnero roared. "Which Church do you serve?"

The door slid open and an old, weathered, dark-skinned man walked
out, moving slowly but steadily toward the volatile monk,

He looked to the Brothers Repentant holding the other Behrenese. "Let
him go," he demanded.
They ignored him, and he followed their gazes to the ringmaster.

"Begone from here," the old man said to De'Unnero. "Our home is this,
fairly taken and rebuilt. No explanations do we owe you."

"You are yatol," De'Unnero accused, for that was the religion of the
southern country, and he knew from the dark-skinned man's accent and
inflection that he had not been long in Honce-the-Bear.

The old man squared his shoulders.

"Name the Abellican Church as your Church," De'Unnero demanded.
"Accept St. Abelle as your savior and our God as your God!"

"Our faith we will not renounce," the man said proudly, lifting his gaze
so that he could address the crowd. But then he was down on the ground,
suddenly dropped by a heavy punch delivered expertly by Marcalo
De'Unnero. And then he and the other man were sent running, chased by
Brothers Repentant brandishing whips. Those angry monks chased the two
Behrenese right up to the house, cracking their whips, forcing the dark-
skinned men to seek refuge inside.

"Burn them in their house," De'Unnero instructed, and the rest of the
Brothers Repentant surged forward with their torches, setting the house
ablaze on all sides, taking care to quickly engulf any potential exits.

The screams soon followed, pleading and begging, but the Brothers
Repentant did not heed those cries and shed no tears for the heathen
Behrenese, for they, like the followers of Avelyn, were to blame for deliv-
ering the rosy plague upon the land. They, with their sacrilegious rituals-
which De'Unnero insisted included the sacrifice of kidnapped fair-skinned
babies-were not innocent. Nay, by the cries of De'Unnero, whipping all
the gathering, even the secular peasants, into a fury and a frenzy: the Behre-
nese were akin to minions of the demon dactyl.

De'Unnero called up all the rumors of Behrenese horrors, relentlessly
condemning the dark-skinned southerners. His moment of highest triumph
came shortly thereafter-the house burning wildly, smoke billowing into
the nighttime sky-when one Behrenese woman somehow managed to
elude the fire and run out, only to be hunted down by the folk of Juniper,
the crowd stirred by De'Unnero's tirade. They caught her and dragged her
down, beat her and kicked her, and carried her back to the inferno.
Howling with rage and glee, ignoring her pitiful screams, they threw her
back into the fire to be consumed.

The Brothers Repentant left Juniper a torn and battered place the next
day, moving out across the rolling fields of southern Honce-the-Bear.
Behind them, they left fifteen dead and scores maimed and scarred. And
yet, to some at least, they left as heroes, as the holy brothers who would
defeat the rosy plague. Indeed, the number of Brothers Repentant grew by
four that day, young, strong men of Juniper wanting to join in the war
against sin, against the plague. Men willing to accept the responsibilities of
mankind's sins onto their own shoulders.
Men willing to suffer.
And to kill.

"She is with child again," Abbot Je'howith announced to King Danube
and Duke Kalas on the day after the autumn equinox, after his examination
of Constance Pemblebury. "Another son."

King Danube smiled; Kalas laughed out loud. "Thus the heir and the
spare," the Duke said.

Danube looked at him directly. His first instinct was to lash out at his
rather callous and blunt friend, but he held the words in check. Duke Kalas
had a right to be questioning the status of the children, Danube realized,
given that he had not yet publicly announced the Denial of Privilege for
Merwick, his first son with Constance, now nearly seven months old.

"We will see if that is to be," the King replied, and calmly.

Kalas paused, and pondered the reply carefully. "You have invoked
Refusal of Acceptance before," he reasoned, "but not with one as close as
Constance. Do you plan to marry her? "

Now it was Abbot Je'howith's turn to laugh, a cackling sound that
turned both sets of eyes upon him. "Indeed, my sovereign," he said, "do
you plan to marry Lady Pemblebury? As your adviser in matters spiritual, I
have to inform you that these conceptions, unless immaculate, do not set
such a fine example for the rabble."

All three had a good laugh at that, and Danube was glad for the dodge.
He knew that he had to make some serious decisions, and soon, but truly he
was torn. He did care for Constance, and dearly, and did not want to bring
her pain in any way. But still, that image of another beautiful and spirited
woman stayed bright in his mind.

They let it go at that for the time being, and Je'howith skulked back to
his abbey, while Kalas escorted Danube on their daily ride across the fields,
enjoying the luxuries his by birthright, the pleasures that accompanied
exalted station.

Those pleasures would prove short-lived.

The news of the summer riot in the hamlet of Juniper and of similar out-
bursts along the farmlands between Ursal and Entel didn't reach Castle
Ursal until the next week, ironically, the very same day that the first victim
of the rosy plague was confirmed within the city.

The mood in Danube's audience hall-where Danube, Duke Kalas, Con-
stance, and the baby Merwick, awaited the arrival of Duke Tetrafel and
Abbot Je'howith-was somber, a far shift from the carefree revelry among
the nobles throughout the previous season. Suddenly the world seemed a
darker place, and whatever reprieve the nobles of Danube's court had
experienced after the fall of the dactyl and its minions and the shake-up
within the Abellican Church, seemed fast diminishing. None of them had
experienced the rosy plague before, of course, but they knew well the histo-
ries, the devastation the sickness had wrought upon their kingdom on sev-
eral occasions in centuries past.

"It is the plague!" came the cry, and Duke Tetrafel entered the room,
out of breath from his long run through Castle Ursal. " It is confirmed, my
King. The rosy plague!"

King Danube motioned for the man to calm down and take one of the
seats that had been placed about before the throne. With a glance to the
side, to see young Merwick at play with some game pieces, Tetrafel seated
himself right before Danube.

"I have just spoken with one of the brothers of St. Honce," Tetrafel
started to explain, but Danube raised his hand to cut the man short.

"We have already been informed," the King explained. "I spoke with
Abbot Je'howith earlier this morn."

"The rosy plague!" Tetrafel said, shaking his head. "What are we to do? "

"What can we do?" Duke Kalas answered. "Lock our doors fast and
tight."

"And continue with the business of ruling," King Danube added. "For
you, Duke Tetrafel, that means completing your reconstruction of your lost
diary. All that you and your team toiled for in the west must not be lost to
the ages."

Duke Tetrafel winced, obviously pained by the memory. "Even the
Doc'alfar? " he asked quietly.

"Especially the Doc'alfar," King Danube answered. "These are potential
enemies, and I plan to know about them, all about them."

Duke Tetrafel nodded.

"But you'll not continue your work here," the King went on. "I need you
to serve as my eyes and ears and mouth in Palmaris."

Tetrafel winced again. "But the plague, my King," he protested.

"Chasewind Manor is secure," Duke Kalas added, "and comfortable.
You will find all that you need there, and as much security from the plague
as can be found here-as can be found anywhere in all the world, I fear."

"Duke Tetrafel," King Danube started formally, seeing that the man
remained unconvinced, "I have great plans for the north, for the wild lands
north of Palmaris, many of which fall within your province. We will delay
those plans, no doubt, while the rosy plague runs its devastating course, but
when the sickness has passed-and always, it passes-I intend to turn my
eyes northward, to Palmaris and beyond. To Caer Tinella and all the way to
the Timberlands.

"It will be the greatest expansion of Honce-the-Bear since the conquest
of Vanguard, and I will need you, the greatest explorer of our day, to lead
the way. So go to Palmaris with all haste. Duke Kalas has prepared his
journal from his months there. Rule wisely and always with an eye toward
the glorious future that you and I will find."

The appeal proved more than successful. Duke Tetrafel rolled forward
off his chair, to one knee before Danube. "I will not fail in this, my King,"
he said, bowing his head. Then he came up, saluted, and left the room in a
hurry, nearly running over Abbot Je'howith in the process.

"One so old as that should not be so excitable," Je'howith remarked,
walking in, the others noticed, with a more pronounced limp this day.

Je'howith took Tetrafel's vacated seat and leaned back, though he didn't
seem as if he could get comfortable at all. The old abbot's sullen expression
was as clear an answer to the intended first question as Danube needed.

"It is true then," the King stated. "The rosy plague has descended upon
Ursal."

"And with more vigor to the east," Je'howith replied.

"A minor outbreak? " Constance spoke hopefully, her gaze going to her
child as she asked the question.

"Who can tell?" Je'howith answered. "There have been occasions when
the plague has appeared, but quickly dissipated, and others ..." He let it
end there, with a shake of his head.

"And in either case, what good is your Church, Abbot Je'howith? " Duke
Kalas put in, the enmity between the two wasting no time in rearing up, as
it did at every council session. "Will your abbots close their abbey doors,
that they do not hear the pleas of the dying? Will they block their tiny win-
dows, that they do not see the suffering of the people they pretend to lead
to God?"

Abbot Je'howith perked up at those remarks, sat up straight and tall and
narrowed his eyes. "We will indeed bolt our doors against the populace,"
he admitted. "And so shall you, Duke Kalas, and you, King Danube. We
cannot battle the plague; and so we must, all of us, try to hide from it as
we may."

"And what of the peasants out in the streets?" Duke Kalas went on dra-
matically, though it was obvious that he had no logical side in this debate,
for even Danube was nodding his agreement with Je'howith's words.

"They will try to hide, as well," Je'howith answered, "And many will be
caught and will die, and horribly, because that is God's will."

Duke Kalas stood up so forcefully at that proclamation, at the notion that
any god might be involved in the rosy plague, that his chair went flying
behind him.

"Anything that you cannot explain or control you claim as God's will,"
he accused.

"Everything in all the world is God's will," Je'howith retorted.

" Like the coming of the demon dactyl? " Kalas asked slyly, sarcastically,
given the accepted theory that the previous Father Abbot of the Abellican
Church had fallen under the spell of the demon Bestesbulzibar.

Je'howith only shrugged and turned away from the Duke, facing the
King instead. That action surprised Kalas-and Danube and Constance as
well-for usually the old abbot seemed to enjoy the verbal sparring with
Kalas as much as the Duke did.

"There are other issues we must discuss," Danube said gravely, "con-
cerning your Church. Have you heard anything of these so-named Brothers
Repentant?"

"Only as much as yourself, my King," Je'howith answered. "A rogue
band, and not sanctioned by Father Abbot Agronguerre."

"And their leader? " Danube asked. "This Brother Truth? "

Kalas snorted at the ridiculous title.

"I know nothing of him," Je'howith replied.

"They travel from town to town," Duke Kalas remarked angrily, moving
beside Danube. "They decry the sins of man and beat each other senseless-
no difficult feat, I would guess, for ones so fanatically committed to the
Abellican Church."

"Spare me your foolish comments," Je'howith said dryly.

"Would that it ended there," said King Danube. "They seem to be
seeking enemies of the Church, or, at least, of their version of the Church.
On two occasions, they have persecuted Behrenese."

"I have heard as much."

"And does this alarm you?" King Danube baited, for he knew that
Je'howith, like most Abellicans, held little love for the heathen southerners.

"What would you have me say? " the old monk replied.

"Do you understand that Honce-the-Bear trades with Behren?" King
Danube said. He, too, stood up, and motioned for Duke Kalas to move
aside. "Have you so quickly forgotten the turmoil caused by Bishop
De'Unnero, when he began a similar persecution of the Behrenese in Pal-
maris? Ambassador Rahib Daibe nearly suspended trade, and threatened
war. Perhaps your Church considers the persecution of heathens no matter
of import, my old friend, but I do not desire to thrust my kingdom into
another war!"

His voice rose with his ire. All in the room-Constance and Kalas and
Je'howith, and even his infant son-looked at him incredulously. Rarely
had they seen King Danube Brock Ursal, as even-tempered as any man
alive, so animated and flustered.

"My Church is not to blame for the rosy plague," Abbot Je'howith said
quietly.

"But if your Church complicates the trouble-" Duke Kalas started to
warn, but Danube cut him off with a sharp wave.

"I warned you and the others in Palmaris to put your house in order,"
Danube said.

"As we have!" Je'howith protested. Now he, too, rose from his seat,
though shakily, to get on even footing with his adversaries. "Father Abbot
Agronguerre is a fine man; and despite the words of Duke Kalas here, you
cannot dispute that Abbot Braumin Herde has done a fine job in bringing
order to the devastated city of Palmaris."

"Devastated by your Church most of all," said Kalas. But Danube
hushed him again, this time with a sharp wave and then a threatening look.

The King blew a long sigh then, and sank back into his chair. How
quickly the darkness had descended on him and on his kingdom! A few
days before, he was celebrating a successful and peaceful summer and the
news of another son, and now, suddenly, it was as if he and his kingdom
had been thrust back into the midst of turmoil.

"The Brothers Repentant are not sanctioned?" he asked calmly.

Je'howith shook his head. "We know nothing of them, nor would we
applaud their efforts."

"Nor are they unprecedented," Constance Pemblebury unexpectedly
put in, and the other three looked to her. "In time of great desperation,
such cults often reveal themselves. In the first onset of the plague, the
Brothers of Flagellation-"

"Yes, yes," Je'howith agreed. "In desperate times come desperate
measures."

Danube rubbed his eyes and sighed again. "See that they are not, and are
never, sanctioned," he warned Je'howith, "or risk war between Church and
Crown."

Je'howith nodded, and wasn't particularly worried, for he knew Father
Abbot Agronguerre well enough to understand that the man would never
agree to such actions as were being attributed to this rogue band.

"Is there nothing that we can do against the plague?" Danube asked
softly.

Je'howith shook his head. "We can hide," he answered.

On that sour note, the meeting adjourned, with Je'howith retiring to his
private quarters in St. Honce but only after issuing orders to all his
brethren that they were no longer to go out among the peasants and that
the great oaken doors of the abbey were to remain bolted and guarded. In
addition, all but the essential civilian workers at St. Honce were dismissed
that day, sent home and told not to return.

Within the week, the brothers of St. Honce had blessed and laid a tussie-
mussie bed outside their walls and a second outside the closed gates of
Castle Ursal. Reports of the plague continued to grow within the city, as
Je'howith knew it would, as it always had in crowded areas during previous
outbreaks.

By the end of the following week, crowds of sufferers appeared outside
the walls of both abbey and castle. Wails rent the night air regularly: mothers,
mostly, finding the telltale red spots on the limbs of their children.

Abbot Je'howith watched it all from the narrow window of his room, high
in the main tower of St. Honce. How old he felt, and how weary! Weary of
everything, of his fights with Duke Kalas-arguments where the frustrated
King Danube now seemed to be leaning more in favor of Kalas. Weary
of the philosophical war he had waged within his own Church. Weary
of upstart young brothers-who was this Brother Truth?-who thought
they understood the truth of the world but surely did not!

Abbot Je'howith had found purpose after the fall of Markwart in Pal-
maris in the form of simple survival and of protecting the memory of the
former Father Abbot. How moot that seemed now, with the rosy plague
spreading fast across the land, a horror that would bury even the terrible
memories of the demon dactyl.

Je'howith looked around him at the ancient stone walls, aware of the very
real possibility that he would never again see the world outside this sanc-
tuary, this prison. On its previous visits to Honce-the-Bear, the rosy plague
had stayed a decade or more. The members of the Abellican Church would
turn inward for the duration, would begin the great debates about the uni-
verse anew, the purpose of Man and of life itself, the nature of God, the
reality of death.

Je'howith, too old and too tired and too certain that he had no answers,
wanted no part of it.

He heard the cart men then, as twilight descended, walking the streets
of Ursal in their black robes and masks, calling for the folk to bring out
their dead.

Je'howith knew that soon enough those carts would make extra trips and
would be overloaded at every one.

" Bring out yer dead!"

The words cut profoundly into old Abbot Je'howith, a poignant
reminder of impotence and futility.

" Bring out yer dead!"

He shuffled to his cot and, weary of it all, lay down.

It began as a numbness in his arm, a tingling that spread gradually
throughout his shoulder and upper chest. His last meal, he presumed, dis-
agreeing with his old bowels.

But the numbness changed to a burning sensation, general at first,
but becoming more and more focused about his heart, and the old man
understood.

He lay there, frantic but helpless, doubting that he could even find the
strength to walk out of his room. He turned his head and stared at his night
table. He had a hematite in there, he recalled through the waves of pain.
Perhaps he could use it to contact another brother. .. ,

A darker thought came to old Je'howith, a recent memory of his exami-
nation of Constance Pemblebury. He had used the soul stone to enter
her body, her womb, had seen the unborn child and felt its warmth and
its spirit. He could expel that spirit, he realized. He could use the soul
stone to send his spirit into Constance's womb, to take the body of the
unborn babe.
To be reborn as the son of the King!

Je'howith clutched his chest as another sharp wave of pain washed
over him.

As soon as it abated, his hand moved for the night table.

But then he recoiled, considering more clearly the course he had devised,
recognizing the immorality and wrongness of it! How could he think to do
such a horrible thing? He had spent his whole life in the service of God,
and though he had made mistakes and though he had often failed, he had
never done wrong purposefully! And certainly he had never entertained the
idea of something as sinful as this!

With a growl against the pain, Abbot Je'howith did indeed reach over
and pull forth the soul stone, bringing it close to his burning heart. He fell
into the swirls of the gem, not to attack the spirit of Constance's unborn
child, not even to contact another brother.

No, his time here was over, the old abbot understood. His weariness of it
all was, he believed, a call from God that it was time to come home.

The old abbot replayed most of his life in those last few minutes, most
of all the final years, when Markwart had gone astray and Je'howith had,
out of fear and darker intentions, willingly followed him. He wondered,
given the many turns, if he would truly find redemption at the end of this
final road.

He wondered, and not without trepidation, what redemption might be.

Abbot Je'howith closed his eyes for the last time.
CHAPTER 26

Unfamiliar Faces with Familiar Expressions

Complain, complain," Roger chided Pony. "You'll see Colleen,and you know that you want that! We start tomorrow."Pony, astride Greystone at the top of the north slopeleading out ofDundalis, just waved him away; and off Roger went, skipping as much as trotting, thrilled that he had finally convinced Pony to go to
Caer Tinella with him.

Pony couldn't hide her smile as she watched her friend go. Roger had
pestered her all through the summer, but she had steadfastly refused. He
wanted her to go all the way to Palmaris with him, and finally, she had
relented enough to agree to journey halfway, to Caer Tinella and their
friend Colleen.

Looking past Roger, Pony noted the town that had served her so well as a
sanctuary. She had been here about a year, and in that time had found some
measure of peace. She spent her days working in Fellowship Way beside
Belster O'Comely, who was usually too busy chatting with the townsfolk-
mostly his very best friend, Tomas Gingerwart-to get any real work done.
Pony, though, had been happy enough in just keeping to herself, going
about her routines, taking solace in the ordinary work of ordinary days.

And now Roger wanted to upset everything, wanted to pull her back to
the south, where, she feared, those memories waited for her. He had worn
her down, and she had agreed; but now her smile faded as she wondered if
she could hold to that agreement!

She gave a sigh and turned away, for she had another appointment to
keep that day. She prodded Greystone slowly down the other side of the
ridge, the northern descent, and into the wide pine vale thick with white
caribou moss. This, too, was a place of memories, but good ones mostly, of
her youth with Elbryan in the days before the goblins.
Pony rode through the vale and into the forest, trotting her horse easily
and stopping occasionally for a break or simply to bask in the solitude. This
was her refuge, the place where she could forget the troubles of the wider,
civilized world. She didn't fear any large animals, no cats nor bears, nor was
she afraid that any remnants of the demon's monstrous minions might still
be about. No, Pony's only fear was of a different sort, of memories wrought
by the foolishness of men, the reminder of how little she had accomplished,
of how futile her dear Elbryan's death had been.

She stopped at the appointed spot, a secluded stream-fed pond not so far
from the grove that held Elbryan's grave. Bradwarden wasn't there yet, so
she hopped down from Greystone and kicked off her shoes, dropping her
feet into the comfortably chilly water.

A long time passed, but Pony hardly cared that the centaur was late. She
lay back in the leaf-covered grass, splashing her feet, remembering the good
times and putting the bad far, far away.

"I'd throw ye in for the fun of it, if I didn't think the chili'd kill ye," came
the centaur's voice, some time later, rousing Pony from a restful sleep.

She looked up at the sky curiously. " Noon? " she asked with sarcasm,
for that had been their appointed hour and the sun was now low in the
western sky.

"Midday, I said," the centaur corrected. "And since I'm to bed after the
turn of midnight, and asleep until late in the morn, this is close enough, by
me own guessin'!"

Pony threw a handful of leaves at him, but the autumn wind got them
and sent them fluttering in all directions.

"Ye got to learn to look at the world proper, girl." Bradwarden laughed.

"A world I'll be seeing more of soon enough," Pony replied.

"Aye, I saw yer friend Roger and he telled me as much," said Bradwarden.
"He finally got to ye, did he? Well, ye know how I'm feelin' about it."

"Indeed," Pony muttered, for Bradwarden had been pestering her to go
to the south with Roger almost as much as Roger had.

"Ye can't be hidin' forever, now can ye? "

"Hiding?" Pony snorted. "Can you not understand that I simply prefer
this place? "

"Even if ye're speakin' true-and I'm thinkin' that ye're tellin' yerself a
bit of a lie-then ye should get out beyond the Timberlands once in a bit
and see the wider world."

"If Roger had his way, I would be spending the whole of my winter in
Palmaris," Pony remarked.

"Not so bad a thing!" Bradwarden bellowed.

Pony looked at him doubtfully. "Life here is peaceful and enjoyable,"
she replied after a while. "I've no desire to leave, and do so only as a friend
to Roger, who does not wish to travel the road to Caer Tinella alone. I
cannot understand his restlessness-he has all that he wants right here."
That brought a belly laugh from the centaur. "All that he's wantin'? " he
echoed incredulously. "And what're ye thinkin's here for the boy? The
sun's shinin', girl. Don't ye feel it in yer bones and in yer heart? "

Pony stared at him for a long moment, then remarked, "In my bones,
perhaps."

Bradwarden laughed yet again. "Aye, in yer bones alone, and there's a
part o' Roger's problem!"

Pony stared at him curiously.

"He's a young man, full o' spirit and full o' wantin'," the centaur pointed
out the obvious. "There be only two single women in all the three Timber-
land towns, and one's still a child and showing no hints of love."

"And the other is me," Pony reasoned. "You don't believe that Roger ..."
she started to ask, her voice showing her alarm.

"I believe that he'd love ye with all his heart if ye wanted it," Bradwarden
remarked. "But, no, girl, ye rest easy, for Roger's not thinkin' on ye in that
way. He's too good the friend, for yerself and for yer Nightbird."

Pony rested back in the thick carpet of leaves, considering the words.
"Roger's going to Palmaris to find a wife," she stated more than asked.

"A lover, at least, I'd be guessin'," the centaur replied. "And can ye
blame him?"

That last question, and the rather sharp tone in which it was delivered,
made Pony glance up at Bradwarden curiously.

"Have ye so forgotten what it's feelin' like to be in love? " the centaur
asked quietly, compassionately.

"Spoken from you?" Pony asked with more than a little sarcasm, for, as
far as she knew, Bradwarden had never been enamored of any other cen-
taurs; as far as Pony knew, there weren't any other centaurs in all the
world!

"It's a bit different with me own kind," the centaur explained. "We've
ways to ..." He paused, obviously embarrassed, and cleared his throat, a
great rumbling sound like boulders cascading down a rocky slope. "We go
to find our lovin' once a five-year, and no more. A different love each time,
or mighten be the same. And when the mare's with young, then she's to
rear and raise the little one alone."

"So you never knew your father," Pony reasoned.

"Knew of him, and that's enough," Bradwarden said; and if there was a
trace of regret in his voice, Pony couldn't detect it.

"But yer own kind," the centaur went on, "now, there's a different tale to
be felled. I been watchin' yer kind for too long to be thinkin' that any of ye
might find happiness alone."

Pony eyed him squarely, for that remark had been a clear shot at her, she
believed.

"Oh, ye'11 find yerself wantin' again, perhaps, and might that ye won't,"
the centaur replied to that look. "But ye've known love, girl, as great a love
as me own eyes've e'er seen. Ye've known it, and ye can feel it still, warmin'
yer heart."

"I feel a great hole in my heart," Pony stated.

"At times," said the centaur with a wry smile. The mere fact that Brad-
warden could get away with such a look while speaking of Elbryan con-
firmed to Pony that there was indeed a measure of truth in his words. "But
the warm parts're meltin' that hole closed, by me own guess.

"Still, ye've known that love, as Belster once did, and so ye two have yer
memories, and that's a sight more than Roger's got."

Pony started to reply but held the words in check, considering carefully
the centaur's reasoning, and deciding that it was indeed sound. Roger
was lonely, and was at an age and an emotional place where he needed
more than friends. Bradwarden was right: up here in the Timberlands, the
choices for a young man were not plentiful.

Pony lay back and put her hands behind her head, staring up at the late-
afternoon autumn sky, clear blue and with puffy white clouds drifting by.
She did remember well that feeling of being in love. She felt it still, that
warmth and closeness, despite the fact that her lover lay cold in the ground.
She wondered then, and perhaps for the first time since the tragedy at
Chasewind Manor, if she would ever find love again. Even more than that,
she wondered if she would ever want to find love again.

She stayed with Bradwarden until late in the night, listening to his piping
song. On her way back to Dundalis, she stopped by the grove and the two
cairns, and paused there for a long time, remembering.

The next morning-still tired, for she had not returned to her bed until
very late indeed-Pony rode Greystone beside Roger, who was riding an
older mare he and Bradwarden had taken from Symphony's herd, down the
road to the south. An easy week of riding later, the pair trotted into Caer
Tinella.

They found Colleen at her house, the woman looking even more feeble
and battered than she had when Pony and Belster had stopped in the town
on their way to Dundalis. Still, Colleen found the strength to wrap Pony
and Roger in a great hug.

"I been thinkin' o' goin' to Dundalis," she explained, pushing Pony back
to arm's length and staring admiringly at her, "soon as I'm feeling the
better, I mean."

"Well, we saved you the journey," Pony offered, trying to look cheerful.

Colleen put on a sly look. "Ye paid him back good, didn't ye? Seano Bel-
lick, I mean."

Roger looked curiously at Pony. "He came at us in the night," she
explained. "I tried to convince him to leave."

"Oh, ye convinced him, I'd say," Colleen said with a chuckle, and she
turned to Roger and explained. "Cut off his axe hand, she did, and put an
arrow into his friend's eye! Seano come through here the next day, howlin'
in pain and howlin' mad. The fool run right through, and all the way to
Palmaris-though I beared he got killed on the road."

"Not much of a loss to the world, then," Pony remarked.

"Can't know for sure," Colleen explained, and she had to pause for a
long while, coughing and coughing. "We've not been gettin' much word
from the south of late-farmers gettin' in their crops and all."

"Do you know if Brother Braumin remains as abbot of St. Precious?"
Pony asked.

"Aye, and he's all the stronger because Duke Kalas ran off last winter,
back to Ursal," Colleen replied. "Me cousin Shamus sent word to me. He's
back in the city, workin' with the man who's holding court as baron.
They're lovin' Abbot Braumin in Palmaris."

"It will be good to see him again," Roger remarked.

"Ye're passin' through, then?" Colleen asked.

"Roger is, but I came to see you," Pony replied.

"Good timin' for ye," Colleen said to Roger. "There's a caravan goin' out
for Palmaris tomorrow."

"I had hoped to visit longer than that," said Roger.

"But they're sayin' a storm's comin' fast," Colleen answered. "Ye might
want to get on with that caravan ifye're lookin' for a safe road to Palmaris."

Roger looked to Pony, and she shrugged. They had known from the
beginning that this moment would soon be upon them, where they parted
ways, and perhaps, by Roger's own words, for a long, long time.

"Ye go and see Janine o' the Lake," Colleen instructed. "She'll get ye
fixed up with the drivers."

They chatted a while longer, and Colleen set out some biscuits and some
steaming stew. Then Roger hustled away, following Colleen's directions to
the house of Janine of the Lake.

"Why are you still ill? " Pony asked bluntly, as soon as Colleen closed the
door behind Roger.

Colleen looked at her as if she had just been slapped. "Well, ain't that a
fine way to be saying hello," she replied.

"An honest way," Pony retorted. "When I left you here before, you were
ill, but it seemed easily explained, with the recent fight against Seano Bel-
lick and with all that you have endured these last years. But now . . .
Colleen, it has been a year. Have you been sick all this time? "

Colleen's frown withered under the genuine concern. "I had a fine
summer," she assured Pony. "I don't know what's come over me of late,
but it's nothing to fret about."

"I would be a liar, and no friend, if I told you that you looked strong and
healthy," Pony said.

"And I'd be a liar if I telled ye I felt that way," Colleen agreed. "But it'll
pass," she insisted.

Pony nodded, trying to seem confident, but she rolled her hematite
Through her fingers as she did, thinking that she might find need of the soul
stone before she left Caer Tinella.

Roger left with the caravan the next day, for it was the last scheduled
caravan of the season and many of the farmers were predicting early snows.
The young man tried again to convince Pony to go with him, to no avail,
and then he fretted about her getting caught here in Caer Tinella by early
winter weather.

But Pony told him that she wasn't overconcerned, that she and Grey-
stone could get home whenever they decided it was time to go. And then,
remembering well Bradwarden's words to her about why Roger had needed
to leave, she bade the young man to be on his way and made him promise to
give her fond greetings to all of her friends back in Palmaris.

Truly, Pony had no intention of leaving anytime soon. Her original
plan was to accompany Roger here and spend a couple of days, and then
return to Dundalis; but with Colleen looking so fragile-even worse, Pony
believed, than the previous year-she simply could not walk away.

As predicted, winter did come early to the fields and forests north of Pal-
maris, but by that time, Roger and the caravan were safely within the walls
of the port city on the Masur Delaval.

He went straight to St. Precious when he arrived in the city, though the
hour was late; and it was good indeed to be back beside Abbot Braumin
and Brothers Viscenti and Castinagis. They laughed and told exaggerated
tales of old times. They caught each other up-to-date on the present, and
spoke in quiet tones their hopes for the future.

"Pony should have come with me," Roger decided. "It would do her
heart good to witness the turn in the Abellican Church, to learn that
Avelyn's name will no longer be blasphemed."

"We do not know that," Master Viscenti warned.

"The brothers inquisitor will arrive soon to question us concerning the
disposition of Avelyn and the miracle at Mount Aida," Abbot Braumin
explained. "Their investigation will determine the fate of Avelyn's legacy
within the Church."

"Can there be any doubt? " Roger asked. "I was there at Aida beside you.
As pure a miracle as the world has ever known!"

"Hold fast that thought," Brother Castinagis piped in. "I am sure that
the brothers inquisitor will find your voice in time."

They talked easily all that first night until they drifted off, one by one, to
sleep. And then they spent the better part of the next day together, remi-
niscing, planning, and again long into the night, until Abbot Braumin was
called to a meeting with Brother Talumus and some others.

Roger went out alone into Palmaris' night.

He made his way to a familiar area and found, to his delight, that a new
tavern had been erected on the site of the old Fellowship Way, the inn of
Graevis and Pettibwa Chilichunk, Pony's deceased adoptive parents.

The place had been renamed The Giant's Bones, and when he entered,
Roger understood why, for lining the walls as macabre support beams were
the whitened bones of several giants. Huge skulls adorned the walls, including
the biggest of all set on a shelf right behind the bar. The lighting, too,
reflected the name: a chandelier constructed of a giant's rib cage.

Roger wandered through, studying the creative decorations and the unfa-
miliar faces wearing all too familiar expressions. The tavern, this place, The
Giant's Bones, was very different from Fellowship Way, he thought, and
yet very much the same. Roger listened in on a few conversations as he
made his way to the bar, words he had heard before, in a different time.

They seemed happy enough, these folk, though Roger heard a few of the
typical, predictable complaints about taxes and tithes, and he heard low
and ominous murmurs at one table about some plague.

But, in truth, the more he listened and the more he looked, the more
Roger felt comfortable in the tavern, the more it felt like home.

"What're ye drinking, friend?" came a gravelly voice behind him.

"Honey mead," Roger replied, without turning.

He heard the clank of a bottle and glass, then came the same voice.
"Well, what're ye looking at, girl, and why ain't ye working? "

Roger glanced back then, to see the grizzly-bearded innkeeper pouring
his drink and to see, more pointedly, a familiar face indeed, staring back at
him from behind the bar.

"Roger Lockless," Dainsey Aucomb said happily. "But I wondered if I'd
ever see ye in here again."

"Dainsey!" Roger replied, reaching forward to share a little hug and kiss
over the bar.

"Ye spill it, ye pay for it," the gruff innkeeper said, and Roger leaned back.

"Oh, ye're such a brute, ye are, Bigelow Brown!" Dainsey said with a
laugh, and she swatted the man with her dishrag. "Ye'd be showin' more
manners, ye would, if ye knew who ye was shoutin' at!"

That made Bigelow Brown look at Roger more carefully, but before
he could begin to ask, Dainsey hustled about the bar and took the slender
man by the arm, escorting him across the room. She shooed a couple of
men from a table and gave it to Roger, then went back and retrieved his
honey mead.

"I'll come by whenever I can find the time," Dainsey said. "I'm wantin'
to hear all about Pony and Belster and Dundalis."

Roger smiled at her and nodded, and he was glad indeed that he had
come back to Palmaris.

True to her word, Dainsey Aucomb visited Roger often, and often with
refills of his honey mead, drinks that she insisted were gifts from Bigelow
Brown, though Roger doubted that the tavern keeper even knew he was
being so generous. They chatted and they laughed, catching each other up
on the last year's events; and before he realized the hour, Roger found that
he was among the tavern's last patrons.

"I'll be done me work soon," Dainsey explained, delivering one last glass
of honey mead.

"A walk?" Roger asked, pointing to her and to himself.

"I'd like that, Roger Lockless," Dainsey answered with a little smile, and
she went back to the bar to finish her work.

It was a fine night for a late walk. A bit cold, perhaps, but the storm that
had hit farther north had barely clipped Palmaris, and now the stars were
out bright and crisp.

Dainsey led the way, walking slowly and talking easily. They went around
the side of the tavern and down an alley, where, to Roger's surprise, they
found a ladder set into the tavern wall, leading up to the only flat section of
roof on the whole structure.

"I made 'em build it like that," Dainsey explained, taking hold of one of
the rungs and starting up. "I wanted it to be the same way it was when Pony
was workin' here."

Roger followed her up to the flat roof; she was sitting comfortably with
her back against the warm chimney by the time he pulled himself over the
roof's edge.

"This was Pony's special place," Dainsey explained, and Roger nodded,
for Pony had told him about her nights on the roof of Fellowship Way.
"Where she'd come to hide from the troubles and to steal a peek at all the
wide world."

Roger looked all about, at the quiet of the Palmaris night, up at the twin-
kling stars, and over at the soft glow by the river, where the docks, despite
the late hour, remained very much active and alive. He surely understood
Dainsey's description, "to steal a peek at all the wide world," for it seemed
to him as if he could watch all the city from up here, as if he were some
otherworldly spy, looking in on-but very much separated from-the quiet
hours of the folk of Palmaris.

He heard a couple on the street below, whispering and giggling, and he
gave a wry smile as he caught some of their private conversation, words that
they had meant for no other ears.

He could see how Pony so loved this place.

"Is she well?" Dainsey asked, drawing him from his trance.

Roger looked at her. "Pony?" he asked.

"Well, who else might I be talkin' about?" the woman asked with a
chuckle.

"She is better," Roger explained. "I left her in Caer Tinella with Colleen
Kilronney."
"Her cousin's back in Palmaris, working beside the new baron now that
Kalas' run off," Dainsey put in.

Roger walked over and sat down beside her, close enough to share the
warmth of the chimney.

"She should've stayed," Dainsey remarked, "or I should've gone with
her."

"There's not much up there," Roger told her honestly. "That's what
Pony needed for now, but you would have found life . . . tedious."

"But I do miss her," Dainsey said. She looked over at Roger, and he
could see that there was hint of a tear in her eye. "She could've stayed and
ruled the world. Oh, she's such a pretty one."

Roger stared at her earnestly, looked deep into her delicate eyes in a
manner in which he never had thought to look before. "No prettier than
Dainsey Aucomb," he said before he could think, for if he had considered
the words, he never would have found the courage to spout them!

Dainsey blushed and started to look away, but Roger, bolstered by
hearing his own forward declaration, grabbed her chin in his small hand
and forced her to look back at him. " 'Tis true," he said.

Dainsey stared at him doubtfully. "I gived ye too much o' the honey
mead," she said with a chuckle.

"It has nothing to do with the drink," Roger declared flatly and firmly.

Dainsey tried to turn away again, and started to laugh, but Roger held
her with his hand, and stifled her chuckles with a sober and serious look.

"Ye never said so before," she said quietly.

Roger shook his head, having no real answer to that. "I do not know that
I ever looked closely enough before," he said. "But 'tis true, Dainsey
Aucomb."

She started to say something, then started to chuckle, but Roger came
forward and kissed her gently.

Dainsey pushed him back to arm's length. "What're ye about, then? " she
asked.

Now it was Roger's turn to blush. "I-I-I do not know," he blurted,
and started to turn away.

But Dainsey Aucomb gave a great laugh and grabbed him hard, pulling
him in for another kiss, a deeper and more urgent kiss.

The early snow didn't stay for long, and soon after, the road to Dundalis
was open again. But Pony couldn't leave, because Colleen had not improved.
Far from it; the woman was looking more drawn and weary with each
passing day. Pony had offered to try to help her with the soul stone several
times, but Colleen had refused, insisting that it was just an early season chill
and that she'd be rid of it soon enough.

But then one morning when she went in to check on Colleen-an oddity,
since the woman, despite her sickness, was always up before Pony and

preparing her breakfast-Pony found her drenched in sweat in bed, too

weak to even begin to stand.

Pony pulled down the heavy blankets to try to cool the woman down.
And then she saw them, on Colleen's bare arm, round red splotches

about the size of a gol'bear coin and ringed in white.

"What?" Pony asked, lifting the arm to better see the strange rings.
Colleen couldn't answer; Pony wondered if she'd even heard the question.
The rosy plague had come to the northland.
CHAPTER 27

A Thousand,Thousand Little Demons

It's the rosy plague, I tell ye," the old woman said decisively. She
was examining Colleen from afar, and she was backing with each
word now that she had seen the telltale rings. She reached the
door, her mouth moving as if she were trying futilely to find some words
strong enough to express her horror, and then she slipped out into the
daylight,
Pony rushed outside behind her. "The rosy plague?" she echoed, for
she had no idea what that might be. Pony had grown up on the frontier in
the Timberlands. Her mother had taught her to read well enough, but she
had never studied formally, and she had never heard of the plague.

"Aye, and the death of us all!" the old woman wailed.

"What about my friend? "

"She's doomed or she's not, but that's not for yerselfto decide," the old
woman answered coldly.

"I have a gemstone," Pony said, producing the hematite. "I have been
trained in the use-"

"It'll do ye no good against the rosy plague!" the old woman cried. "Ye'11
just get yerself kilt!"

Pony eyed her sternly, but the wrinkled old woman threw up her hands,
gave a great wail, and ran off, crying, "Ring around the rosy!"

Pony went back inside, scolding herself for even consulting the town's
accepted healer, instead of just fighting the disease with her soul stone. She
moved up beside Colleen, who was lying on her bed, and took the woman's
hand in her own. She could feel the heat emanating from Colleen, could
feel clammy wetness on her frail-looking arm. What a different woman this
was from the warrior who had accompanied Pony throughout her trials!
Colleen had been strong-stronger than Pony, surely, with thick arms and
broad shoulders. But now she seemed so frail, so tired, so beaten. Pony felt
more than a twinge of guilt at the sight, for Colleen's downslide had begun
on the journey in which she had accompanied the outlaw Pony north out of
Palmaris. De'Unnero, half man, half tiger, had caught them on the road,
had downed Pony, and then had beaten Colleen severely. She had gotten
away, for De'Unnero's focus was Pony and not her, but Colleen had never
really recovered.

And now here she lay, feverish and frail in her bed.

Pony put aside her guilt and focused on correcting the situation, focused
on the all-important hematite, the soul stone, the stone of healing. Deeper
and deeper she went into the gemstone's inviting gray depths, into the
swirl, her spirit leaving her body behind. Free of material bonds, Pony
floated about the bed, looking down upon Colleen and upon her own
physical form, still holding the woman's hand. She focused her thoughts on
Colleen, and could feel the sickness, a tangible thing; could feel the heat
rising from Colleen's battered body; could sense that the very air was
tainted by a sickly smell of rot.

At first that stench, the sheer wrongness of it, nearly overwhelmed Pony,
nearly chased her right back into her own body. She understood at that
moment why the old woman had run off wailing. For a moment, she wanted
to do nothing more than that same thing. But she found her heart and her
strength, reminded herself that she had faced Markwart, the embodiment of
Bestesbulzibar itself, in this same spiritual state. If she left Colleen now, then
her friend would certainly die, and horribly, and soon.

She could not let that happen.

Colleen was her friend, who had stood with her against the darkness of
the demon dactyl.

She could not let that happen.

Colleen's descent to this point had begun when she was fighting beside
Pony, in a battle that Colleen made her own for the sake of friendship and
nothing more.

She could not let that happen.

With renewed resolve, as determined as she had ever been, the spirit of
Pony dove into Colleen to meet the sickness head-on. She found it immedi-
ately, general in Colleen's battered body, like some green pus bubbling up
all through her. Pony's spiritual hands glowed with healing fire, and she
thrust them down upon the sickly broth of the rosy plague.

And indeed, that green pus melted beneath her touch, steamed away into
sickly vapors! Pony pressed on determinedly, pushed down, down. She had
beaten back the spirit of the demon; she could defeat this.

So she thought.

Her spiritual hands pressed into the greenish plague as if she were pushing
them into a pot of pea soup-a deep pot. Soon the plague all about those
two areas where she focused her healing closed in around her arms, grab-
bing at her, a thousand, thousand tiny enemies seeking to invade her spiri-
tual arms, to find a link to her physical form. Pony pressed and slapped, but
the soupy disease slipped down before her and rolled over her glowing,
healing hands, attacking relentlessly. Pony had battled perhaps the greatest
single foe in all the world, but this was different. This time, her enemies, the
little creatures of the rosy plague that had invaded Colleen's body, were too
many to fight, were too hungry and vicious.

They would not wait their turn to war with Pony but came at her all at
once, attacked the spiritual hematite link without regard. She knew she was
killing them with her healing hands-by the score, by the hundred, by the
thousand-but only then, to her horror, did she realize the truth: they were
multiplying as fast as she was destroying them! She moved frantically, des-
perately, intently focused, for she had to be. To let up for one moment was
to allow the rosy plague into her own body. If even one of these tiny plague
creatures got into her, it would begin the frantic reproduction process
within its new host.

She knew that, and gave everything she could possibly offer into the
gemstone. Her hands glowed even brighter, a burning, healing light.

But the plague was too thick and too hungry, and soon Pony realized that
she was slapping at her own arms, desperate to keep the vicious little crea-
tures out of her. Before she could even register the change, the connection
with Colleen was severed; and a moment later, Pony found herself sitting
on the floor beside the bed, instinctively slapping at her arms.

A few moments later, she slumped back against the wall, exhausted and
overwhelmed and unsure of whether or not any of the vicious little crea-
tures had found their way into her body.

She crawled back to Colleen and pulled herself up by the woman's side.

Her efforts had done nothing at all to alleviate the woman's suffering.

"She's flagging us, but not coming any closer," the watchman explained
to Warder Presso. The two stood on the rampart of Pireth Vanguard, over-
looking the wide Gulf of Corona, observing a curious ship that had sailed in
just a few minutes before. The ship had come close to Vanguard's long
wharf, but then, when a group of soldiers had gone down to help her tie in,
she had put back out fifty yards.

The distant crew had then called something about delivering a message
to the new abbot of St. Belfour, but when the soldiers had inquired of the
message, the sailors had insisted on seeing the warder of the fort.

"She's not carrying any standard of Honce-the-Bear," Presso remarked,
studying the vessel, obviously a trader. "But she's got the evergreen flying,"
he added, pointing to the lower pennant on the aft line of the mizzen
mast, the white flag with the evergreen symbol of the Abellican Church.
"Agronguerre, likely, sending word to Abbot Haney."

"But why aren't they just saying it, then?" the nervous soldier asked.
"And why won't they come in? We've asked them over and over."
Presso, more skilled in ways politic, merely smiled at the ignorant remark.
Knowledge was power, to the Church and the Crown, and so messages
were often secret. Still, this visit to Vanguard seemed especially strange this
late in the season, with the cold winter wind already blowing down from
Alpinador. And for the crew of this ship to be apparently intent on turning
about seemed preposterous. Even if they meant to cross the gulf only
halfway and dock at Dancard, the journey could take several days, and one
of the gulf's many winter storms could easily put them under the waves.

Strange as it seemed, Presso could not deny the sight before him, and so
he hurried down the long winding stairway outside the fortress, making his
way to the low docks and his men.

"They want to send it in on an arrow," one explained.

Presso looked around, spotting an earthen embankment not so far away.
"Go and tell them who I am," he bade the soldier. "Have them put their
message there, and on my word as a warder in the Coastpoint Guards,
assure them that it will be delivered, unread, to Abbot Haney at St. Belfour
posthaste."

"They should just come in and deliver it themselves," the soldier grum-
bled, but he saluted his warder and ran down the length of the long dock,
calling to the ship.

A moment later, an arrow soared off the boat, thudding into the earthen
embankment, and the soldiers retrieved it as the ship bade them farewell
and turned fast for the south.

Constantine Presso then surprised his men by announcing that he would
deliver the message personally. An hour later, he arrived at St. Belfour
and was announced in the audience chamber of the new abbot, who sat
comfortably behind his modest desk, with Brother Dellman sitting off to
the side.

"From Father Abbot Agronguerre, I would assume," the warder ex-
plained after the informal greetings. "I believe that is his seal." He tossed
the rolled parchment on the desk before Haney.

"Unopened? " Haney remarked.

"As we were bid by the ship that delivered it," Presso explained. "By
arrow, I must add, for they would not dock."

That made Haney turn a curious, somewhat nervous glance over Brother
Dellman.

"I thank you for delivering it, Warder Presso," he then said, "and for
holding the confidence, as you were requested."

"But I ask that you open it now, in my presence," the warder surprised
the abbot by saying.

Haney glanced at Dellman again, and both turned curious gazes over
Presso.

"The manner of delivery brings me as much worry as it does you, my
friends," Presso said, trying not to be mysterious. "Open it, I pray. I'll stand
back, on my word, but if the news is grave, and if it concerns Pireth Van-
guard or Prince Midalis, then you must inform me immediately."

That seemed fair enough, and so Abbot Haney, with Brother Dellman
coming up right beside him, broke the seal. "Promotion to master for you? "
Haney wondered aloud, smiling at his friend and close adviser.

Dellman smiled, too, but both of the men turned their lips down quickly
into most profound frowns when Haney unrolled the parchment.

"Grave news," Warder Presso said, seeing it clearly from their expressions.

Abbot Haney was trembling as he handed the parchment to Presso, who
took it, thinking that perhaps their dear friend Agronguerre had died.

When he read the words, a warning about the rosy plague, the warder-
who was a friend of Agronguerre's and admired the man greatly-wished
that his initial fears had been correct.

"I trust that you will be discreet with this information," Brother Dellman
remarked. It struck Presso from the look that Dellman gave Haney that he
wasn't pleased that his abbot had so readily turned over the letter. "If we
are too quick to spread this grave news, it could cause panic."

"And of course, only King's men and Church members should be so
privileged," Warder Presso said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"That is not what I said."

"But is it not what you meant? "

"Enough," Haney demanded of them both. "Deliver that at once to
Prince Midalis, I pray you, Warder Presso," he instructed. "If he wishes to
meet with us that we can coordinate our efforts to spread such dire news,
then, of course, I-we," he added, glancing up at Dellman, "will be available."

Presso nodded, gave a slight bow, then started to turn, but paused and
looked back at Dellman. "Forgive me, brother," he said sincerely. "Blame
my surly words on my surprise at reading such unexpected and tragic news."

"And my own for so responding," said Dellman with a polite bow.

Prince Midalis met with Abbot Haney that same evening, but not before
issuing a general blockade of Pireth Vanguard. No ships were to be allowed
in, not even to the long dock, and no goods unloaded.

Abbot Haney agreed, and the next morning, the two leaders broke the
devastating news to the general population of Vanguard. Also, that same
day, Midalis sent runners north to alert the Alpinadorans of the pend-
ing disaster. And thus was the northeastern quarter of Honce-the-Bear
shut down.

Visitors were no longer welcome in the land that prided itself on cama-
raderie and friendship.

The cart slogged along trails that were mud where the sun hit them and
ice where it did not. Greystone tugged at the harness without protest, eager
to please the driver, Pony.

And she urged the horse on with all speed, though she tried to pick as
smooth a path as she could find. Behind her, wrapped in blankets but cold
and miserable nonetheless, Colleen Kilronney groaned and coughed.

Pony tried to block out those pitiful sounds and focus on the road ahead,
the road south to Palmaris, to St. Precious, to somewhere Pony might find
someone and some way to help her mortally ill friend.

She glanced west, to the dark clouds that had risen over the horizon as
the afternoon had drawn on, and second-guessed her decision to set out
from Caer Tinella. She little feared weather this early in the season if it was
just herself and Greystone, but how would she keep Colleen warm if the
snows forced them off the road? And surely her friend would not survive a
cold, wet night.

And so she rode on, after the sun went down, and wishing that she had a
magical diamond that she might light the path before her!

Later on snow began to fall and a cold, cold wind rushed down; and
Pony wished even more for that magical diamond, that she could call a
warming glow to comfort her poor friend.

She set a torch blazing and drove on, trying to outrun the storm, to get
far enough south so that it would be a more gentle event, rain, perhaps.

But the snow kept falling, wet snow, clumping on the wagon and wheels,
weighing down Greystone's load. It settled over the trail, making the ice
even more slippery and more treacherous in the dark.

Pony knew that she could not stop. She had seventy miles of road before
her to get to Palmaris, Colleen's only chance. Gently but firmly she bade
Greystone continue, and the valiant horse trudged along.

The night deepened and the snow continued, accumulating on the road,
making progress more difficult, bringing a bright sheen to poor Greystone's
blond coat. Pony knew that she had to press on, but knew, too, that if she
did, Greystone would likely fall over and die. She and her horse could not
make it alone.

She pulled up at the side of the trail and brought her torch back, tucking
the blankets tightly about Colleen, trying to keep her as warm as possible.
Then she ran to Greystone and unhitched him and walked him, trying to
cool him down slowly and safely.

And all the while, she wondered what she could do next. How could she
save Colleen?

Her soul stone seemed the only answer. Perhaps she could reach out and
find some nearby help. Of course, if she was honest with any nearby
farmers or woodsmen, they wouldn't likely come anywhere near her or
Colleen. Perhaps she could swap a horse with them, though she'd hate to
part with wonderful Greystone.

She came back to the wagon then, deciding that the soul stone was her
only option. She reached into her pouch and produced the hematite,
and fell into it immediately, using its magic to free her of her corporeal
form. For a moment, she thought of going at Colleen's tiny disease demons
again, but the memory of the previous encounter left her weak. So she went
out, searching, searching.

And she found her answer-her wonderful, amazing answer-in but a
few moments, as she encountered another spirit, strong and natural: the
thoughts of magnificent Symphony, nearby and running hard toward her.
Pony felt the horse keenly, understood so clearly that it was indeed Sym-
phony, and recognized clearly Symphony's intent to come to her aid. She
suspected that she had touched the turquoise bond with her hematite
reach, and a miraculous bond it was!

She rushed back into her corporeal form, then over to Colleen, lighting a
fire, tucking in her blankets, kissing her on the forehead and telling her that
it would be all right.

Symphony arrived soon after, snorting and pawing the ground. Pony
wondered if she could manipulate the harness and rope so that both horses
could pull the wagon, but she gave up on the idea quickly, mostly because
she sensed Symphony's impatience, almost as if the horse understood her
needs and was assuring her that he could fulfill them.

She harnessed him up and tied Greystone to the back. Though the snow
continued, even intensified, the wagon was rolling again, and swiftly, with
Symphony plowing forward.

A dull sunrise came and went, and still they rolled on. Soon they came to
muddier ground, and the snow became cold rain, and still they rolled on.

Symphony pulled tirelessly, through the morning and into the afternoon,
and then, amazingly to Pony, she saw the farmhouses increasing in number
along the rolling hills, and knew that she would see Palmaris over the very
next rise.

Down they went, gaining speed with the goal in sight. The guards at the
city's northern gate motioned for the wagon to stop, and Pony called out
to them to let her pass. "Without delay!" she cried. "I am Jilseponie
Wyndon-you know me-and you know the person I carry to the healing
doors of St. Precious. Colleen Kilronney, she is: a friend to any soldier of
Palmaris!"

The soldiers bustled about and seemed unsure what to do, until one of
them took careful note of the black, white-booted stallion pulling her
wagon, and cried out, "Symphony!" They knew then that it was indeed
Pony returned to them, and they threw the gates wide. Several mounted
their own horses and led Pony's wagon through the winding streets of Pal-
maris, clearing the road all the way to the doors of St. Precious.

The brothers who met the unexpected caravan reacted with equal fervor,
bringing Abbot Braumin and the other leaders, Viscenti, Talumus, and
Castinagis, in short order.

Pony saw the bed of flowers laid out in front of the abbey, half buried by
wet snow, most of them dead. Shaking her head, she came down from the
wagon and fell into Braumin's arms. "Help her," she pleaded, and then,
overcome with exhaustion, Pony collapsed.

She awoke in a plain but comfortable cot, dressed only in a long white
shirt, but covered by many thick blankets. She was in the abbey, she recog-
nized by the narrow, rectangular window and the plain, gray stone walls. A
shaft of sunlight streaming in through that narrow window told her that the
storm had ended.

Pony pulled herself out of bed and went over to the window, looking out
to the Masur Delaval and the rising sun. Only then did she realize that
she had slept for the better part of an entire day, and only then did she
remember the harrowing journey through the dark night and the snow.

She searched for her clothes, but, finding none, wrapped a blanket about
her and charged out of the room. She knew the layout of St. Precious well
from her days there after the fight at Chasewind Manor, and so she ran
straight off for Abbot Braumin's office.

He was there, along with Viscenri and Talumus, arguing over some
philosophical point concerning the origin of Man and how the Original
Man had become diversified into the various races: Alpinadoran, Bearman,
Behrenese, and To-gai-ru.

That conversation ended abruptly when Pony came crashing through
the door.

"Jilseponie," Abbot Braumin said. "How good it does my heart to see
you awake and well. Ah, yes, your clothing-"

"Where is she?" Pony asked.

Abbot Braumin looked at her curiously for just a moment, and then a
cloud passed over his face. He looked at his two companions, nodding for
them to leave the room.

They both did so without question, Viscenti pausing only long enough to
drop a comforting pat on Pony's shoulder.

Then the door shut hard behind her, and Pony nearly jumped off the
floor. Hardly able to draw breath, she asked again, more somberly, "Where
is she?"

"She is very ill," Abbot Braumin replied, standing up and coming around
the desk. He moved near Pony, but she visibly stiffened and so he sat
instead on the edge of his desk.

"Is? " Pony echoed. "Then she is still alive."

Abbot Braumin nodded. "But not for long, I fear."

Pony started to respond, but nearly choked as Braumin's blunt response
registered fully.

"She is afflicted with the rosy plague," Braumin said quietly. "The red
spots, the fever . . . there can be no doubt."

Pony was nodding with each word. "I was told as much already," she said.
"But you do not understand what that means, I fear," Braumin replied,
"else you would not have driven so hard to bring her here."

Pony stared at him incredulously. "Where, then?" she asked. "Where
am I to bring one so ill if not to St. Precious Abbey? Who am I to turn to
for help if not Abbot Braumin Herde, my friend? "

Braumin put his hand up in the air as she spoke the words-words obvi-
ously painful for him to hear. "The rosy plague," he said again. "Do you
not know the song? "

Pony stared at him curiously, and Braumin began to sing the children's
rhyme.

Ring around the rosy,
Gather bowls of posies

Burn the clothes

And dig the holes
And cover us with dirt.

Help to one in twenty
Dying people plenty

Stupid priest

Ate the Beast
And now can't help himself.

Praying people follow
Into graves so hollow

Take their gems

Away from them
And cover them with dirt'.

Pony continued to stare, but the words began to sink in, began to ring in
her heart the truth about her doomed friend. "Where, then?" she asked
weakly.

Braumin came forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. "You make her
comfortable, as much as possible, and you say good-bye," he whispered.

Pony let that hug linger for a long, long while, needing the support.
Finally she pushed Braumin back far enough so that she could look into his
compassionate face. "Where is she?" she asked quietly.

"There is a house not so far from here that already knows the plague,"
Braumin started to explain.

"She is not within St. Precious?" Pony asked, her voice rising with her
surprise.

"I could not," Braumin answered. "I should not have let you in so soon
after you spent such intimate time with her."
Pony's eyes widened.

"But I could not refuse you," Braumin went on. "Never that! And yet
you must understand that I had to send several brothers to you with soul
stones, to search your body for signs of the plague. Still, I should not have
let you in, in accordance with Abellican canon."

Pony's eyes stayed very wide.

"Did you not understand the words of the rhyme?" Braumin asked,
turning away from her with a withering glare. "One in twenty we may help,
but one in seven will afflict the tending monk. The words are true. We of
the Order, even with the gifts of God's gemstones, cannot wage battle
against the rosy plague."

"One in twenty, you say," Pony replied, a distinct edge to her voice.
"Will you not, then, try? For Colleen? For me?"

"I cannot. Nor can any of my brethren. Nor should you."

"Is she not your friend? "

"I cannot."

"Did she not stand strong with us against the darkness of Markwart? "

"I cannot."

"Did she not escape De'Unnero, to spread news of my capture and of the
march to the north? "

"I cannot."

"Did she not suffer imprisonment without denouncing us, or Avelyn, or
any of the principles that we held dear? " Pony continued to press, coming
closer with each statement, so that she was, by this time, leaning heavily
over the desk, staring Braumin in the eye from a distance of less than a foot.

"I cannot!" Braumin answered with even more emphasis. "It is our law,
without exception."

"It is a bad law," Pony accused.

"Perhaps," said Braumin, "but one without exception. If the King of
Honce-the-Bear became ill with plague, the Abellican Church would offer
only prayers. If the Father Abbot became ill with plague, he would be
forced out of St.-Mere-Abelle, beyond the tussie-mussie bed." Braumin
settled back, his voice going low and somber. "There is but one exception I
would make. If you, Jilseponie, became ill with plague, I would abdicate my
post and my calling, take one soul stone in hand, and would go to you with
all my heart and soul."

Pony just stared at him, too stunned by this unbelievable information
even to find the words to respond.

"But even if I was successful, even if you proved the one in twenty, then I
would be banished for my actions and not allowed back within my abbey
until after the plague had abated," Braumin explained, "a decade, perhaps.
By that time, I would likely have met with my own death. And if not, it is
even possible that I would be branded a heretic for offering such false
hopes to the general population. This is much larger than you or me, my
friend. It is a matter of the very survival of the Church."

"I am going to Colleen," Pony remarked.

"Do not," said Braumin.

"What stones might I combine with hematite to help shield my work? "

"There is nothing," Braumin said bluntly, his tone rising. "Hematite will
bring you to the disease, and there you will succeed if you are fortunate and
its hold is not great, fail if moderate, and fail utterly, and sicken yourself, if
it is thick within the victim."

Pony considered those words carefully in the context of what she had found
awaiting her previous delving into the tortured body of Colleen Kilronney.
Could the plague be any thicker within a living person? she had to honestly
wonder, shivering at the mere memory other encounter with the disease.

"I cannot bring her here," Pony said calmly.

Abbot Braumin, though his expression was pained, shook his head.

"And you cannot go with me to her."

Braumin winced even more, but again he shook his head.

"And what will you do through all the years of plague, then?" Pony
asked sharply. "Will you remain in your abbey behind locked gates, dis-
cussing the origins of the various human races? "

"That and other matters philosophical," the abbot explained. "It is long
tradition within the Church that times of plague are times of retreat for the
brothers, to discuss and debate the greater questions of existence."

"While the world suffers."

Abbot Braumin seemed wounded. He sighed deeply. "What would you
have me do? "

"I know the path before me," Pony answered.

"And it is one that I again bid you not to walk," Braumin replied. "You
are more likely to die trying to help her than to give her any aid."

"I have already tried with my soul stone," Pony replied honestly, "and
failed utterly."

"Then why go?"

Pony stared at him, disappointed in Braumin for the first time since she
had met him. Then why go? she echoed incredulously in her mind. To hold
her, of course, and talk to her, to comfort her and to say farewell! How
could generous Braumin not see so obvious a duty? How could he place
tradition over compassion?

"I will have my clothes, and be gone," Pony answered.

Braumin nodded, then paused for a brief moment and moved behind his
desk, pulling open a drawer. He produced a small sack. "One of every gem-
stone available at St. Precious, including the very same cat's-eye circlet you
once wore," he explained, handing it over to Pony. "In times of plague, the
folk may be driven mad. You might need these for protection."
Pony took the sack, but stared at Braumin skeptically.

"Also, since I know your heart, and doubt not your talent, I hold a hope
that you will again prove our savior, that you will find a gemstone combina-
tion that will prove effective against the rosy plague. God be with you, Jilse-
ponie." He hugged her and kissed her on the cheek, then he led her out to
retrieve her possessions.

They said good-bye at St. Precious' front gate.

Pony found Colleen in bed, feverish and delirious, calling out for her
cousin Shamus. The woman tending her, another plague sufferer, just shook
her head when Pony entered the building, even telling Pony that she should
not be there.

"Ye're just to kill yerself for mercy," she said.

Pony sighed and pushed past her, going to her friend. She wiped Colleen's
brow and whispered calming words into her ear.

Not words about letting go, about going to the other side, though. Pony
wasn't ready to quit fighting just yet. She had little privacy, for there were
three other plague victims in the same room, all near death, and in the other
rooms of the house languished more people in various stages of illness.

Pony pulled open the sack and gently dumped the gemstones on the
floor before her, rolling them, sorting them. She took up the serpentine
first, considering the shield the gem allowed her to bring up against fire.
Might that shield also defeat the intrusions of the plague? For Pony hon-
estly believed that if she could do that, if she could keep the little plague
demons away from her own body and spirit, and could thus concentrate
wholly on attacking the disease within the victim, she would have much
better results.

She held the serpentine and the soul stone. It didn't seem like the answer
to her, for she understood the nature of the fire shield and didn't believe
that it would stop anything other than fire, just as sunstone could block
magic but nothing else. Still, she looked at Colleen, at the shine of sweat on
her forehead, the redness in her half-open eyes, her swollen tongue, and
knew she had to try.

In she went, serpentine first and then hematite. And then out of her-
hopefully-protected body, her spirit went into the green muck of the
plague within poor Colleen.

Five minutes later, Pony was on the floor, exhausted and frantically slap-
ping her arms, hoping that none of the plague demons had managed to get
into her.

The serpentine shield had done nothing at all.

Pony prayed for guidance. She used the hematite, not to go back to
Colleen, but to find a deeper level of concentration, to find the spirit of
Avelyn, seeking near-divine guidance.

An image flashed in her mind of that upraised hand at Mount Aida, and
for a moment she thought the spirit of Avelyn had come to her and would
Guide her, would show her the gemstone combination to defeat the rosy
plague.

Her spirits sagged a moment later, though, for there was nothing-no
answers, no hope.

She fiddled with the stones again, arranging them in various groups and
trying to figure out a combination of magical properties that would defeat
the plague. She tried serpentine again with hematite and ruby, the stone of
fire, wondering if there was some way she could bring up some type of
spiritual fire that would burn at the green morass.

Again, she wound up on the floor, desperate and even more exhausted.

And on the bed, Colleen continued to deteriorate.

She went at Colleen a third time an hour later, this time using hematite
and a warm and bright diamond.

Nothing.

Colleen Kilronney died later that night, in Pony's arms, though she
didn't know that Pony was holding her. Watching that final agony, fol-
lowed at last by peace, Pony knew in her heart that there was no magical
combination ofgemstones.

She knew, too, however, that she would not allow herself to run behind
tussie-mussie beds and locked gates, as had Braumin Herde and all the
Abellican Church.

She stayed with Colleen all through the morning, until the cart man
passed by the house, ringing his bell and calling for the dead.

She found that the doors at St. Precious would not open for her. Abbot
Braumin came down to the gates, and in truth, he could not bear to keep
her out and offered to let her enter.

But Pony refused, understanding the complications for her friend, not
wanting to trade on her friendship with the man to force him against
Church edict, no matter how mistaken she believed that edict to be.

"Fare you well, my friend," she said sincerely to Braumin. "Perhaps we
will meet again in this life, in happier times, that I might argue your present
course."

Braumin managed a smile at her generous words, for her disappointment
was not hard to see on her fair face. "We will meet again, if not here, then
in heaven, with Avelyn and Jojonah and Elbryan. Go with my blessings and
my love, Jilseponie."

Pony nodded and walked away, having no idea where she might next
turn. She wanted to go back to Dundalis, but worried that such a journey
might prove too difficult at that time even for mighty Symphony.

She found herself wandering near familiar places, avenues she had
known through her teenage years, and then again after her return to Pal-
maris. It all seemed strangely quiet to her, as if the people were hiding in
their homes, afraid of the rosy plague. One place in particular caught her
attention: the Giant's Bones, a tavern built on the location of her longtime
home. Fearing her own emotions but unable to resist, she entered the place,
to find it, like the streets, nearly empty, with the notable exceptions of two
very familiar and very welcome faces.

Roger and Dainsey nearly knocked her over in their joy at seeing her,
Dainsey crying out her name repeatedly and hugging her so tightly that she
could hardly draw breath.

"You decided to follow me here," Roger remarked, a smug smile on his
face. "And now, with winter settling in, you're stuck here for months!"

That made Dainsey grin excitedly, as well, but Pony's reply erased their
smiles.

"I brought Colleen into the city because I could not help her," Pony
explained. "She died this morning."

"The rosy plague," Dainsey reasoned.

"The city has the smell of death," Roger added, shaking his head. He
moved over to Pony then, offering her another hug, but she held him back
and took a deep and steadying breath.

"Come with me to the north," she bade Roger, "back home, where we
belong. Both Symphony and Greystone came south with me." She paused
as she noted Roger's look over at Dainsey, and then it hit her. It became
quite clear to Pony that these two-Roger and Dainsey!-were more than
just friends.

"How long? " she started to ask. "How ..." But she stopped and moved
closer to Roger, granting him that hug then, truly glad to find that her
friend had found such a worthwhile companion as wonderful Dainsey
Aucomb.

But her happiness for Roger lasted only the few seconds it took for her to
remember the circumstances that had left her walking the empty streets of
Palmaris.
CHAPTER 28

What Miserable Wretches We Mortals Be

It was spring in Honce-the-Bear, but hardly did it seem like a time of
life renewing.

Francis leaned heavily on the stone wall of St.-Mere-Abelle,
needing the support. Beyond his shadow, beyond the window-which was
no more than a rectangular opening in the stone-he saw them.

Dozens of them, scores of them, hundreds of them. Ghostly figures
walking slowly through the morning mist that blanketed the field west of
the abbey, huddled under blankets and rags against the chill that still bit
hard in the springtime night. So beaten and battered were they, so emaci-
ated, that they seemed like skeletons, this collection of pitiful souls outside
the abbey seemed like a gathering of the walking dead.

And the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle could do nothing for them. Oh, the
monks threw some coins, clothing, blankets, and food, mostly as payment
for work performed by the plague-ridden sufferers. On Master Bou-raiy's
suggestion, Master Machuso had hired the gathered plague victims to plant
this year's huge tussie-mussie, a massive flower bed that would continue on
and on as far as the victims could plant, that might span the mile of ground
fronting St.-Mere-Abelle's western wall.

Francis watched some of them, those with the strength remaining,
laboring along the base of the wall, digging in the ground with rotting fin-
gers, The monk bumped his head against the unyielding stone, not hard,
but repeatedly, as if trying to thump the frustrations out of his skull.

"What miserable wretches we mortals be," he recited gravely, the
opening line to an old verse written by a poet deemed a heretic in the fifth
century.

"Calvin of Bri'Onnaire," came the voice of Fio Bou-raiy behind him, and
Francis turned, startled. "Strong words, brother."

Francis noted the one-armed master, flanked by Father Abbot Agronguerre.
"Fitting words," he replied to Bou-raiy, "for who in this time is not consid-
ering his own mortality? "

"Calm, brother," Father Abbot Agronguerre bade Francis.
"He who believes in God does not fear death," Bou-raiy promptly and
sternly replied. "Calvin of Bri'Onnaire's words were wrought of fear, not
contemplation. He knew that he was a sinner, who faced excommunication
by the Church for the lies he spread, and thus grew his fear of death and his
bitterness toward all things Abellican. It is well documented."

Master Francis chuckled and shook his head, then closed his eyes and in
a voice thick with gravity and sincere emotion recited Calvin's "Mortalis,"
the verse that had sealed the poet's fate at the stake.

What miserable wretches we mortals be
To build our homes in sheltered lea,
To build our hopes in sheltered womb
Weaving fancies of the tomb.

What wretched souls we mortals be
To bask in false epiphany,
To see a light so clear, so true,
To save us from the fate we rue.
Deny the truth before our sight
That worms invade eternal night,
That maggots feed within the skin
Of faithful pure, devoid of sin.

Oh what hopeful children mortals be!

Castles in air, grand barges at sea,

Bed of clouds and angels' song,

Heavenly feasting eternity long.

What mockery made of endless night!

That prayer transcends truth and hope denies sight!

That all that we know and all that we see

Is washed away by what we pray must be.

So tell me not of eternal soul

That flees my coil through worm-bit hole.

For when I die what is left of me?

A whisper lost to eternity.

"I know the tale, brother," Francis finished, opening his eyes to stare
solemnly at Bou-raiy, "and I know, too, that 'Mortalis' was considered a
work of great introspection when Calvin presented it to the brothers of St.
Honce in the time of plague."
"The time of contemplation," Master Bou-raiy corrected.

"It was only when Calvin went out among the people, reciting his dark
works, that the Church took exception," Francis remarked.

"Because some things should not be spoken openly," said Bou-raiy.

Francis gave another helpless chuckle.

"Brother, you must admit that we are the caretakers of the souls of
Corona," Father Abbot Agronguerre put in.

"While the bodies rot," Francis said sarcastically.

Master Bou-raiy started to jump in, but the Father Abbot held him back
with an upraised hand. "We do what we can," Agronguerre admitted. It
was obvious to Francis that the man was agonizing over the dark happen-
ings in the world about him. "Calvin of Bri'Onnaire was condemned not
for his words but for rousing the common folk against the Church, for
preying upon their fears of mortality. That is the challenge before us: to
hold the faith of the populace."

A smile grew upon Master Francis' face as he considered those words-
and the irony behind them. "There is a woman out there among them," he
said, "one-eyed and horribly scarred on her face and neck, with the rings of
plague scars all over her arms. They say she tends the sick tirelessly; I have
heard that many of the victims have called out for her beatification on their
deathbeds."

"I have heard of the woman, and expect that she will be investigated
when the time for such tasks arrives," Father Abbot Agronguerre replied.

"Even your canonization of Brother Avelyn has been put off," Bou-raiy
had to add.

Francis didn't even bother to spout the retort that came immediately to
his lips: that he would hardly consider himself a supporter of Avelyn Des-
bris, let alone a sponsor for the wayward brother's canonization!

"It is also whispered that this peasant woman is no friend of the Abel-
lican Church," Francis went on. "According to her, we have deserted her
and all the other victims of the rosy plague. And there is the other rumor
that says it was an Abellican brother who wounded her face outside
St. Gwendolyn, a brother with a hand that resembled a cat's paw. Would
you wager a guess about his identity? "

He ended with heavy sarcasm, but it was lost on the other two, neither of
whom were overfond of Marcalo De'Unnero. De'Unnero and his Brothers
Repentant, by all reports, were laying waste southern Honce-the-Bear,
inciting riots, even murdering some unfortunates who did not fit their par-
ticular description of a proper Abellican. Even more disconcerting to all the
leaders at St.-Mere-Abelle was that when Father Abbot Agronguerre had
sent a messenger by ship to Entel to warn Abbot Olin about the Brothers
Repentant and to offer Olin the full backing of the Church if he chose to
confront them openly, Agronguerre had received a reply that seemed to
condone Brother Truth more than condemn him. The other abbey in Entel,
the much smaller St. Rontlemore, had been faithful to the spirit of Agron-
guerre's warning, but Olin of Bondabruce had seemed ambivalent at best.

"We cannot end their suffering," Fio Bou-raiy stated flatly, moving to
stand right before Francis, "and all that we might accomplish in trying
would be to destroy the last bastions of security against the rosy plague. In
this time, God alone will choose who is to live and who is to die. Our duty,
brother, is to ensure that those who die do not do so without hope; to
ensure that those unfortunate victims understand the truth of what awaits
them beyond this life; for in that hope, they can come to accept their
mortality."

" 'So tell me not of eternal soul that flees my coil through worm-bit
hole,' " Francis replied.

"Master Francis," said Agronguerre, having heard enough. He, too,
walked over, pushing past Bou-raiy. "I warn you in all sincerity and in all
generosity, as your father abbot and as your friend, to guard well your
words. Master Bou-raiy speaks realistically of our role against the rosy
plague. We are the caretakers of souls more than of bodies."

"And the caretakers of hope, perhaps?" Francis asked.

"Yes."

"And when do we stop asking the question of what the populace might
believe and begin asking the question of what we, honestly, believe?"
Francis asked.

The two brothers looked at him curiously.

"I know when, and so do you," Francis went on. "It will happen to each
of us in turn, as we contract the plague, perhaps, or come to sense, what-
ever the cause, that our personal end is near. Only then will we, each of us,
honestly confront that greatest of mysteries. Only then will we hear the
words of Calvin of Bri'Onnaire, or like words."

"You seem to be confronting them right now," Master Bou-raiy observed.

"Because I look out at them," said Francis, turning back to the small
window, "and I wonder at my place in all this. I wonder at the morality of
hiding behind our walls and flower beds. We, the possessors of the sacred
stones-of hematite, the soul stone of healing. There lies an incongruity,
brother, of which I cannot make sense."

Father Abbot Agronguerre patted Francis' shoulder comfortingly, but
Fio Bou-raiy's face screwed up with a jumble of emotions, disgust mostly,
and he turned away with a snort.

Pony, Roger, and Dainsey arrived in Caer Tinella amid a melange of late-
spring scents, with mountain laurel and other flowers blooming bright and
thick. A cruel irony, Pony thought, for in Palmaris, in all the cities of
Honce-the-Bear to the south, the plague grew thicker by the day, the
vibrancy of life dulling under the dark pall, the springtime scents overcome
by the smell of rot.
All three had been invited by Abbot Braumin to stay within St. Precious,
and Pony most of all had understood the generosity of that gesture. St. Pre-
cious was a veritable fortress now, and not even the new baron of Palmaris,
an arrogant duke named Tetrafel, had been allowed entrance when he
had gone to speak with Abbot Braumin. But Braumin did not forget his
friends.

Pony believed that Roger and Dainsey would accept the offer-certainly
Dainsey had shown great excitement when Braumin had called it out to
them through the newly constructed portcullis backing St. Precious' main
gate. And, in fact, Pony had hoped that her friends would accept: that
they, at least, would become insulated, somewhat, against the darkness. For
her, it was never a question. Something within her recoiled against the
thought; she could not run and hide in the abbey while so many suffered
and died.

And yet, there was nothing she could do to help them, she had come to
painfully realize over the few months she had spent in Palmaris. First
Colleen and then a succession of others had died in her arms; and so many
times Pony knew that she had barely escaped her encounters with the
plague with her health intact. After one devastating defeat after another,
she wanted only to go back home, to Dundalis.

She felt a combination of pleasant surprise and trepidation when Roger
and Dainsey had opted to go north, though only as far as Caer Tinella,
rather than retreating into the abbey.

They found that the plague had not come strong into Caer Tinella, though
one man had contracted it and had died out in the forest somewhere, for
he'd understood his responsibility to the community when the rosy spots
appeared and had walked away into the wilderness to die alone.

Colleen's house was still deserted, and so Roger and Dainsey, with the
blessing of Janine of the Lake and the other town leaders, claimed it as
their own.

"You are certain you will not come to Dundalis with me?" Pony asked
them soon after they had settled into the place, with Pony getting restless
for the road home.

"Dainsey has friends here and so do I," Roger answered, and he wrapped
Pony in a great hug. "This was my home, and I feel the need to be home, as
do you."

She pushed him back to arm's length and looked him over. "But promise
that you will return and visit me and Bradwarden," she said.

Roger smiled. "We'll both go north," he answered, "perhaps before the
end of the season, and in the fall, surely, if not before!"

They shared another hug and Pony kissed him on the cheek. That very
night, under the cover of darkness, she rode out of Caer Tinella on Grey-
stone, with Symphony trotting along beside them.

She made Dundalis in five days, on Greystone, for Symphony had run off
into the forest to,, rejoin his herd. His departure reminded Pony of how
extraordinary the stallion's arrival beside her on the road south had been.
What had brought him to her? How could a horse so perfectly understand
the needs of a human being?

Perhaps it had something to do with the turquoise gemstone Avelyn had
put into the horse's breast as a gift to both Elbryan and Symphony, she
mused, or perhaps there had been something special and extraordinary
about Symphony even before that. Whatever the case, Pony knew well that
had it not been for the stallion, she and Colleen and likely Greystone, as
well, would have died on the road between Caer Tinella and Palmaris in the
snowstorm.

Word had reached Dundalis of the rosy plague, Pony discovered as soon
as she rode in, for she found herself assaulted by anxious questions from
every corner, a group of men rushing out to meet her.

"Yes," she told them all. "The plague is thick in Palmaris."

They all backed away from her at that answer, and Pony merely shrugged
and rode to Fellowship Way and Belster O'Comely. Other than the growing
fear of the plague, Pony found that things had not changed much in Dun-
dalis. She found Belster busily wiping the bar, and how his smile widened
when he saw her!

He rushed around the edge of the bar and wrapped her in a great hug
and bade her to tell him of all her adventures.

His smile disappeared, of course, when Pony told him of Colleen, but he
managed another smile at the thought of Roger and Dainsey together, for
Belster loved both of them dearly.

"I thought ye dead, girl," the innkeeper admitted, "when the season
turned and ye did not return." He shook his head, a tear growing in his eye.
"I feared the weather or the plague."

"Fear the plague," Pony admitted, "for it grows thicker with each
passing day, and none of us, even up here in the Timberlands, is safe from
it. And once it has you ..." Now it was Pony's turn to shake her head help-
lessly. "I could do nothing for Colleen but hold her while she died."

Belster reached back over the bar and brought out a bottle of his stron-
gest liquor, and poured Pony a large shot. The woman didn't normally
drink anything stronger than wine, but she took the glass and swallowed its
contents in one gulp.

It was going to be a long and difficult time.

Pony went out to the grove that night, to be with Elbryan, to wonder if
he would be there for her when death called to her. After her encounters
with the rosy plague, Pony was feeling quite vulnerable, and she honestly
doubted that she'd find her way through this plague alive.

Those grim thoughts held her fast through most of the quiet night, until a
familiar song drifted on the evening breeze: the harmony of Bradwarden.

So familiar with the forest about Dundalis, so at home out here on a
warm night, Pony found her way toward the centaur easily enough-until
the music abruptly stopped.

"Bradwarden? " she called, for she knew she was close to him.

She waited a few moments but received no answer. She reached into her
pouch and sifted through the gemstones Braumin had given her, finding a
multifaceted, perfectly cut diamond. She called out the centaur's name
again and brought up a tremendous light, filling all the area.

"Ow!" came a yell from the brush to the side. "Well, there's a good one
for me eyes, now ain't it? " Bradwarden added.

Pony focused on the voice, and finally managed to sort out the silhouette
of the centaur's human torso lurking in the shadows.

Pony smiled and decreased the light, and started to move toward Brad-
warden. But so too did the centaur move, one step away for every one Pony
took toward him, and she sensed immediately that there was something ter-
ribly wrong here.

"What is it? " she asked, and she stopped, turning to get a better angle to
see her friend.

"Twenty strides away, that's the rule," Bradwarden remarked, "centaur
strides and not yer little baby human steps."

Pony considered the words for just a moment, her face screwed up in
confusion, but then she got it. "The plague," she said evenly.

"Thick in the south, I'm hearin'," Bradwarden confirmed.

Pony nodded. "Palmaris is in turmoil," she explained. "So is Ursal, by all
reports."

"Dark days," the centaur remarked. "Can't be runnin' to Aida to blow
up this enemy."

Pony increased the diamond's light again subtly, trying to get a better
view, concerned suddenly that her friend might not be well.

"The plague's not found me," Bradwarden explained, catching on.

"I do not know that it can affect a centaur," Pony said.

"Oh, but it can!" Bradwarden replied. "Nearly wiped away me folk time
before last, and so we found the rule: twenty strides and not a step closer."

"From anyone who has the plague," Pony finished.

"To anyone at all," the centaur corrected firmly, "except the horse,
o' course. Horses can't catch the damned thing and can't give it to others."

"But if someone is not afflicted-" Pony started to say.

"How're ye to know? " the centaur demanded. "Ye can't know, ye know.
Ye might have it, or ye might not. Ye'U not know for sure until ye sicken or
ye don't."

Pony paused, sorting it all out. "So you are saying that you will not come
within twenty centaur strides of anyone at all? " she asked. "Of me? "

"It's the way it's got to be," the centaur answered. Pony caught the slight
quaver in his voice, but just a slight one, and one that did little to diminish
his firm resolve.
"Have you joined the Abellican Church, then? " Pony asked sarcastically.
"They lock their doors and hide in their abbeys while the world out-
side dies."

"And if one o' their own gets it, they send him out, not to doubt," the
centaur added.

"They do," Pony answered. "Cowards all!"

"No!"

Bradwarden's tone surprised her, as straightforward and determined as
she had ever heard from the typically blunt centaur.

"Ye call 'em cowards, but I'm thinkin' them wise indeed," Bradwarden
said after a short pause. "What're they to do, then? Come out and die?
Wallow in the misery until the misery grows in them? "

"They could try something!" Pony insisted. "Anything! What right have
they to hide themselves away? "

"Not a right, but a responsibility, I'm guessin'," said the centaur. "Ye
don't know, me friend-ye can't know, for yer type o' folks don't keep so
long a memory. Not long enough, anyway. Do ye know the tidin's the
plague will bring? Do ye know the riotin' and the fightin' and the dyin'? "

Pony straightened and stared at him, but had no answer.

"Yer friends open their abbeys and half o' them'll die from the plague,
and doin' no good in the process," Bradwarden remarked. "And the other
half'11 likely die in the fightin', for the folk'll blame them monks afore long,
don't ye doubt! Happened before and will happen again! They'll blame
'em and they'll burn down their abbeys and they'll stake 'em up. God's not
with them now, they know, and so they'll blame them who think they speak
to God."

That set Pony back on her heels a bit, for she realized that she hadn't
really considered all the implications here. She hated Braumin's choice, the
Church's choice, but was there a logical, even necessary reason behind their
seeming cowardice?

Suddenly Pony felt very much alone in a very large and dangerous world,
a place that had grown beyond her ability to manipulate, even to under-
stand. She looked at her distant friend plaintively. "Play for me," she bade
him, her voice barely a whisper.

"Aye, that I can do," the centaur replied quietly, and he took up his pipes
and began a soulful melody, a quiet, melancholy tune that seemed to Pony
to cry for all the world.

Braumin heard the rumble of thunder, and thought it curious, for the sky
beyond his little window seemed bright and sunny. Even as he began to
catch on to the truth, he heard the cries from a brother in the corridor.

Braumin rushed out, nearly colliding with the man.

"Fighting in the streets!" the young brother cried. "Brothers and peas-
ants! Call out the guard! Call out the guard!"
Braumin rushed by the frightened young brother, through the corridors
of St. Precious, across the inner courtyard and to the front wall, where he
found Talumus and Castinagis on the ramparts, gemstones in hand.
Flanking the two were several other brothers, all holding crossbows.

Braumin Herde scrambled up the ladder to join his friends. He heard
another thunderstroke before he even got up there, followed by screams,
both angry and agonized.

"There!" Brother Talumus cried, pointing down a long avenue to a
group of about a score of robed brothers hustling toward St. Precious,
waving gemstones, a host of peasants pursuing them and flanking them
along other avenues.

"From St.-Mere-Abelle? " Brother Castinagis asked, for none of St. Pre-
cious' brethren were out of the abbey at that time.

"Raise your crossbows!" Talumus cried, the running brothers and the
pursuing throng closing in.

"No!" said Abbot Braumin, and all eyes turned upon him. "We'll not kill
the folk ofPalmaris," he declared.

"They will overrun the brothers!" Talumus argued.

But Braumin remained adamant. He noted that Talumus held a graphite
gemstone, and he took it from the man and marked the approach. "Open
the portcullis and have brothers ready to swing wide the gates," he ordered
Talumus.

Master Viscenti joined them then, carrying an assortment of stones,
graphite among them.

"We have to defeat the flanks," Braumin explained, pointing to the
avenue that ended in the courtyard to the left of the abbey. "Kill none, but
strike the ground before them to hold them back."

"Run, brothers!" Castinagis cried to the approaching group. Both Braumin
and Viscenti began falling into their gemstones then, exciting the magical
energy. Three lines of people came rushing toward the abbey: the central,
led by the running brothers, and ones on either side, curling in to seal off
their escape into St. Precious. Those flanking lines turned the last corner
and began the last run to spill into the courtyard before the gates.

Abbot Braumin loosed his lightning bolt to the right, followed by Vis-
centi's lesser strike to the left. Braumin's bolt struck a building, a farrier's
shop, rattling the windows and sending several horseshoes flying wildly.
Viscenti's bolt hit the cobblestones of the road and ricocheted up, catching
the leading peasants squarely in the face and hurling them to the ground.
Viscenti could only pray that he hadn't harmed any too badly.

"The doors! The doors!" Castinagis screamed a moment later. St. Pre-
cious' front gates swung wide, and Brother Talumus and a dozen other
brothers rushed out to escort the line of running brothers into the abbey.

They didn't get in easily, though-Talumus and the others had to kick
and punch through a group of stubborn peasants, swatting them away.
Finally, with several people down and wounded before the gates, and two
brothers bleeding badly, St. Precious was secured.

From the rampart, Abbot Braumin could only watch and shake his head
helplessly. He noted a group of city soldiers along the avenue to the right,
making no move at all to secure the situation.

He wasn't surprised.

Braumin went down to the inner courtyard then, to greet his unexpected
visitors. By the time he arrived, they had pulled back their hoods. Some
were being tended for minor wounds, others were simply bent over, trying
to catch their breath.

Braumin looked them over curiously, for though many were not young
men, he didn't recognize any of them-except one.

"Master Glendenhook? " he asked, moving near to the man.

"Greetings, Abbot Braumin," Glendenhook replied.

"Why are you out of St.-Mere-Abelle?" Braumin asked incredulously.
"Why are you here?"

"We are the brothers inquisitor," another monk answered in the thick
accent of southeastern Honce-the-Bear-from Entel, likely. "We've come
to investigate claims of a miracle at Mount Aida performed by Avelyn
Desbris."

Abbot Braumin swayed as if a slight wind could have knocked him over.
"The building of the chapel of Avelyn was halted," he replied, "by order of
Father Abbot Agronguerre."

" It would be foolish to expose ourselves in such a manner as to dedicate
a new chapel," Master Glendenhook replied. "But the canonization of
Brother Avelyn must go forward. A full investigation."

Abbot Braumin heard Talumus and Viscenti and others about him give a
cheer, but he just stared at Glendenhook curiously.

"The people need a hero at this dark time, would you not agree, Abbot
Braumin?" Glendenhook remarked. "Perhaps Brother Avelyn will with-
stand the scrutiny of the process and become that hero."

It didn't make much sense to Braumin at that time. He knew that Glenden-
hook was tied closely to Master Bou-raiy, certainly no friend to the memory
of Avelyn Desbris. At the College of Abbots, when Markwart had con-
demned Master Jojonah for following Avelyn, Bou-raiy had been a huge
supporter ofJojonah's execution.

"Let Avelyn's name be put forward and let all the world rejoice," Master
Glendenhook added, and he seemed sincere.

But when he looked at Glendenhook's smile, Abbot Braumin couldn't
help but question that sincerity.

Something just didn't seem right.
CHAPTER 29

The Second Gift

Abbot Hingas desires audience, my liege," the castle guardsman
reported to King Danube.
Duke Kalas, sitting at the side of the room, snorted deri-
sively. He had no love for Hingas, the interim abbot of St. Honce, whom
he thought a complete fool. Kalas didn't care much for any member of
the Abellican Church, of course, but in the case of Abbot Hingas, sev-
eral others of King Danube's court, Constance among them, had to agree
with him.

"He has come to complain about the broken windows again, no doubt,"
said Constance Pemblebury, who had her back to the others, sitting mod-
estly and feeding Torrence, her second son, who was now six months old.
Merwick moved excitedly about her chair, setting up little wooden blocks,
then kicking them all over the room.

"Or to talk about the weight of a soul," Kalas remarked, "of how it is
lighter than the very air about us and so it floats, floats, to heaven." His
voice rose an octave as he spoke the words, sarcastic and derisive.

" Your Majesty? " the poor sentry asked.

King Danube rolled his eyes.

"No!" Kalas yelled at the sentry. "Out with him! Out! Send him back to
St. Honce and tell him to suffer the rocks and the taunts. Tell them all to
suffer, for the good of the world, and when they have finally appointed an
abbot, a real abbot, let him come and beg audience with the King."

The fiery Duke's tirade didn't surprise the others, of course, but the
intensity of it this time certainly made Danube and Constance look at each
other with concern.

"Better off is Je'howith," Constance remarked dryly, and even diplo-
matic King Danube couldn't deny a chuckle at that.

"In the grave and at peace from Duke Kalas," Danube said.

"Did you wish to speak with the idiot? " Kalas asked, clutching his heart
as if their words had wounded him.
" Likely you did me a favor," King Danube replied, pulling himself from
his chair and walking over to the window.

Below him lay Ursal, quiet, awaiting winter. Every family had at least one
victim now, so it was reported; and many houses lay dark and still, full of
death, with no one to go in and retrieve the bodies.

Such was King Danube's beloved capital that late autumn of God's Year
829. It should have been among the happiest times of Danube's life. The
demon and its minions had been shattered; the Church, always a nagging
rival to the Throne, had been pushed into disarray; and his dear Constance
had given him two sons: sons whom he was beginning to think of as heirs to
his throne-though, of course, he'd have to speak with his brother at length
about that possibility.

Yet, here he was, buttoned up within the prison that Castle Ursal had
become, a fortress against the misery of the plague, though that most insidi-
ous of enemies had found its way even into these fortified halls, forcing the
expulsion of two servants and a guard.

So far, though, none of his closest friends had been afflicted; and for that,
King Danube mumbled a little prayer of thanks as he stood solemnly at the
high window, looking out over his wounded kingdom.

Not much of a blessing, perhaps, but in this dark day, any light at all
seemed a good thing.

The snow held off in the northland until after the turn of winter, but
when it did come to Dundalis, it did so in fury, with drifts covering the
entire sides of houses and burying the fences of the corrals.

Soon after, and still before the turn of God's Year 830, the weather
calmed enough for Pony to attempt venturing out. And truly, she needed
the time alone, at the grove and Elbryan's cairn, her great retreat from the
events of the world.

She saddled Greystone and walked out of Dundalis, up the north slope
and along the rim of the vale filled with caribou moss and pines, for the
edges of the dale were windblown and nearly clear, while the dell itself was
deep in snow. She found the trails within the forest easier going than she
had anticipated, though the snow was often halfway up Greystone's legs,
and on several occasions, Pony had to dismount and lead the horse along.

She had left early in the morning, and a good thing it was, for it was
nearing noon when she at last came to the sheltered grove. The rolling hills
and sharp ravines nearby were too deep and too slick, so Pony had dis-
mounted again and tethered the horse in a windblown clearing, walking in
the last quarter mile.

Two sets of hoofprints, running the length of the last field and right into
the grove, alerted her that she was not alone. At first, she thought that it
might be Bradwarden and Symphony-for who else would be out here on
such a day-but then she saw a third track, the boots of a rider, beside the
line ofhoofprints.

Shadowing the forest line for cover, Pony did a complete circuit of the
grove. She spied a lone rider in the distance, sitting quietly along the tree
line, bundled under mounds of furs.

Now she fell into her hematite, using its depths to release her spirit from
her corporeal body. She went out to the rider first, and determined on her
way that he had a companion, who was within the grove-her grove!-and
the mere thought of that made her angry.

The rider was a man of about Pony's age, rugged but handsome, with a
dark, two-week beard and sparkling, alert eyes. Something about him
seemed familiar to Pony, but she could not place it.

Not wanting to linger for fear of being discovered, she turned her spirit
and swept into the grove, passing insubstantially among the trees.

She found the other man standing before the twin cairns-grave markers
that had been recently cleared of snow. He was a giant of a man, with long,
somewhat thinning, flaxen hair, eyes the color of a clear northern sky, and a
sword strapped diagonally across his back.

And what a sword-the largest Pony had ever seen! A sword that could
cleave through any blocking shield, through any blocking tree, and cut the
opponent in half!

The man started, glancing about, suddenly on the alert; and Pony real-
ized that he had somehow sensed her presence. In the span of a single
thought, she was back in her body, blinking her eyes, orienting herself to
the physical world about her.

She paused, waiting a few moments, and when no call came from the
grove and when the giant man didn't emerge, she picked a path that would
keep her out of sight of the waiting rider, and slipped across the field, one
hand on Defender, the other in her gemstone pouch, rolling both graphite
and lodestone between her fingers.

She moved stealthily, perfectly quiet, from shadow to shadow, as Elbryan
had taught her. Still, before she was within ten paces of the man, he called
out, "You should not be sneaking up on me so, good woman. It makes
me edgy."

He turned slowly, a wry smile showing on his bearded face. His hands
remained at his side, making no movement toward that incredible sword.

"A bit far out of town in such a season as this, are you not?" the man
asked.

"What do you know of it? "

"I know that Dundalis is the closest town, and a hard morning's march in
this deep snow," the man answered. "And I know that Weedy Meadow is
another twenty miles from that."

Pony cocked her head, staring at him curiously. How could he know so
much, without her being aware of any such man in the area? And what of
Bradwarden? The centaur knew, or claimed to know, of everything that
moved in the forest. And yet, Pony had not heard from Bradwarden in
many days, and even that had been no more than the piping song carried on
a favorable evening breeze.

"What are you doing here?" Pony asked firmly, watching the man
closely. If he went for that sword, she intended to lay him low with a light-
ning stroke.

The big man shrugged. "Paying my respects," he said.

"To whom?" Pony's words came out unintentionally sharp. Who was
this man to presume that he could walk unannounced to Elbryan's grave?

"To fellow rangers," the Alpinadoran replied, and Pony's jaw dropped.

"To Nightbird, and to Mather before him," the ranger went on. "Word
reached me of his demise, and so I owed him this visit, though the road was
long and difficult."

"Who are you?"

"I was thinking of asking you the same thing."

"Who are you to stand uninvited and unannounced before my husband's
grave? " Pony replied, clarifying much.

The big man nodded and smiled. "Jilseponie Wyndon, then," he said.
"Pony to her friends. Companion of Nightbird to the end." He bowed
respectfully. "I am Andacanavar of Alpinador, elven-trained, as was your
husband. The full story of the tragedy in Palmaris came to me by the way
of Brother Holan Dellman of the Abellican Church, who now serves at
St. Belfour in Vanguard."

Pony was shaking her head, hardly able to believe the man, but the men-
tion of Brother Dellman, her friend, put her at ease. Too much so, she real-
ized a moment later, when she head a voice behind her.

"And I am Liam O'Blythe," it said, and Pony spun to see the man who'd
been on horseback near her-near enough to have jumped her before
she could use her gemstones or draw her sword, and how foolish that made
her feel.

But this man, too, bowed politely, respectfully, and made no move
against her.

"We did not know that you were again in this area," Andacanavar went
on, "else we would have sought you out."

"Though we plan on making as little contact with the folk of this region,
or any other region outside Vanguard, as possible," Liam said.

Pony looked at him curiously, and then at his huge companion. "You
would find that the folk of the Timberlands are not so quick to judge based
on heritage," she said.

"Not that," Andacanavar explained. "We have heard news of the rosy
plague."
"True words," Pony said.

"And thus we do not wish to bring it with us back to Vanguard or to
Alpinador," Liam said. "But enough of my intrusion," he went on, and
Pony realized that the ranger behind her had given him a signal to be gone.
He left with another bow, moving gracefully, with a warrior's balanced gait,
and Pony turned back to regard the ranger.

They talked easily, like old friends, for more than two hours. Pony
did most of the talking, answering Andacanavar's many questions about
Elbryan. The ranger wanted every detail of every story, wanted to hear
Pony imitate her lover's laugh and describe his wry grin to the dimple.
Andacanavar listened to her with obvious amusement, smiling and laugh-
ing often.

How quickly the afternoon passed, and Pony realized that she would
have to be on her way if she hoped to make Dundalis before dark.

"The signs are telling me that tomorrow will be another fine day," the
ranger said to her. "Will you come back to this place, then, and speak with
me again? "

Pony looked at him, seeming unsure.

"I will tell you more about the elves, and more about that which helped
to form your Nightbird into the man you loved," Andacanavar promised.

"Then I will return," Pony said with a smile.

That night, in her bed in the small room above Fellowship Way, Pony
was visited by dreams of Elbryan more vivid than any she had known
since his death. Unlike some of her previous dreams of her husband-
reenactments of that final battle mostly, and horrible things-these were
pleasant, warm memories that made Pony awaken with a smile.

She was up early, working quickly through her chores at the tavern, then
promising Belster she would return by dark and rushing out. She found
Andacanavar and his friend at the grove again; and again, the smaller man
left them. Untrue to his promise, though, Andacanavar bade Pony again to
do the talking, to tell him even more of Nightbird.

And she complied eagerly, pouring out her heart, telling about her sepa-
ration from Elbryan and all those years apart, when he was with the
elves, and she in Palmaris and later in the King's army. She told of their
journey to the Barbacan to do battle with the demon dactyl-Andacanavar
liked that part most of all!-and of their work against the minions of the
demon upon their return south. She told of the journey to St.-Mere-
Abelle to rescue Bradwarden, and then she told the Alpinadoran ranger,
in solemn tones, tears streaking her cheeks, of the final battle against
Markwart, when Elbryan gave his life to save her and to rid the world of
Bestesbulzibar.

When the sun began its swift descent, Pony realized that she had to go.

"Tomorrow?" Andacanavar asked her.
"That you can tell me again of the Touel'alfar? " Pony asked sarcastically,
for the ranger had spent the entire day asking question after question.

"I will," the ranger promised. "I will tell you of the many tests a ranger
in training must master. A marvelous race are the Touel'alfar. Adaptable
and-"

Pony laughed aloud. "That is not a word I would use to describe them,"
she said.

"But they are!" Andacanavar protested. "Why, they had to concoct an
entirely different fighting style for me, to accommodate my size and
strength."

"Different than bi'nelle dasada?" Pony asked, and that set the big man
back on his heels.

"What would you know of that? " he asked.

Pony glanced to the side, to see the ranger's companion returning to the
grove.                                                   /  \

"I know the sword dance," Pony whispered. "I know it well."

Andacanavar looked at her, his face showing both surprise and concern.
"What would you know of it, then? " he asked.

"Nightbird-Elbryan-taught it to me," she explained. "The sword dance.
All of it. We fought together in movements perfectly complementary."

That raised Andacanavar's bushy eyebrows, and he nodded and said,
"hmm," repeatedly.

"Lady Dasslerond was not pleased," Pony admitted, then she laughed.
"Not at all!"

"I say this not in jest, my friend, but I suspect that the lady considered
quieting you in the most extreme manner possible," the ranger replied.

"I doubt you not at all," Pony replied in all seriousness. "I suspect that
Belli'mar Juraviel intervened on my behalf, and that, because of him, the
lady trusts that I will keep well the elven secret."

"No small faith!" said Andacanavar. "Are you the new ranger of the
Timberlands?" he asked jokingly.

But Pony's face remained serious. "Belli'mar explained that such a thing
would not be possible, that I was too old to be considered for the training,"
she said.

"But they let you live and keep well their secret, and that is no small
thing!" Andacanavar said with a great laugh, and Pony joined him.

"Then that weapon strapped at your hip is for more than show?" the
ranger asked a moment later, a wry look crossing his face. "Liam fancies
himself a bit of a swordsman," he said. "You think you might show me? "

Pony considered the challenge for a moment. She thought that she
should refuse, remembering her promise to Belli'mar Juraviel to keep the
sword dance private and secret. And yet, this was a ranger bidding her on,
one who knew the dance, obviously.

"What is it?" Andacanavar's companion asked, seeing the questioning
expressions as he walked up to the pair, dropping a wild turkey he had shot
beside him.

"Right here?" Pony asked Andacanavar. "It is crowded with trees."

"Does not the dance take the entire battlefield into consideration?" the
ranger asked.

"What battlefield? " asked the smaller man.

"Your battlefield," Andacanavar replied, standing up and brushing the
snow from his doeskin breeches. "Yours and hers. Our new friend has told
me some interesting things about her background, and I would like to test
her here and now."

"Then the battlefield is your own," the other man protested.

Andacanavar gave a laugh. "My fighting style is too disparate from that
which she claims for me to take any measure. Come then, Liam, draw your
sword and dirk and let the woman have her way with you."

The man looked at Pony curiously, to see her brushing the snow off her
breeches and then drawing a truly beautiful, slender sword.

He nodded. "Be gentle," he said to Pony.

"Never in all my life," she replied, and she turned sideways, on guard,
her left foot back, her right leg before her. She rocked over her knee,
finding her balance.

"And if I unintentionally hurt her, will you chop me down, Anda-
canavar? " the smaller man asked.

The ranger gave a chuckle-and he meant it, for just from Pony's stance,
Andacanavar understood that his companion's fears were not likely to
come to fruition.

"I will try not to cut you, and expect the same," the man said. "First
blood, if it comes to that, first advantage if not."

Pony didn't bother to answer, just rocked back and forth, feeling her bal-
ance, remembering her many training sessions with Elbryan, working the
dance naked in the morning light, remembering the many fights she had
won beside her lover, their movements too harmonious, too synchronous,
for any enemy to stand against them.

She felt bi'nelle dasada flowing through her again, for the first time since
that awful day, but instead of bringing back all the bad memories and fears
and sense of loss, it felt to Pony as if she were with her lover again. It felt
wonderful!

"Are you ready? " she heard her opponent ask. From his tone, she real-
ized that he must have already asked that question several times.

She smiled and nodded, and Liam came on suddenly, a side slash with
the sword, followed by a sudden short dagger thrust.

Pony easily had Defender in line to parry the slash, then angled her
sword the other way, abbreviating the dagger move.

The man smiled, obviously impressed. Pony came on suddenly, a lunge
and thrust that became a sideways slap that sent his sword wide, followed
by another quick step forward, Defender's tip coming ahead briefly, then
angling down, parrying his dagger parry before it could begin.

The man was quick, though, and he brought his sword back in, recovering
from his surprise, and went on the sudden forward attack.

But the sword dance was flowing mightily through Pony, filling her with
a joy she had feared she would never know again. On came Liam's sword
thrust and dagger thrust, but Pony skittered back, her legs working fast, her
upper body hardly moving at all, in perfect balance.

Liam came on even farther, seeing that she was running out of room,
with a clump of birch trees close behind.

Pony backed right up to them, and as her opponent closed, she came for-
ward with a thrust-a measured thrust, for she ended it abruptly, her left
hand catching hold of the birch behind her, all her momentum shifting sud-
denly, so that she spun around the bending tree.

"Well done," her opponent congratulated her. But before he even fin-
ished his salute, sword to forehead, he had to launch his weapon out in a
desperate parry, for Pony leaped through the birch tangle and came on
once again-thrust, thrust, thrust.

He parried each stroke in succession, barely, and now found himself
backing fast, and with far less balance than Pony had shown.

She pressed her advantage, rushing forward, sword stabbing for his belly,
for his chest, for his face, and then his belly again, and with his using both
his weapons frantically to fend off her blows.

Now her momentum had seemingly played out, and she should have
retreated into a defensive stance again, but she did not, instead coming for-
ward even more aggressively.

It appeared as if she had erred, and her opponent, obviously no novice to
battle, took the initiative and the offensive, easily parrying one unbalanced
thrust and reversing his footing, coming forward fast, sword leading,
dagger following in two commanding thrusts that hit. . .

Nothing.

And Liam stopped, stunned, for in his flurry he had blocked his own
vision and now he couldn't even locate his opponent!

Then he felt the tip of a sword against the back of his neck, just under his
head, and he froze in place.

"I would call that an advantage!" Andacanavar roared. Liam dropped
sword and dagger and shrugged.

"No blood, I pray," he said to Pony as she walked by, staring intently
into her deep blue eyes.

"It will heal," she promised, and she sheathed Defender and moved
beside the ranger.

He nodded approvingly.

"Nightbird gave you a great gift," he remarked.

Pony nodded her agreement, for right then, feeling that tingling power ol
the sword dance coursing through her, she gained an even greater apprecia-
tion of the gift.

"Was that all he taught you? " Andacanavar asked.

Pony looked at him, not understanding. How could she begin to list
all the things that she and Elbryan had taught each other, or had learned
together?

"Your hesitance alone answers my question," the ranger said. "He did
not teach you, and so I shall. Tomorrow."

Pony looked at him skeptically.

"Trust me on this, woman," the ranger bade her. "You will find more
than you expect, I promise." He paused and held Pony's stare for a long
time, while her expression went through skepticism and trepidation and
then into some measure of hopefulness.

"Tomorrow?" he asked again.

"Early," Pony promised, and she gathered her things and took up Grey-
stone's reins and walked away.

"A remarkable woman," Andacanavar's companion, who was not Liam
O'Blythe, remarked as Pony and Greystone disappeared into the forest.

"Skilled and determined, and a feast for a man's eyes," the ranger replied,
looking down at his friend. "I told you last night that she would beat you,
and easily."

"Brother Dellman described her as beautiful," the ranger's companion
remarked, "and I do not think that our friend Dellman makes that observa-
tion often of women."

"His words could not begin to tell the whole truth other," Andacanavar
replied, and he gave his companion a sly look. "Beauty enough to make any
man swoon."

"And are you not a man? " came the next question.

"Too old for her, but I'm thinking that she is about your own age."

The man, so easily defeated in the sword fight, only shrugged and smiled.

"Was that good enough for you?" Andacanavar called out to their
newest companion, as Bradwarden trotted into the grove, though he stayed
the proper distance from the humans, as centaur law demanded in times of
the plague.

"She left with a smile," the centaur admitted, "one I've not seen on that
beautiful face o' hers in a long while."

"Rangers have a way of doing that to beautiful women," Andacanavar
said with a wink.

"Her pain's deep," the centaur remarked seriously.

"And tomorrow it might be deep again," Andacanavar replied, "for she
will be meeting her lover again. It will hurt, no doubt, but it is a pain she is
needing."

"I wouldn't've asked for yer help if I didn't think ye'd be helpin'," Brad-
warden said.
"And glad we are that you did," said the ranger's companion. The tone
of his voice, wistful, even enchanted, made Bradwarden and Andacanavar
look at each other and wink knowingly.

"I see it all the time," the centaur mumbled to Andacanavar.

Once again, Pony found her dreams filled with pleasant memories of her
lover, of sword dancing and making love, of long walks in the forest or just
sitting and talking on a bare hillock, hearing Bradwarden's song.

She awoke in a fine mood and once again rushed through her chores and
out of Dundalis, riding Greystone as hard as the trails would permit back to
the sheltered grove.

She found Andacanavar there alone, waiting for her, but she found that
Bradwarden was not far away, for his piping filled the crisp winter air with
warming notes.

"When I hear the centaur's song, it feels like Elbryan is still with me,"
Pony said wistfully. "He and I used to listen to that song when we were
children, living in Dundalis."

"He is still with you!" Andacanavar roared. "Of course he is!" He
looked all about, as if expecting a ghost to materialize nearby, and then a
curious expression appeared on his face. "Did he not teach you anything of
the other gift? " he asked. "The more important gift of the Touel'alfar? "

Pony looked at him curiously.

"Oracle," Andacanavar explained.

Pony nodded; she should have known. "He once tried," she explained,
"that I might better contact the spirit of another friend lost to us. But I did
not need it, for Avelyn was with me at that time. I could feel it."

"But now you need it."

Again Pony fixed him with a skeptical and curious expression.

"You do not believe that Nightbird, your Elbryan, is still with you,"
Andacanavar explained. "You are not even certain that he has found the
next level of existence, or even if such a level truly exists. Oh, yes, Avelyn
was with you, you say, but was it really his spirit, or was it just your own
hopes and memories of him? "

Pony stared at him hard, feeling uncomfortable suddenly, feeling as if his
words were a bit too intimate.

"That is your fear, I say," the ranger declared. "And because of it, you
cannot get past your mourning."

"You assume much."

"I read well," Andacanavar corrected. "And the message is clear upon
your face whenever you speak of Elbryan." He dusted the snow off his pant
legs and stood up, bending and holding out his hand to Pony. "Come," he
said. "Let me show you the other gift of the Touel'alfar, the one that will
free you."

"LadyDasslerond-"
"Is not here, now is she?" Andacanavar replied. "And if she allows you
to live with the secret of bi'nelle dasada, then know that she has already
passed judgment upon you, and that it is a favorable one. Come on, then.
The weather will not hold another day and I've a long road before me."

Skeptical still, Pony accepted the large man's hand, and he pulled her up
to her feet with hardly the slightest effort.

He had already prepared the cave, a hollow at the base of a great elm, for
he had used the place extensively to contact the spirits of both Elbryan and
Avelyn. He explained the process to Pony, carefully, then helped her into
the hole.

She found that Andacanavar had set a log at one end, for her to sit on,
and had propped a mirror against the opposite wall, facing it. He barely let
her orient herself to the surroundings before he dropped the blanket over
the opening, darkening the cave so that Pony could hardly make out the
shapes.

But that was the way of Oracle. As Andacanavar had instructed, she took
her seat upon the log and stared hard into the mirror, thinking of Elbryan,
remembering their times together, and then her thoughts drifted deeper,
deeper, until she was far into meditation, not unlike that which she used to
enter the sword dance, not unlike that which she used to fall within the
magic of a gemstone.

And then she saw him, her love, a shadow moving about the mirror.

"Elbryan," she whispered, and the tears came freely. "Can you hear me?"

She didn't get any audible response, nor did the dark shadow move, but
Pony sensed a warmth suddenly and knew that her lover was with her.

But not close enough for her liking, and she shifted forward, even
coming off the log seat, but her movement broke her level of concentration
and the image faded-or maybe it had never really been there. Maybe it
was a trick her heart had played upon her imagination.

No, that wasn't it, Pony realized. He had been there, in spirit. Truly.

She settled back on the log, thinking to fall again into the trance, but only
then did she realize how much time had passed. And she had to be out of
the grove long before dark.

She went to the cave opening and pushed aside the blanket, blinking
repeatedly at the relatively bright afternoon light.

"Did you find him, then?" asked the ranger, seated comfortably nearby,
his black-haired companion beside him.

Pony nodded. "I think.. ."

"Do not think too much, lass," said Andacanavar. "Feel."

He came over then and pulled her out of the hole.

"Your road is back to Dundalis," the ranger remarked, "and fast, for a
storm will come up tonight, I am sure."

"And your own road? "

"Back to the east," the ranger replied.
"And the storm?"

"Not much of one for one from Alpinador," the ranger replied with a
laugh. "We'll find a difficult road, no doubt, but one that we can manage."

Pony stood and stared at the huge man for a long time, realizing then
that, though they had known each other for only a few days, she was going
to miss him very much. "You said that you would teach me," she argued.

"And so I have," the ranger replied. "You said that you think you saw
your lost lover, and that is better success than one can ever expect for their
first tries at Oracle. You'll get more tries, for I'll leave the mirror in place. It
will become easier-you will begin to teach yourself-and then you will
know, my friend. You will know that you are not alone, and that there is a
place of peace awaiting us after this life. And when you know that, truly,
and not just hope it, then you will be free."

Pony stared at him curiously, not really knowing what to make of him
and his promise.

The cynical part of her remained doubtful that even Oracle could take
her to such enlightenment, but another part of her, a very private and very
big part, prayed that he was right.

"The covering should be over that window, brother," Master Fio Bou-
raiy said when he came upon Francis in his room, staring out the window at
the western fields.

Francis turned about to face the master, his face a mask of pain. "To
keep out the cold? " he asked. "Or the sounds of the misery? "

"Both," Bou-raiy answered, his expression grim. He softened it, though,
and gave a sigh. "Will you not join us in the mass of celebration for the new
year? " he asked.

"For what will we pray?" Francis asked sincerely. "That the plague stays
outside our walls? "

"I've not the heart nor the time for your unending sarcasm, brother,"
Bou-raiy replied. "Father Abbot Agronguerre asked me to come and tell
you that we are soon to begin. Will you join us? "

Francis turned and looked back out the window. In the field beyond, he
saw the fires-meager fires, for they had little to burn. He saw the dark,
huddled silhouettes of the miserable victims moving about the encamp-
ment, the many makeshift tents set up in the mud and snow.

"No," he answered.

"This is a required mass," Master Bou-raiy reminded him. "I ask once
more, will you not join us? "

"No," Francis answered without hesitation, not bothering to turn to face
the man.

"Then you will answer to Father Abbot Agronguerre in the morning,"
Bou-raiy said, and he left the room.

"No," Francis said again. He considered the night, the last of God's
Year 829. He knew that the turn of the year was mostly a symbolic thing,
the imposition of a human calendar on God's universal clock. But he
understood, too, the need for such symbols, the inspiration that a man might
draw from them. The strength and resolve that a man might draw from
them.

Brother Francis Dellacourt, an Abellican master, walked out ofSt.-Mere-
Abelle that night, while the rest of the monastery sang in the mass in cele-
bration of the New Year. He pulled a donkey behind him, the beast laden
with mounds of blankets.

Across the frozen and long-dead tussie-mussie bed he went, into the
muddy field, into the cold wind blowing back off All Saints Bay.

Many curious gazes settled upon him, and then a woman came out of the
darkness to stand before him. Her face was half torn away, a mask of scars,
and she tilted her head, regarding him with her one remaining eye.

"Do ye reek o' the plague then? " Merry Cowsenfed asked.

Brother Francis came forward a step and fell to his knees before the
woman, taking her hand in his own and pressing it to his lips.

He had found his church.

She talked and chatted with him easily, bouncing her ideas off him, and
her fears; and though he never answered, Pony knew beyond doubt that
he was truly with her again, that there was a sentient, conscious spirit of
Elbryan out there, ready to help her sort out her feelings and her fears.

This was no trick of magic, she believed, no trick of imagination, and no
imparting of false hopes. This was Elbryan, her Elbryan, within the mirror,
looking at her, knowing her, and she him.

She found her strength there, though the world about her continued to
darken, because there, in that hollow beneath the elm, in that mirror, Jilse-
ponie Wyndon had found her church.
How easy it is for a person to overwhelm herself merely by
considering too big a picture. I have spent many, many months
despairing over my inability to find a balance between community and
self, fearing selfishness while becoming paralyzed by a world I know to
be too far beyond my, or anyone's, control.

What point was fighting the battle if the war could not, could never,
be won?

And in that confusion, compounded by the purest grief, I became
lost, a wandering, aimless person, searching for nothing more than
peace. That peace I found in Fellowship Way, with Bolster beside me,
and with Bradwarden's tunes and the ultimate serenity of the starry
sky to calm my nights.

But those are frozen moments, I have come to know, little pieces of
serenity in a storm of chaos. The world does not stop for the stars; the
errors of mankind continue, and the dangers of nature are ever present.
There is no end of turmoil, but far from a terrible thing, I have come to
see that turmoil-change-is what adds meaning.

My lament was that perfection of society was not attainable, and I
still hold by my words: There is no paradise in this existence for
creatures as complex as human beings. There is no perfect human
world bereft of strife and battle of one sort or another. I have not come
to see a different truth than that. I have not found some magical
remedy, some honest hope for paradise within the swirl of chaos.

Or perhaps 1 have.

In considering only the desired destination, I blinded myself to the
road; and there lies the truth, there lies the hope, there lies the
meaning. Since the end seemed unattainable, I believed the journey
futile, and there was my error-and one I will forgive myself because
of my fog of grief.

No one can make the world perfect. Not Nightbird. Not King
Danube. Not Father Abbot Agronguerre, nor father Abbot
Markwart-and I do believe that Markwart, in his misguided way,
tried to do just that-before him. No one, nor any one group, be it
Church or Crown. Perhaps the perfect king could bring about paradise
across the land-but for only a few short blinks in the rolling span of
time. Even the great heroes, Terranen Dinoniel, Avelyn Desbris, and
my own dear Nightbird, will fade in the fog of the ages, or their
memories will be perverted and warped to suit the needs of current
historians. Their message and their way will shine brightly, but briefly,
in the context of history, because we are fallible creatures, doomed to
forget and doomed to err.

Yet there is a point to it all. There is a meaning and a joy and a
hope. For while perfection is not attainable, the glory and the
satisfaction lie along the road.

And now I know, and perhaps this is the end of grief, that such a
journey is worth taking. If all that I can accomplish is the betterment
of a single day in the life of a single individual, then so be it. It is the
attempt to do what is right-the attempt to move myself and those
around me toward a better place-that is worth the sacrifice, however
great that sacrifice must be.

Yes, I have lost my innocence. I have lost so many dear to me. Every
day, I see the cairn ofElbryan. He was a ranger. He walked the road
toward paradise with his eyes wide open and his heart full of hope and
joy. He gave everything, his very life, trying to make the world a better
place.

futile?

Not to the people he saved. Not to the mothers and fathers who still
have their children because of him. Not to the people ofCaer Tinella,
who would have died in the forest at the hands of the goblins and
powries had it not been for Nightbird. And hadAvelyn not given his
life in destroying the physical manifestation of Bestesbulybar, then all
the world would be a darker place by far.

Perhaps this is the end of my grief, for now when I look upon the
grave ofElbryan, I know only calm. He is with me, every step of my
own road.

That road is out ofDundalis, I know, out of the hiding place called
Fellowship Way, to those places where I am needed most, whatever
the personal price.

Yes, I see the world clearly, with all its soiled corners, with all of its
cairns for buried heroes.

There is work yet to be done.

-JILSEPONIE WYNDON
CHAPTER 30
Fight On

Nothing but sickness and death," Belster O'Comely said with disgust, waving his hands and his bar rag about dramatically. He wasn't playing to any grand audience, though, for he and Pony were the only two in Fellowship Way at this early hour.
"What's in yer head, then?"
Pony looked at him, her face masked in the perfect expression of calm.
"It is my place now," she replied.

"Yer place?" Belster echoed. "Didn't ye spend all yer breath in pullin'
me up here? "

"And I did need to come up here," Pony tried to explain, though she
knew that the journey she had walked to get to this point was something
quite beyond her pragmatic friend. "And we have carved a good life out of
Dundalis."

"Then why leave?" Belster asked simply.

"I am needed in the south," Pony said, for about the tenth time that
morning.

Belster put on a contemplative expression and pose. "So-just so I'm
sortin' it out right-ye're wanting to come north when all the world's bright
in the south, and now ye're wantin' to go south, when the darkness of the
plague has swallowed the whole of it? " The portly man shook his head and
snorted. "Chasin' darkness, are ye, girl?"

Pony started to reply, but stopped, realizing that she had little to say
against that interpretation other actions. From Bolster's point of view, from
the point of view of anyone who had not walked her recent spiritual path, it
seemed that she was doing exactly that-chasing misery and darkness.

"Ye're goin' to get yerself sick and dead, is all," Belster finished, and he
wiped the rag hard across the bar.

Pony grabbed his arm and stared up at him, forcing him to look her
directly in the eye. "I might do just that," she said in all seriousness. "And I
might go down there and do no good at all for anybody. But-can you not
understand?-I have to try. I have been given this gift with the gemstones,
a gift that the Abellican brothers claim is a direct calling from God. Am I to
deny that? Am I to huddle with the hoarded gemstones while people
around me suffer and die? "

"That's what them monks do," Belster reminded.

"And they are wrong," Pony insisted.

"The gemstones won't fix the rosy plague," Bolster said. "Ye did try,
with Colleen and with others when ye were in Palmaris. Have ye forgotten
that already? "

"I will never forget," Pony grimly replied.

"Then why're ye pretendin' that ye don't know better?" Belster
demanded. "Ye fought the plague and it beat ye. Ye fought it again and it
beat ye again-and ye're not the first to wage this battle. Them monks, they
know the truth of it, and they admit the truth of it, and that's why they stay
behind their walls."

"No!" Pony interrupted. "They hide because they are afraid."

"Because they're smart."

"Afraid," Pony said again, firmly. "They hide because they have found
no answer and fear the consequences of trying. If Avelyn thought along
those same lines, would he have ever gone to Mount Aida after the demon
dactyl? If Nightbird thought along those same lines, would he have joined
me in my fight against Markwart? "

Belster started to respond, but Pony knew what was coming and cut him
short. "Yes, they are both dead," she said before he could. "But think of
what might have happened if they had not tried, if they had not gone
against their fears and won a battle that none believed they possibly could."

Belster gave a great sigh of surrender.

The door to Fellowship Way banged open then, for the first time that
morning, and a young man, Harley Oleman, crashed in, obviously agitated.

"It's here! It's here!" he cried. "The rosy plague's found us!"

Pony looked at Belster.

"Jonno Drinks," Harley Oleman explained. "Jonno Drinks' got the
rings!"

"Ye wanted yer fight," Belster said quietly to Pony. "Seems like it found
ye here."

Pony dropped her hand into her gem pouch and produced the deep gray
hematite, the soul stone, holding it up before Belster. "A fight that I am
more than ready to wage," she said determinedly. She headed for the door,
motioning for Harley Oleman to follow her.

"He should be put right out," Harley started to say, turning to plead with
Belster as he did, for it was perfectly obvious that Pony wouldn't be seeing
things quite that way.

Pony knew Jonno Drinks, though not well, but even if she didn't know
him at all, it wouldn't have been hard for her to figure out which cot-
tage belonged to him. A crowd had gathered outside the small shack, many
cursing and demanding that the man walk out of the house and out of
their town.

They quieted considerably when Pony came through their ranks, cast-
ing stern glances at each and every one. "Compassion is salvation," she
reminded them. "Woe to you if you get the plague and die, but all the more
woe to you if that happens after you have shown such cruelty to your
fellows."

And after the woman they held up as a great hero put them in their place,
Pony stunned them even more by striding right up to Jonno Drinks' door,
and after a sharp rap to let the sick man know she was coming, right into
the house.

She heard them before she closed the door behind her, some whispering
that she, too, would have to be forced out of town.

She ignored them. Her fight lay before her, not behind-with the rosy
plague and not with her fellow townsfolk.

She found Jonno Drinks in bed, feverish and with those same hollow,
pleading eyes that had faced her in Palmaris. She was surprised at how
advanced the plague already seemed in the man, and wondered if he had
been hiding it for a while-and feared the consequences to the rest of Dun-
dalis if that was the case.

"One battle at a time," she reminded herself, and she clutched the soul
stone tightly, bringing forth its magic to free her from her corporeal form,
and then spiritually diving right at the man.

An hour later, Pony sat on the floor beside Jonno Drinks' bed, thor-
oughly exhausted and sometimes slapping at her arms as if the little plague
creatures were all about her. For all of her determination and all of her
strength, she had done little to push back the plague in the man, she knew,
and had once again nearly been overwhelmed.

The worst part was that she had believed she was making some progress
at first, pushing through the green soup that was the plague, but then it had
come at her, and viciously, and only her great power with the soul stone
had kept the tiny demons at bay. A lesser gem user would have likely been
overwhelmed byJonno's disease.

And so she believed that she had survived another encounter, but for
Pony, that was hardly a victory.

She fell asleep right there, beside Jonno Drinks' bed.

She awoke many hours later, when the sun was low in the west. She felt
somewhat refreshed and turned back to Jonno, soul stone in hand, thinking
to do battle one more time.

She found the man resting comfortably, though, and decided against the
course. Let him sleep and let her gather even more strength before the next
fight. She must be better prepared for that fight, she realized; should find
some answers between now and then.
Pony pulled open the gemstone pouch and considered the myriad stones
in there, searching for a combination, searching for some answer that
would not come.

But then she thought of Elbryan and of Avelyn, of those heroes who had
gone before, and she thought she knew where she might get some answers.

She came out of the house swiftly, wanting to get to Oracle before night-
fall. The crowd was still there-nearly all the town now-waiting, waiting,
like the specter of death itself.

"He dead?" one man asked.

Pony shook her head. "We are fighting," she replied, and she noted that
every one of them fell back at her approach.

"He should be put out of town," another man, farther in back, remarked.

Pony stopped and glared in his direction. "Hear me well," she said, her
tone deathly cold. "If you, if any of you, think to harm Jonno Drinks, or
think to put him out of town, then I will hunt you down."

"Easy, girl," said Belster, coming forward through the mob and reaching
out to take Pony's arm.

But she pulled away from him forcefully. "I mean every word," she
warned. "Leave him be, in his house. Surround the place with flowers, if
that will bring you some measure of comfort, but do not harm him in any
way." The manner in which she spoke the words, so calmly, so determined,
combined with that prominent gem pouch and that marvelous sword
strapped on her hip, caused many a face to blanch. These people knew
Jilseponie and knew her well-well enough to fear her should they provoke
her wrath.

To heighten the effect, a moment later, powerful Symphony thundered
into town, galloping down the road.

Pony looked at the horse with awe-it was as if he had read her mind,
yet again, and had come rushing to her aid. She had to wonder how great
the connection between her and Symphony had become, how powerful
the magic of the turquoise set in the horse's breast truly might be.

Those were questions for another day. She grabbed Symphony by the
mane and leaped up, rolling into position atop him.

And off they went. Pony didn't even have to guide the horse, for hf
seemed to know her destination well. Before the sun went down, she wa;

at the grove, at the little hollow at the base of the elm, settling in to talk witi
the spirits.

She called to Elbryan, she called to Avelyn, but what she found instead
whether in her mind or in that other dimension she believed existed behim
the mirror, was an image of the world before the human kingdoms,
preternatural world of great beasts and exotic plants, of ragged clans c
men living under pine boughs or in caves: a world before the Abellica
Church, before civilization itself.
Before human civilization, for there were races far older than Man.

And there was something else, Pony realized as she examined that strange
sensation of times long past: the rosy plague. It was older than the king-
doms, older than the Church, older than mankind.

Perhaps the answer lay in the past, in those whose memories were longer
than the records of mankind.

Another image came to Pony then, but surely in her head, in her fairly
recent memories, when she and Elbryan had camped on the side of a moun-
tain in the west, staring down at an opaque veil of fog, with Andur'Blough
Inninness, the valley of the Touel'alfar, hidden beyond it.

Later that night, back in her room at Fellowship Way in Dundalis, Pony
went into the soul stone again, with all her strength-not to attack Jonno's
plague this time, but to fly out across the miles, to the west, to the elves.

In mere minutes, she came to mountain passes she had walked once
before, with Elbryan. Had she been walking now, she realized, she never
would have found the specific trails to the well-hidden elven valley, but in
her spiritual form, she was able to soar up past the peaks, getting a wide
view of mountains majestic. Still, it took Pony a long, long time to sort out
that maze of mountains, to find, nestled in one wide vale, a familiar opaque
blanket of magical fog.

She went down to the mountain slope above that blanket and paused.
She knew that the elves had set an enchantment upon the place to prevent
unwanted visitors-and anyone who was n'Touel'alfar was considered
an unwanted visitor!-but she had no idea if their magical wards extended
into the realm of the spirit. She spent a long time studying that veil, and she
did indeed sense danger there, even for her in this form.

Perhaps she could flow through the mountain, she thought, down
through cracks in the stone that would bring her into the elven valley
underneath the poisoned carpet of fog. She studied the rock beneath her,
picking her path. Then she stopped abruptly, shifting her attention; for
there, rising out of the fog, was the most beautiful creature she had ever
seen, an elven woman with golden eyes and golden hair, with features
angular yet soft, and perfectly symmetrical. She was dressed in flowing
robes of the palest green, trimmed with golden lace, and a crown of thorns
adorned her forehead. Pony knew before a word was spoken that this was
Lady Dasslerond standing before her.

The elf held up her hand, and Pony saw the sparkle of a green gem within,
and then she felt the waves of magic rolling over her spirit and body, as if the
miles themselves were somehow contracting to bring her wholly to this
place.

Pony knew that she could resist that magic, could fight back, and her
instincts almost led her to do just that. But she held back and trusted in the
fair Lady of Caer'alfar.
A strange sensation washed over Pony, and she felt as if she were
corporeal again-corporeal and standing on the slope just above the elven
valley, hundreds of miles from Dundalis.

"I would have been disappointed it you did not seek us out," Lady
Dasslerond remarked. "And I have been disappointed in you before, Jilse-
ponieWyndon."

The words caught Pony off guard, and she looked at the elf curiously.

"Your actions in Palmaris were not unknown to me," Dasslerond went
on. "I am not fond of assassins."

Pony knew then that the elf had to be talking about her attempt on
Markwart's life, a shot with the lodestone from a rooftop far away.

"Better for all the world if I had succeeded, then," Pony replied without
hesitation.

"But better for Jilseponie? "

"Better for Nightbird!" Pony retorted, and that seemed to set Dasslerond
back on her pretty little heels a bit.

The elf paused, then nodded. "I expect much from one who has learned
bi'nelle dasada," she said.

"I understand my responsibilities," Pony replied. "The sword dance will
not be shared with anyone."

"So Belli'mar Juraviel has told me, and so I believe," Dasslerond said.

"But I did not come to you to speak of the sword dance," Pony went on,
feeling the tug of her magic and fearing that exhaustion would overtake her
and send her careening back to Dundalis-if that's where her physical form
remained. "Our lands are thick with a disease, the rosy plague."

"This is known to me."

"You and your people have battled this disease before," Pony reasoned,
"or at least, you have watched the humans battle against it."

Dasslerond nodded.

"Then tell me how to fight it," Pony pleaded hopefully. "Show me the
wisdom of the ages, that I might bring some hope to a world grown dark!"

Dasslerond's expression dropped, and with it, Pony's hopes. "That wisdom
is already known to the Abellican brothers and to your King," she explained.

"To hide?"

"Indeed."

"As you and your people will hide? "

"Indeed," said the lady of Caer'alfar. "This plague is the affair of
humans, and we intend to keep it that way." Pony's expression hardened
into a sneer, but Dasslerond continued undeterred. "We are not numer
ous," she explained, "nor do we procreate quickly. If the rosy plague tounc
us in our home, it could destroy all that is left of the Touel'alfar. I canno
take that chance, whatever the cost to the humans."

Pony bit her lip-and felt the physical sensation as it she were indee
corporeal.
"This I will give you, and only this," Dasslerond went on, and she
reached her other hand out from within her robes, showing a parchment to
Pony. She let go of the parchment and gave a gentle puff, and it floated
across the expanse on magical winds into Pony's waiting hands.

"A poultice and a syrup," the lady of Caer'alfar explained. "They will not
cure the plague-nothing that I know of in all the world will do that-but
they will bring some relief to, and extend the life of, those afflicted."

Pony glanced down at the parchment, recognizing some names of herbs
and other plants. "Why were these mixtures not known before? " she asked.

"They were," Dasslerond replied, "in the time of the last plague. The
memory of Man is not long, I fear."

Pony glanced down at the parchment again, not knowing if it would
return with her to Dundalis and wanting to remember well the recipes.

"That is all I can do," Lady Dasslerond said suddenly, drawing Pony's
attention back. "You must now leave from this place. Perhaps we will sur-
vive this time, and if so, then perhaps we will meet again. Farewell, Jilse-
ponie Wyndon." And she held up her hand and that sparkling emerald
gemstone.

Pony held up her hand, as well, trying to make the lady pause long
enough for her to commit the recipes to memory; but then, suddenly, she
felt the waves of emerald magic and she was flying, flying, across the miles,
soaring faster than the wind out of the mountains, away from Lady
Dasslerond's secret domain and back to her own room in Fellowship Way
in Dundalis.

She was there for just a moment, in body and in spirit, and then, over-
whelmed by magical exhaustion, as if Dasslerond had somehow tapped into
her own energies to bring about the more complete physical teleportation,
she collapsed into unconsciousness.

Belli'mar Juraviel was waiting for Lady Dasslerond just beneath the
opaque veil of mist. He nodded his approval and his thanks, for in truth, he
had little idea of how sternly Dasslerond would treat their uninvited guest.

"You wanted to tell her," he remarked slyly.

Dasslerond fixed him with a puzzled expression.

"About her child," Juraviel said with a hopeful smile.

But that grin could not survive Dasslerond's ensuing glower. "Not at
all," the lady said determinedly, and Juraviel knew that his hopes and his
guess were misplaced.

"She has no child," Lady Dasslerond added; and she walked past, back
down to the world of the Touel'alfar.

Belli'mar Juraviel stood on the mountain slope for a long, long while,
wounded by the unyielding coldness of his lady. He had thought that he
had found a chink in her armor, a weak link in her great coat woven of
duty; but he knew now that he was wrong.
He thought of the young ranger in training, Aydrian, and wondered if
the boy would ever know the truth of his mother or that she was still very
much alive.

"Aydrian," Juraviel said aloud, an elvish title that meant "lord of the
skies," or "eagle." Lady Dasslerond had allowed Juraviel finally to name the
boy, and had approved of his lofty choice wholeheartedly-yet another
signal to Juraviel that Lady Dasslerond thought this young lad could aspire
to the epitome of the profession, could become the perfect ranger. Only
one other ranger in the history of the training had been given the title
Aydrian, the very first ranger ever trained in Andur'Blough Inninness.

That ranger had gone on to live a long, though fairly uneventful, life; and
since that time, no one had ever presumed to give the name to another
young trainee.

But this one was different. Very different and very special.

Juraviel just wished that Dasslerond would involve Jilseponie with the
lad, for her sake and, more important, for the sake of the child.

When Pony awoke, she found, to her relief, that it had not all been a
dream; for in her hand she held the parchment given her by Lad;

Dasslerond. She didn't understand the magic that had worked the physica
transportation of her corporeal body-or at least some of it-and then o
the parchment.

But that was a question for another day, for a day when the rosy plagu
was beaten. She still had no solution, no cure, but at least she had a weapo;

now. She looked down at the parchment and nodded her relief to find ths
neither the poultice nor the syrup required any ingredients that could nc
be readily found. It also struck her that many of the ingredients wei
flowers, including many of those commonly found in the monks' tussti
mussie beds. Perhaps there was something to those old tales of posies ar
the like.

Armed with her parchment, Pony rushed downstairs, to find that it w
morning again, and late morning at that.

"I thought ye'd sleep the whole of the day away," Belster remarked, ai
the grim edge to his voice told Pony of his deeper fears: that this time, t
rosy plague had caught her.

"Gather your friends," Pony said, scampering over to the bar and placi
the parchment before the startled innkeeper. "We need to collect all th<
things and put them together quickly."

"Where'dyegetthis?"

"From a friend," Pony replied, "one who visited me in the night, and (
we can trust."

Belster looked down at the beautiful script on the page, and, though
could barely read, the delicate lines of calligraphy certainly gave him sc
indication of who that nighttime visitor might have been.
"Will it work? "he asked.

"It will help," Pony answered. "Now be off and be quick. And find one
who can scribe copies, that we might send them to the south!"

Later that same afternoon, Pony knelt beside the bed of Jonno Drinks.
She had lathered his emaciated, racked body with the poultice and had
spooned several large doses of the syrup into him. And now she had
her soul stone in hand, ready to go in and do battle with her newest allies
beside her.

She found the plague waiting for her, like some crouched demon,
wounded by the elven medicines. But that wound only seemed to make the
tiny plague demons even more vicious in their counterattack, and Pony
soon found herself slouched on the floor, overwhelmed and exhausted.

Jonno Drinks was resting more comfortably, it seemed, but Pony knew
that she had done little to defeat the plague, that she and her elven-made
allies might have bought the poor man a little comfort and a little time, but
nothing more.

Still, she went at the plague again the next day, and the next after that,
fighting with all her strength, again trying various gemstone combinations.

Jonno Drinks was dead within the week, leaving Pony frustrated and
feeling very small indeed.
CHAPTER 31
Saving Potential Saints

Abbot Braumin's eyes widened when his door swung open and
Timian Tetrafel, Duke of the Wilderlands, Baron of Palmaris,

stormed in, a very agitated Brother Talumus right on his heels.

"I tried to keep him out," Talumus started to explain.

"Keep me out indeed!" Tetrafel boomed. "I will raze your walls if ever I
find the doors closed to me again."

"The abbey is closed," Abbot Braumin said, working hard to make his
tone calm, to show complete control here.

"And the streets are full of dying people!" Tetrafel yelled at him.

"That is why the abbey is closed," Braumin replied, "as should be
Chasewind Manor-none to enter and none to leave."

"I am watching my city die about me," Tetrafel fumed, "and I have had
to expel several servants and soldiers from my own house these last three
weeks! It will catch us in our holes, I say!"

"A situation more likely if we come out of those holes," said Abbot
Braumin, "or allow others in."

"Are you not hearing me? " the Duke cried. "The rosy plague has entered
my house."

Abbot Braumin stared long and hard at the man, trying to be sympa-
thetic but also holding fast to his pragmatism. "You should not have come
here," he said. "And you, Brother Talumus, should not have let him in."

"He had an army with him," Talumus protested. "They said that-"

"That we would tear down your doors," Tetrafel finished for him. "And
so we would have done just that. Thrown St. Precious open wide for the
masses to come in." He walked over to the room's one window and tore
the curtain aside. "Can you not see them down there, Abbot Braumin?" he
asked. "Can you not hear their misery? "

"Every groan," replied Braumin, in all seriousness and with not a hint of
sarcasm in his words.

"They are afraid," said Tetrafel, calming a bit. "Those who are not
afflicted fear that they soon will be, and those who are . . . they have
nothing to lose."

Braumin nodded.

"There are fights all around the city," the Duke went on. "Those few
ships that do come in cannot find anyone to help unload their cargoes. The
farmers who come in with crops find themselves assaulted almost as soon as
they pass through the city gates, the mobs of miserable, helpless victims
fighting for food they can no longer afford to buy."

Abbot Braumin listened carefully, understanding then the fears that had
brought Tetrafel so forcefully, and so unexpectedly, to St. Precious. The
plague continued to intensify in Palmaris, ravaging the city; and Tetrafel
was afraid, and rightly so, that the city could explode into rioting and
mayhem. Braumin had heard rumors that the city guardsmen were not
overfond of their new ruler, and no doubt Tetrafel was having trouble con-
trolling them. Thus Duke Tetrafel, coming into St. Precious with such fire
and self-righteousness, was in fact guided by simple desperation. The city
had to be put in line or suffer even worse, and Tetrafel was afraid that he
could not rely on the soldiers to carry out his orders.

"All that you say is already known to me," Braumin said, after Tetrafel
finished his long rant.

"Well, what then do you intend to do about it?" the Duke asked.

Braumin put on a puzzled expression. "I?" he asked.

"Are you not the abbot of St. Precious? "

"Indeed, and as such, I am not the magistrate in control of Palmaris'
streets," Braumin replied. "That is your jurisdiction, Duke Tetrafel, and so
I suggest that you put your soldiers to work quickly. As for me and my
brethren, we will continue our course, offering masses from the walls."

"And hiding behind the walls," Tetrafel muttered sarcastically.

Braumin let the remark pass. "We are the guardians of the spirit, not of
the body," the abbot went on. "We have no power over the rosy plague;

and the best that we can do is lend comfort-from a safe distance, yes-to
those afflicted. To ease their passage from this life."

Tetrafel stuttered over several intended replies, and wound up throwing
his hands up in disgust. "The healers of the world!" he cried, storming out
of the room.

Abbot Braumin motioned for Talumus to close the door behind the
departing Duke. "I am sorry, abbot," Talumus explained. "I would not
have allowed him admittance, but I feared that his soldiers would take
down the gates."

Braumin was nodding and patting the air comfortingly. "Find Viscenti
and Castinagis," he instructed. "Work with them to triple the watches at
the front gates. If Duke Tetrafel returns, deny him admittance."

"And his soldiers? "

"Keep them out," Abbot Braumin said grimly, "by whatever means
necessary. By lightning stroke and fireball, by crossbow quarrel and hot oil.
Keep them out. St. Precious is not to be violated again, at any cost."

Talumus stood as if struck for a long while, staring wide-eyed at Braumin-
and Braumin knew that it was as much his tone as his words that had so
caught the young man off guard. But this was not the time for squeamish-
ness, Braumin knew, not the time for weakening convictions. Their duty in
a time of the rosy plague was simply to survive, to hold the secrets and
teaching of their faith secure for the world when the darkness at last lifted.

Still, he saw them now, with the curtain torn away from his window: the
miserable wretches huddled and shivering, though the day was warm.

For kindhearted Abbot Braumin Herde, the sight nearly broke him.

The young monk came out of St.-Mere-Abelle solemnly, the walk of the
dead. He carried a large pack, stuffed with food and other supplies, but
the parting gift of the Abellican brothers to this poor, frightened, plague-
infested young man hardly seemed to suffice.

As he had been ordered, he crossed the tussie-mussie bed; and as soon as
he did, the other plague victims knew that he, too, had become one of
them. They came to him and crowded about, as much to see what he had in
his pack as to offer their sympathy.

That craven desperation only made the poor young monk even more
upset, and he pushed people away and cried out.

And then one peasant woman with half her face torn away approached
him, and her smile was too genuine and too comforting for the monk to
mistrust her. She took his hand in her own, patted it and kissed it gently,
then led him through the gathering.

He saw a fellow brother then, though he hardly recognized Master
Francis, with his beard and long, dirty hair. Francis recognized him, how-
ever, and he patted the young brother on the shoulder. "I will come to you
this very night," he promised, and he showed the young brother a soul
stone. "Perhaps together we can banish the plague from your body."

Glad that his frightened brother was calmed somewhat by the pledge,
Francis patted him again on the shoulder and nodded to Merry Cowsenfed,
who led the monk away.

Francis had other matters to attend at that time, but when he glanced
back toward the abbey, he saw a vision he could not resist, a one-armed
monk dressed in a robe of flowers, standing just inside the alcove before
St.-Mere-Abelle's great gates, on the safe side of the tussie-mussie bed.

"Begone, beggar," Fio Bou-raiy said when Francis came over to face him
across the flower bed.

"How far the mighty have fallen, then," Francis replied, and a flicker of
recognition crossed Master Bou-raiy's face at the sound of that familiar
voice. Bou-raiy moved closer to the tussie-mussie bed and peered intently at
the hunched figure across the way, wearing still the robes of an Abellican
monk, though they, too, like Francis, had weathered the winter and spring
badly.

"Still alive? " Bou-raiy asked with a snicker.

"That, or I am the specter of death come to warn you of the conse-
quences of your cowardice," Francis replied sarcastically.

"I would have thought that the plague had taken you by now," Bou-raiy
went on, seemingly unperturbed by Francis' unyielding sarcasm. "Any little
rings about your body, Master Francis?"

"None," Francis answered defiantly. "But if the plague does find me,
then I know it to be God's will."

"A fool's consequence, more likely," Bou-raiy interrupted.

Francis paused, then nodded, conceding the point. "I have saved one
already," he replied. "My life for the reward of another's life."

"The life of an Abellican master for the life of a lowly peasant," Bou-raiy
retorted, obviously unimpressed.

"Perhaps I will save even more," Francis went on, and he held up the
soul stone.

"You are ahead of the odds already," Bou-raiy replied. "One in twenty,
brother, and one in seven will poison you."

"I have treated scores," Francis stated.

"And saved only one? "

"Too many are far too advanced in the plague when they arrive," Francis
tried to explain, though he wondered why he even bothered trying to reach
this stubborn brother.

"And what of Brother Gellis?" Master Bou-raiy asked, motioning in the
direction where the newest addition to the plague camp had gone. "First
signs. Can Francis the hero save him?"

Francis shrugged calmly.

"And what of the other three monks who have left St.-Mere-Abelle?"
Bou-raiy asked slyly, for he knew well enough their fate.

Francis had no answer. Indeed, three other plague-afflicted brothers had
come out of the barricaded abbey, and all three had died within two weeks.
Francis had tried to save them, had worked with them, joining their spirits
within the magic of the hematite, but to no avail.

"It would seem that you have survived longer than the old poems pre-
dict," Master Bou-raiy conceded, "but also have you failed to heal as many
as the old poems predict. Perhaps you are not going at this task with all
your heart, brother."

Francis just glared at him.

"Father Abbot Agronguerre would allow you to return to us," Bou-raiy
then said, taking Francis by complete surprise. "Of course, you would have
to spend a week within the gatehouse, secluded, and that even after several
brothers had probed your spirit with soul stones. But if you remain plague
free, then you will be back in the fold, brother, back to your position of
master, and none will judge your indiscretions."

Now Francis stared at the man incredulously, wondering why Bou-raiy
would even relay such an invitation. Surely Bou-raiy would be happier if
Francis dropped dead of the plague there and then!

But when he thought more carefully about it all, Francis understood the
master's seeming enthusiasm about his possible return, and suspected
that Bou-raiy might even have suggested the invitation to Father Abbot
Agronguerre. Because if Francis gave up his mission and walked back into
St.-Mere-Abelle, he would be bolstering the Church canon concerning the
plague, would be admitting that this enemy was far beyond the power of
the monks and their gemstones even to be faced.

Hadn't the former Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart used those same
tactics against his enemies? Against Jojonah and his followers? Hadn't
Markwart, in fact, offered that same sweet honey-forgiveness, even redemp-
tion, back in the Abellican fold-to hold Francis to his side after Francis
had inadvertently killed Grady Chilichunk on the road from Palmaris?

"Do you see that woman? " Francis asked, pointing across the field to a
woman walking with a limp and a stooped back and carrying two pails for
water. "Her name is Merry Cowsenfed," Francis explained. "She came
from Falidean town, far to the south, by way of St. Gwendolyn. She, too, is
scarred with the rings of the rosy plague, but Abbess Delenia went to her
and healed her."

"And Abbess Delenia is now dead," Bou-raiy reminded him. "And St.
Gwendolyn is a mere shell, being run by but a handful of minor sisters."

"But they tried," Francis explained emphatically. "And because Abbess
Delenia had the heart to try, Merry Cowsenfed is alive. Now, you will argue
that her life is not worth that of a single Abellican, let alone an abbess, but
look at her! Watch her every move! The woman, this peasant that you
would so easily disclaim and allow to die, is beatified by her every action. A
hundred years hence, there may well be a new saint, Saint Merry, who
would have died unnoticed had not Abbess Delenia tried. You cannot
place value upon people because of their temporary station in life, brother.
That is your error, the arrogance that allows you to justify your decision to
hide behind thick stone walls."

Master Fio Bou-raiy stared long and hard at Merry Cowsenfed as she
made her slow, deliberate way across the field. Then he turned back to
Francis; and for a moment, just a split second, Francis thought that he had
gotten through to the stubborn man. But then Bou-raiy snorted and waved
his hand, and whirled about, his flower-sewn robes flying wide.

Francis just put his head down and walked back out to his people. As he
had promised, he went to the newest addition to the plague camp, the
exiled young Brother Gellis, that very night, and together, they fiercely bat-
tled the rosy plague within the monk.

For only the second time in the few months Francis had been outside, he
believed that he was making strong progress against the disease, but then,
one morning, Gellis awoke with a scream, his body racked by fever.

He died that same afternoon.

Francis walked with the bearers as they carried his emaciated body to the
pyre for burning. He noted that his fellow monks were watching that pro-
cession from St.-Mere-Abelle's wall, prominent among them Fio Bou-raiy,
with his flowered robe and his grim expression.

He and Francis locked stares from across the distance for just a moment,
but it was not a harmonious joining of mind and spirit.
CHAPTER 32
Safeguarding

It felt so good to have the wind on her face again-not the limited
breeze that whistled through Castle Ursal's windows, but the wide
and strong wind, blowing across the fields, bending trees and grass,
carrying the scents of the summertime flowers.

Constance Pemblebury urged her horse on even faster, a full gallop,
despite the cries of protest from Danube and Kalas behind her. She needed
this moment, this brief, too-brief escape from the grim realities of the
rosy plague. King Danube had arranged it, had cleared a wide path to
the gardens, lining them with vigilant Allheart knights so that he and
his two friends could at last enjoy a morning outside the castle, out of
sight and sound of any of the miserable plague victims. Danube had
hoped that Merwick and Torrence would accompany them as well-he
had even rigged a seat to put behind Constance's saddle for Torrence-
but Constance, though more than ready to take this chance for herself, would
in no way allow her children out of the relative safety of the castle.

Constance felt her hair waving out behind her, felt as if she had escaped
the very bonds of Corona itself. But then she had to slow, for she was
approaching the far end of the rectangular garden, Allheart knights were
warning her back, and Danube and Kalas were calling out to her.

She brought her horse to a trot and heard the approach of the two horses
behind her. It was easy enough for her to turn in her sidesaddle and glance
back at the King and Duke, and she did so with a wistful and mischievous
smile. "Why haven't we done this a thousand times?" she asked.

Before either of the two men could answer, though, there came a tumult
from the other direction, from the near end of the garden; and all three
looked to see a mob of peasants bursting through the Allheart ranks, crying
out for their king.

"Ye must save us!" It started as a plea.

"Where's our God? Why's he not hearing ye, me King? " Then the voices
rolled in together, as if the whole mob had taken on a single heart and
voice. From begging to questioning to, at last, and predictably, anger.

"Ye've abandoned us! Ye're lettin' us rot!"

The Allheart knights rushed around on their horses, trying to stem the
tide; and under normal circumstances, they would have easily controlled
the ragtag peasants. But nothing was ordinary about this scene-for the
mob was too wild and uncontrolled, for these were people with absolutely
nothing left to lose: people who would even, at some basic level, prefer the
lance of an Allheart knight now compared to the slow and agonizing death
they were facing. Also, the knights themselves didn't attack with vigor, for
they understood that these were plague victims, walking poison. To strike
one was to wear the blood of one; and then even a noble Allheart knight
could find himself on the other side of this line.

"Run him again, and swiftly!" Duke Kalas called to Constance. Before
the stunned and emotionally wounded King Danube could begin to react,
quick-thinking Kalas grabbed the King's horse's bridle and pulled the beast
in a turn with his own, then reached back and swatted Danube's horse a
sharp crack on the rump.

Off they flew, all three, running fast for the southern gate of Castle Ursal,
leaving the mob behind, and approaching, Danube saw to his dismay, a line
of archers preparing their deadly volley.

" Bobbed arrows alone!" he commanded, referring to the practice, head-
less arrows the archers often used in Castle Ursal's wide courtyard.

" But, my King-" the leader of the brigade began to protest. Danube
shot him such a scowl that the words stuck in his throat.

Satisfied that the brigade would do as he commanded, Danube thun-
dered away for the southern gate, urging his horse into a rough lope and
running purposely on the cobblestones now, the sound of the hooves
drowning out plaintive and angry cries from the field behind.

An upset and dejected Danube sat on his throne later that day, his hands
out before his face, fingers tapping.

"Only a handful were seriously injured," remarked Duke Kalas, sitting
next to him. "Only one peasant was killed."

"Your AUhearts performed with their usual brilliance," Danube offered,
but that recognition hardly seemed to brighten his mood. "Though I fear
we'll not know the full extent of the disaster until weeks have passed," he
added, a clear reference to the fact that several of those Allheart knights
might have become exposed to the rosy plague in the riot.

And all of it, both men understood too clearly, was due to the fact that
the King merely wanted a day out in the sunshine, a day out of the tomb
that Castle Ursal had become.

"We should be looking to the greater fortune of the day," said Con-
stance, standing a short distance away. Behind her, Merwick and Torrence
played in the bliss of youthful ignorance, making toys out of relics, smudg-
ing priceless tapestries, laughing and crying with equally fervent pas-
sion. "Had we not reacted as swiftly as we did, it is possible that all
three of us would have found ourselves in the midst of the plague-
ridden."

"They would not have unhorsed us," Duke Kalas said with a fierce and
determined look.

"Would they have had to? " Constance answered. "Or would the King of
Honce-the-Bear soon be facing the same executioner as they? "

It was true enough, and no one had an answer against it. The plague vic-
tims had come close to the King himself, far too close.

"We will not be able to do such a thing again," Danube announced.
Kalas, whose stress had grown with each passing day, scowled all the more.
"We were foolish even to go out there at this time."

"The plague has never been thicker about Ursal's streets," Duke Kalas
admitted grimly.

"And whether we take chances or not, there remains the possibility of its
finding a way into our house," Constance added. Both Kalas and Danube
eyed her curiously, for her tone showed that her statement was leading to
something more.

"These are dangerous times," she said, moving closer, but pointedly
glancing back at her two children as she did, "more dangerous to the
Throne of the kingdom, I would argue, than ever was the dactyl or its evil
minions."

King Danube nodded, but wasn't so certain of that. Of course, he had
never shared the little secret of Father Abbot Markwart's vengeful spirit
making several threatening visits to his private bedchambers. On the sur-
face though, and except for that one point, Constance's argument was well
taken. The dactyl's war, for all its terror and trouble, never got anywhere
near Ursal, but remained in the northern reaches of the kingdom.

The plague, on the other hand, loomed all about Castle Ursal's walls.

"I am not certain that this latest plague is not another manifestation oi
the dactyl's evil minions," King Danube did argue.

"For all of our cautions," Constance went on, "for all the soldiers lining
the walls, and for all the thickness of those walls themselves, we cannoi
guarantee that the plague will not find us, any of us. And if it does, even if i
is you, my King, then all the monks in all the world will likely prove useles;

against its workings."

Duke Kalas snorted loudly at that statement, for he had long ago deter
mined the Abellican monks to be useless against any sort of illness. Was i
not a disease, after all, and one far less powerful than the rosy plague, tha
had killed young Queen Vivian? And that right before the eyes of Abbo
Je'howith?
"I thank you for the cheerful warning," Danube said dryly. "But in all
truth, Constance, this danger has been known to us since the beginning."

"Then why have you taken no steps to solidify the kingdom in its event? "
the woman bluntly asked.

A puzzled King Danube stared at her.

"Merwick and Torrence," Duke Kalas said quietly, catching on, and
before King Danube could pick up on that, he went on. "The line of succes-
sion is already in place. Have you forgotten Prince Midalis of Vanguard? "

"We do not even know if my brother is alive," Danube admitted before
Constance could reply. "We have had no word from Vanguard in many
months."

"Surely if he had fallen, then word would have been passed south," Kalas
argued.

Danube nodded. "Probably," he admitted, "but we cannot be certain,
nor can we be certain that my brother is not now lying feverish in a bed,
heavy with plague."

Kalas sighed.

"It is the truth, if an unpleasant one," King Danube added, then he
turned to Constance. "What solution do you see?" he asked, though it was
obvious to him and to Kalas what she was hinting at.

Constance eyed the King directly, then turned her gaze, taking his with
her, toward her-toward their-two children.

Duke Kalas gave a laugh. "How fortunate," he muttered sarcastically.

But King Danube wasn't seeing things that way at all. "How fortunate
indeed," he echoed, but in a very different tone. "And our experience this
day reminded me of how fragile is our existence." He rose from his chair
and walked deliberately toward Constance. "You are my witness in this,
Duke Kalas," he said solemnly.

"Yes, my King," came the obedient answer, for even stubborn Kalas
knew when he could not push the boundaries with his friend.

"In the event of my death, the throne passes to my brother, Prince Midalis
of Vanguard," Danube said formally. "In the event that Prince Midalis is
unable to ascend the throne, then Merwick, son of Constance, son of King
Danube Brock Ursal, shall be crowned King of Honce-the-Bear, and a
regent shall be appointed from the dukes of the land to oversee the kingdom
until he is old enough and trained enough to assume the responsibilities of
the Throne.

"Beyond Merwick, the title and claim lie with young Torrence, again
under the tutelage of a properly appointed regent. And I should like you,
my friend Kalas, to serve as that regent if you are able."

Constance beamed but said nothing; nor did Duke Kalas, who wore
a very different expression, somewhat of a cross between amusement and
disgust.
"Go and fetch the royal scribe," Danube instructed Constance, "and the
abbot of St. Honce and any of the other noblemen who are about the castle.
We will make this proclamation again, in full witness and with all the
propriety demanded of such a solemn occasion."

Constance was gone in the blink of an eye.

"I hope she made you as happy in the moment of conceiving the children
as you made her now," Duke Kalas remarked. Danube turned a dangerous
stare on him, warning him that he might again be crossing the very thin line
that separated the words of a friend to a friend from the words of a Duke to
his King.

"I am weary of the road, my friend," Prince Midalis told Andacanavar as
the two at last came into the more familiar reaches of Vanguard, nearing
home. "I do not understand how you can live such a nomadic life."

"It is the way of my people," Andacanavar explained. "We move to
follow the caribou herds and the elk, to escape winter's bite in the far north
and summer's plague of insects in the south."

Midalis nodded and smiled, obviously unconvinced of the benefits of
such a life.

"This road was more lonely than most," the ranger went on. "Few con-
tacts, out of necessity. Trust me, my friend, you will enjoy another such
journey someday, after the plague has passed, when we can dine with the
farmers along the road or speak with the hardy woodsmen of the Timber-
lands across a tavern table."

"And perhaps we shall do just that," said Midalis. "But for now, I am
glad to be home."

Soon after, the pair came in sight of St. Belfour, walking their mounts
along the trail climbing to the lea that lay before the abbey.

And then they saw them, the refugees, strewn across the lawn before
St. Belfour, Miserable, plague-ridden wretches, many near death.

The rosy plague had beaten Prince Midalis back to his homeland.

"Would that I was born with a womb," Duke Kalas snickered as Con-
stance walked by him later that night in a torch-lit corridor in Castle Ursal,
"and all the charms to catch a nobleman's fancy."

Constance glared at him, but he relieved the tension with a burst of
laughter. "I blame you hot at all," Kalas went on.

"And I do not appreciate your sarcasm," she coldly replied. "Can you
deny the responsibility of my decision? Would you have Honce-the-Bear
without a proper line of succession should King Danube die? "

Kalas laughed again. "Pragmatism? Or personal gain?"

"Can they not be one and the same? "

"I am not angry with you, dear Constance," the Duke explained.
"Jealous, perhaps, and filled with admiration. I believe that you became
Pregnant by King Danube deliberately, both times. You conceived Mer-
wick on the barge south from Palmaris, when you knew that another
woman had caught Danube's oft-wandering eye." He noted that Constance
did wince a bit at the reference to Jilseponie. "And so you struck your love
coup, and brilliantly, and you have patiently awaited the time to gain the
declaration that you hold so dear."

Constance stood, steel jawed, staring at him, not blinking.

"You used those tools and weapons available to you to insinuate yourself
into the royal line," Duke Kalas stated bluntly, and he gave a great bow and
swept his arm out wide. He staggered a bit as he did, and only then did
Constance catch on that the man might have indulged himself with a few
potent drinks.

She started to comment on that, but stopped herself. How could she
judge Kalas at this unsettling time, after the terrifying incident in the
garden? In truth, Constance, too, would have liked to spend that night
curled up with a bottle!

"You can think whatever you wish of me," she said instead calmly, "but I
do love him-"

"You always have," Duke Kalas replied. "And do not misunderstand me,
for I'll say nothing to King Danube to change his mind or his course, nor do
I consider that course ill for Honce-the-Bear."

"You judge me," Constance accused, "but I do love him, with all of my
heart."

"And he?"

Constance looked away, then shook her head. "He does not love me,"
she admitted. "He'll not even share my bed any longer, though he pro-
claims that we remain friends-and indeed, he treats me well."

"He asked you to ride today," Duke Kalas said, and his voice took on a
different, sympathetic tone.

"Danube has always held me dear as a friend," Constance said. "But he
does not love me. Never that. He loves the memory of Vivian. He loves ..."

"That woman," Kalas finished, his voice low. "The hero."

His obvious enmity surprised Constance. She was no friend of Jilseponie
Wyndon's, of course, but it seemed from Duke Kalas' tone that he cared
for the woman even less than she. Wounded pride, Constance figured, for
hadn't Jilseponie refused his advances in Palmaris?

But then Kalas surprised her even more.

"Pity the kingdom if King Danube finds his love," he said.

Constance stared at him curiously,

"The marriage of Church and Crown," Kalas said dryly, "the end of the
world."

"If you feel that way, then it is good that you do not oppose me," Con-
stance said after a long and considering pause. She gave a little snicker and
started away.
"A pity that you have no connections in Vanguard," came Kalas' voice
behind her, and she stopped and turned on him suspiciously. "Else you
could eliminate the last barrier to your glory."

Duke Kalas bowed again and wisely ran away.

His remark had been said in jest, Constance knew, but still, she could
not help but retrace the actions that had brought her to this point. She
was not without guilt, but that was only a minor twinge against the reality of
her current situation. The kingdom was better off for her deliberate course,
and now Constance had insinuated her bloodline, her children, into the
royal line. Even if neither of her sons actually got to the throne, their chil-
dren would remain in the line of ascent, and so on throughout the coming
generations.

One day in the future, near or far, Constance Pemblebury would be
remembered as the Queen Mother of Honce-the-Bear.
CHAPTER 33
The Abandoned Flock

He looked at his lover and blamed himself. There was no avoiding it. Dainsey had wanted to come back to Palmaris for a visit-the plague had arrived in all force in Caer Tinella, anyway-but Roger had argued against the course.

But he hadn't argued strenuously enough, and the two had traveled
south. Now, less than a month later, Dainsey stood beside him on wobbly
legs, her eyes sunken and listless, her brow beaded with the sweat of a fever,
her body marked by rosy splotches ringed in white-though Roger had
taken great pains to cover the woman enough to hide those telltale marks
before venturing here to St. Precious.

Still, it would not be enough, he knew, to get them through the gate-
house. They had been admitted over the tussie-mussie bed immediately, for
Abbot Braumin's invitation to them remained in force. However, inside the
gatehouse came a second test, where several monks, trained with soul
stones, sent out their spirits to inspect any who would cross into the abbey.

With that uncomfortable scrutiny ended, Roger now could only wait
and hope.

The minutes stretched on and on, and Roger understood that if the
monks had failed to detect the illness, they would have already let them in.
No, they knew the truth of it, he realized, and had gone to speak with
Abbot Braumin.

Roger knew what was coming even as the small panel slid away at the end
of the narrow gatehouse corridor, and the grim face of a brother appeared
beyond.

"You may enter, but the woman cannot," came the voice-a voice that
Roger recognized.

"She is my heart and my soul, Brother Castinagis," Roger argued.

"She is thick with plague," came the reply, firm but somewhat tempered
by compassion. "She cannot enter St. Precious. I am sorry, my friend."

"I want to speak with Abbot Braumin."
"Then come in."

Roger looked at Dainsey. "What of her?" he asked.

"She cannot enter," Castinagis said again. "Nor can she remain within
the gatehouse. Send her back out, beyond the flower bed."

Roger considered the course. Things beyond that flower bed were not
pretty, with plague victims milling about and-since the town guard would
come nowhere near them-lawlessness abundant. He had to take Dainsey
back to their rented room at The Giant's Bones, he knew.

"Tell Abbot Braumin that I will soon return," he said to Castinagis, low-
ering his voice to show his anger. "Alone."

"If you go back beyond the flower bed, then you will be subjected to
another spiritual inspection before you are allowed to enter the abbey,"
came Castinagis' unyielding response.

"I will be gone but a few minutes," Roger argued.

"A few seconds would be too long a time," came the answer, and the
panel at the end of the corridor slammed shut.

Roger's heart sank with that sound. He had hoped that he, as a personal
friend of Braumin's, would find some assistance here, some of the compas-
sion that St. Precious was not lending to those other unfortunate victims.
He had hoped that his connections with the powerful churchmen would
save Dainsey.

But now, even though he hadn't yet uttered one word to Braumin, Roger
was being forced to face the truth, the fact that not Braumin, not Viscenti,
not any of them, would do anything at all to help Dainsey, that her affliction
would bring to her the same end as everyone else so diseased.

It took Roger a long while to find enough strength to lead his dear
Dainsey back out of St. Precious. Never in his life, not even when he had
been caught by Kos-kosio Begulne of the powries, had he felt so helpless
and so wretched.

"There's not many goin' into the city o' late," the ferry pilot said to the
leader of the curious group of men as they neared the Palmaris wharf. They
wore robes like those of Abellican monks, except that theirs were black
with red hoods instead of the normal brown on brown. "Den o' sickness, it
is!" the pilot said ironically with a cough.

"Do you think you can hide from it?" the leader of the group, Marcalo
De'Unnero, said to the man, his voice a tantalizing whisper. "The rosy
plague is a punishment from God, and God sees all. If you are a sinner, my
friend, then the plague will find you, no matter how deep a hole you find to
climb in."

The pilot, obviously shaken, waved his hands and shook his head. " Not a
sinner, I ain't!" he cried. "But I'm not wantin' to hear ye no more."

"But hear me you must!" De'Unnero said, grabbing the man by the front
of his dirty tunic and lifting him up to his tiptoes. "There is no place for you
to hide, friend. Salvation lies only in repentance!" he finished loudly, and
all the hundred red-hooded men behind him, the Brothers Repentant-
their numbers swollen by the rush of eager townsfolk to join their ranks, for
they, after all, by De'Unnero's own words, held the secret to health-
cheered wildly.

"Repent!" De'Unnero yelled, and he drove the man to his knees.

"I will, I will!" the terrified pilot replied.

De'Unnero lifted his other hand, which was now the paw of a tiger, so
that the pilot could see it clearly. "Swear fealty to the Church!" he
demanded. "The true Church of St. Abelle, the Church of the Brothers
Repentant."

Eyes wide at the sight of the deadly appendage, the poor pilot began to
tremble and cry, and he even kissed De'Unnero's hand.

Behind De'Unnero, the Brothers Repentant howled for blood. They
began jumping so violently that the ferry rocked dangerously. They began
punching each other; several stripped off their black robes and walked
through the rest of the gathering, accepting slap after slap so that their bare
skin reddened.

"We are your salvation," De'Unnero said to the trembling man.

"Yes, master."

"Yet you took our money for passage," De'Unnero went on.

"Kill him, Brother Truth!" several men yelled.

"Take it back!" the pilot begged, pulling his purse from his belt and
thrusting it into De'Unnero's hand. "I swear, Brother Truth, if I'd'a known,
I'd not taken a copper bear. On me mum's soul, I swear."

De'Unnero took the purse and eyed the pilot dangerously a bit longer.
Then he shoved the man down to the deck. "Get us in to dock," he said dis-
gustedly, and he moved forward. The city was coming into clear view now,
the buildings showing through the morning fog.

His anger was feigned, though, for in truth, the former Bishop of Pal-
maris was in a fine mood this particularly sweet day. He and his ferocious
brood had swept across the southland, all across Yorkey, scouring town
after town of infidels, and taking care to avoid any Abellican abbeys-with
the sole exception of Abbot Olin's St. Bondabruce. As De'Unnero had
guessed, Olin had been quite sympathetic to his cause, and while the man
hadn't openly endorsed the Brothers Repentant, hadn't even let them into
his abbey, neither had he opposed them and he had secretly met with
De'Unnero. That meeting had gone wonderfully, as far as De'Unnero was
concerned, for he hadn't missed the intrigue on Olin's face when he had
hinted that he might know the way to Pimaninicuit, the far-off isle holding
the treasure equivalent of the hoards of a hundred, hundred kings on its
gem-covered beaches.

But those were thoughts for another day, the fierce master knew. For
now, before him lay the most coveted jewel, the city of his greatest triumph
and greatest defeat. Here lay Palmaris, mighty Palmaris, thick with the
plague and ripe for the words of the Brothers Repentant.

Marcalo De'Unnero had not forgotten the treatment the folk here had
given to him, nor the stern words of Abbot Braumin when the fool had
expelled him from the city.

No, De'Unnero had not forgotten anything about Palmaris, the city in
which all of this trouble with the plague had really begun. The city where
Markwart and the old ways had been abandoned for this new foolishness.
The city that embraced Braumin, and thus Jojonah and thus Avelyn and
their insane ideas that the Church should be the healer of the common folk.

De'Unnero spat as he considered the irony of that goal. Where were the
healers of the common folk now, this kinder and more compassionate
Church? Hidden away, by all reports, behind thick walls and stinking
flower beds.

Their cowardice would be their undoing, De'Unnero knew. Their cow-
ardice would deliver the desperate, abandoned people of Palmaris to him,
would make them heed his words of potential salvation.

Then Abbot Braumin and his foolish friends would come to understand
what their errant beliefs had bought them.

Yes, this was a particularly sweet day.

Roger suffered through the indignity of another spiritual rape in the gate-
ouse of St. Precious, then stormed out when at last he was cleared to
titer.

house of St. Precious, then stor

enter.

"Where is Abbot Braumin?" he demanded of Brother Castinagis, who
was again manning the gate.

Castinagis snorted and shook his head, patting poor Roger to calm him.
"He will see you," he assured the man, but Roger shoved him away.

"He will hear me!" Roger retorted. "And woe to those who turned
Dainsey away!" Roger turned and stomped off, heading for the main
building and the office of his friend.

"Abbot Braumin already knows," Brother Castinagis called softly behind
him, stopping Roger in his tracks. "He knew even as we were inspecting
you and the woman, even as we were following his orders that no one enter
St. Precious without such inspection. He knew that your woman friend was
turned away before it ever happened. Do not look so surprised, Roger!
Have you forgotten that similar treatment was afforded Colleen Kilronney
when Jilseponie brought her to our door? "

"B-but..." Roger stammered, and his thoughts were all jumbled. "I am
your friend."

"Indeed," said Castinagis, with no trace of sarcasm, "a valued friend, and
it pains me, as I'm sure it pains Abbot Braumin, that we cannot help your
woman companion. Do you not understand? This is the rosy plague; we
have no weapons against it."

"What am I to do?" Roger asked. "Am I to sit by and simply watch
Dainsey die? "

"You would be wiser by far to stay here with us," came a soft voice
behind them. Roger turned to see his old friend Braumin Herde emerging
from the building. The man had aged noticeably in the last year, the first
signs of silver streaking his curly black hair, and deep lines running out
from the sides of his eyes. "There are plague houses which will make your
Dainsey comfortable. I can arrange it. You need not return to her."

Roger stared at him incredulously.

"There is nothing you can do for her," Braumin went on. He moved
closer and tried to put a comforting arm on Roger's shoulder, but Roger
danced away. "And contact with her greatly endangers you."

"There must be some answer...." Roger started to argue, shaking his head.

"There is nothing," Abbot Braumin said sternly. "Only to hide, and you
must hide with us."

"Dainsey needs me," Roger argued.

"You will do nothing more than watch her die," Castinagis said.

Roger turned back to him, his expression grim and determined. "Then
that is what I must do," he declared. "I must watch her die. I must hold her
hand and bid her farewell on her journey."

"Those are a fool's words!" Castinagis cried.

Roger started to shout back at him, but he hadn't the strength. He stut-
tered over several beginnings, but then just threw his hands up and wailed.
Then, his legs giving out beneath him, he fell to his knees, sobbing. Both
monks rushed to him immediately.

"I will arrange for her care," Abbot Braumin promised.

"You will stay with us. Among friends," Castinagis added.

Roger considered their words, their good intentions, for a brief moment;

but any comfort or hope they tried to impart was fast washed away by an
image of Dainsey, Roger's dear Dainsey, the woman he had come to love so
dearly, lying feverish on a bed and calling out for him.

That was a cry that Roger Lockless, whatever the potential danger, could
not ignore.

"No!" he growled, and he stubbornly pulled himself up to his feet. "No,
if you cannot help her, then I will find someone else who can."

"There is no one," Braumin said softly. "Nothing."

"Then I will stay with her," Roger snarled back at him, "to the end."

Castinagis started to say something, but Abbot Braumin cut him short
with a wave of his hand and a nod. They had seen this behavior before, of
course, in Jilseponie, and so it was not unexpected that one who was not of
the Church could not see the greater good against the immediate pain.

Roger started to walk away but stopped suddenly and wheeled about. "I
wish to marry her," he said-and it was obvious that the thought had just
then come into his mind-"formally, before the eyes of God."
"She cannot come here," Brother Castinagis said.

"Will you do that much for me, at least?" Roger asked Braumin. "Per-
form the ceremony from across the tussie-mussie bed." He stared hard at
his friend.

Castinagis, too, looked at Braumin.

"I would prefer that you not return to her," the abbot of St. Precious
said. "You ask me to sanction a union that cannot last out the rest of the
summer."

"I ask you to confirm our love before God's eyes as something sacred, for
that it is," Roger corrected. "Can you not even do that much for me?"

Abbot Braumin spent a long time thinking it over. "If I believed that
there was some chance that I might convince you to abandon this lost
cause, then surely I would," he said at last, "but if you are determined to
remain beside the poor woman, then better that it be a union sanctioned by
God. Go and bring her to the tussie-mussie bed, and be quick, before I
become convinced that I, too, am playing the part of the fool."

Roger was on his way before Braumin even finished.
CHAPTER 34
Angry Sheep

"Do not," Francis warned the irate man with wild, bloodshot
eyes and telltale rings on his bare arms. The monk stepped
in front of the man. blocking his oath to the tussie-mussie

in front of the man, blocking his path to the tussie-mussie
bed and St.-Mere-Abelle, for Francis understood all too clearly that the
brothers atop the wall with crossbows and gemstones were very serious
about killing him if he approached.

" You cannot hope ..." Francis started to say, but the wild man, the man
who had just watched his only son carted off to the common grave, wasn't
listening. He came forward like a charging bull and swung his heavy arms
furiously.

Too furiously, and Francis, well trained in the arts martial, ducked the
blow and hooked the arm as it swept above him, pushing it down and, with
a simple step and twist, put himself behind his attacker. Before the out-
raged commoner understood what hit him, Francis had the man's right arm
bent up behind his back, while Francis' left arm was across the man's neck.
Despite his great rage, the man was helpless.

The man tried to pull straight ahead, but Francis slipped one foot in
front of him, and down they went, heavily, Francis landing atop the face-
down commoner.

'Til kill ye all!" the man raged. "I'll kill ye to death! I will! I will. ..."
His voice trailed off as he broke into sobs. "I will."

"I understand," Francis whispered. "Your son ... I know your pain."

"How could ye? " came a question from behind.

"What're ye or any o' yer stinkin' monk friends knowin' o' anythin'?"
demanded another. Francis felt a boot come down heavily on the small of
his back.

And then they fell over him, only a pair of men, but many others were
cheering them on. They tore Francis free of the sobbing man and brought
him up roughly. Though he managed to get in one quick punch against
one man and a pair of sharp kicks to the other's shin, he knew that they had
him caught-and understood that others would come help them if he wrig-
gled free.

"Get him and kill him!" one man cried.

"Death to 'em all!" shouted another. Then the mob swirled about
Francis, and then . . . parted, for shoving her way through it came Merry
Cowsenfed, cursing and spitting with every step. When one man gave a par-
ticularly loud and threatening shout Francis' way, Merry promptly smacked
him across the face.

"What're ye all gone mad?" she screamed, her unusual ire calming the
crowd. "This one's been helping us every day, and came out to us healthy!
Can any o' the rest of ye say that ye'd be so generous if ye didn't think ye
yerself had the plague already? Ah, but what a lot o' fools I got meself
caught up with! To be hittin' so on poor Brother Francis!"

The murmuring of the crowd died away, each person turning to the next,
as if waiting for instructions.

Then the two men holding Francis roughly pushed him free. "Bah, Merry's
right," said one. "This one ain't done nothin' earnin' him a beatin'." He
turned ominously toward St.-Mere-Abelle. "But them others ..." he
snarled, and the crowd erupted into ferocious cheers behind him. The man
Francis had downed clawed his way back to his feet and reiterated his
hatred for the Abellican monks.

Again, Francis rushed to the forefront. "They have crossbows and gem-
stones!" he pleaded. "They will kill you all before you ever get near the
wall. And look at that wall! How do you plan to get over it? Or through it?
A team of To-gai-ru ponies could not run a ram through that door, I
promise you!"

Every point he made was perfectly valid, every one enough of a detriment
to turn aside any reasonable person. But these were not reasonable people.
No, they had lost everything, and in the pain and hopelessness of that
moment, Francis's words rang hollow.

And so they started off, and so did Brother Francis-but not physically.
The monk reached into his pouch and clenched his hand about his soul
stone, falling into its magic, freeing his spirit from his body. He went right
for the apparent leader of the mob, the man who had torn him from the
grieving father.

He did not want to possess the man, but Francis did send his spirit into
him. And once inside the man's thoughts, the monk began to impart images
and sounds of slaughter, of men running, screaming, while magical fires bit
at them and peeled away their flesh. He showed the man a scene of bodies
piled twenty deep atop the tussie-mussie bed. He showed . . .

And then the connection was broken, suddenly, Francis' spirit sent
careening back to his body. He blinked his eyes, working hard to recover
from the shock, fearing that the slaughter had already begun.
But the mob was still there, hardly moving, just staring at their leader,
who stood openmouthed, staring blankly at the towering wall and at the
deadly monks standing atop it.

Merry Cowsenfed was at his arm all the while, tugging hard and pleading
with him to turn about.

The man, seeming unsure, glanced back at Francis.

"They will kill you," Francis explained, "every one of you."

The man closed his eyes and clenched his fists at his sides, but whatever
the level of rage within him, he could not ignore the simple fact that they
had no chance even to get anywhere near their enemies. No chance at all.

The man growled and lifted his clenched fists into the air, but then he
walked back from the tussie-mussie bed-the battle line, it seemed-and
roughly jostled through the crowd.

Francis breathed a profound sigh of relief, but he soon became aware
that many of those around him weren't very happy with this outcome. Some
cursed and shook their fists at him, though most did turn back, grumbling
and shaking their heads.

In Francis' estimation, they had just avoided a complete slaughter. He
sighed again and nodded to Merry, then turned to find a wrinkled old
woman, her face as sharp as Yorkey cheese, glaring at him.

"Bah, but ain't ye spittin' pretty words," she said. "Is that why they sent
ye out, Brother Francis o' St.-Mere-Abelle? To talk pretty and keep us
walkin' dead folk in our place? "

Francis couldn't find the words to answer her.

"Bah, who's carin' about ye, anyway, Brother Francis the saint," she said
with sincere disgust. "Ye're soon to catch the rosies, if ye ain't already, and
soon to be put in the ground."

Far from disputing her or yelling at her, Francis stood there and accepted
the judgment and the looks of all those who had turned from St.-Mere-
Abelle's fortified gate.

And he accepted, too, the old crone's prediction, for Francis honestly
believed that the last one he had tried to cure had beaten him back,
and more.

Francis was fairly convinced that the plague was growing within him.

"Perhaps our dear Brother Francis serves a purpose after all," Fio Bou-
raiy said to Father Abbot Agronguerre, the pair watching the spectacle
from the wall. "For them, I mean," Bou-raiy elaborated with slight snicker.
"A pity if they came against us."

"You sound as if you would enjoy such a sight," the Father Abbot
observed. Fio Bou-raiy shuffled nervously, reminding himself that he and
this Father Abbot he so desperately wanted to impress were not often of
like mind.
"Not so," he replied. "And forgive me, Father Abbot. It is only that I feel
so helpless in these circumstances. There are times when I wonder if God
has deserted the world."

"Indeed," said an obviously unconvinced Agronguerre, raising an eyebrow.
"Take care, for you are spouting words akin to that of our dear misguided
Brother De'Unnero."

"I only mean-"

"I know what you mean, and what you meant," Agronguerre interrupted.

A long and uncomfortable silence followed.

"How fare the brothers working on the herbal poultices and syrups that
Brother Francis bade us to make? " Agronguerre asked at length. "The ones
that came down from the Timberlands-from Jilseponie, we believe? "

"They had all the ingredients available," Bou-raiy answered. "I suspect
that the compounding is nearly complete."

"If it is not, then add brothers to the work," the Father Abbot instructed,
"as many as it takes to get those concoctions out to the desperate people."

"They will not cure, by Abbot Braumin's own words, relayed to us
directly from St. Precious, and to him from the very source of the recipes:

the woman Jilseponie, so he said."

"But they will help," Agronguerre tartly replied. "And they will help to
make the people understand that we are doing all that we can. Brother
Francis stopped their charge this time. Next time, I fear, we will be forced
to use more drastic measures, and that I do not desire.

"And your observation concerning Brother Francis was quite correct,"
Agronguerre went on. "He does play an important role-more so than you
apparently recognize. Look upon him and be glad for him. His choice in
this has been a blessing to the Abellican Church as much as to the peasants
he so magnificently serves."

"Surely you do not agree with him," Master Bou-raiy snapped back with-
out hesitation.

Father Abbot Agronguerre turned away from the man without answer-
ing, looking back over the desolate field and the wretched refugees, clearly
torn by the sight.

"Father Abbot!"

"Fear not, for I am not intending to open St.-Mere-Abelle to the plague
victims," Agronguerre replied solemnly, "nor have I any designs of walking
out of our gates to join dear Francis on the field. But neither can I find fault
with the man for his choices. No, I admire him, and fear that the only
reason I am not out there beside him is because ..." He paused and turned
back to face Fio Bou-raiy squarely. "Because I am afraid, brother. I am old
and have not many years left and am not afraid of death. No, not that. But I
am afraid of the rosy plague."

Fio Bou-raiy thought to argue strongly against Francis, to label the man a
fool and his course one of disaster for the Church if his example was held
up in a positive light, but he wisely bit back the words. He held no fears
that Abbot Agronguerre would prod others to follow Brother Francis, nor
that the man would go out on the field himself; and though he didn't want
Francis praised in any way for his foolish actions, he recognized that to be a
small price to pay. For Brother Francis would be dead soon enough, Fio
Bou-raiy believed, yet another example of the folly of trying to do battle
with the rosy plague.

"It is pragmatism that keeps you here. Father Abbot," he did say quietly.
"Is it? " Agronguerre asked with a snort, and he turned and walked away.
A frustrated Fio Bou-raiy turned back to face the field and leaned heavily
on the wall. He spotted Francis then, again at work with his soul stone on
some unfortunate victim. Bou-raiy shook his head in disgust, and he did not
agree with Father Abbot Agronguerre at all on this point. No, he saw
Francis as setting a bad example for the Church, reinforcing the belief of
the ignorant peasants that the Church should be more active in this time of
desperation.

Fio Bou-raiy slapped his hand against the thick stone wall. They would
get the poultices and syrup out soon, but he almost hoped that it would not
be soon enough, that the peasants would come at St.-Mere-Abelle wildly.
No, he didn't really want to kill any of them, though he figured that to do so
would actually prove a blessing to the poor, unfortunate wretches. But if it
did happen, Fio Bou-raiy decided that his first shot, with lightning or with
crossbow, would not be aimed at any ignorant peasant. No, he would target
a certain troublemaking Abellican brother.

"Do it!" King Danube demanded, as harsh a command as he had ever
given to Duke Kalas.

"You would jeopardize the goodwill toward the Throne for the sake of-"
Kalas tried to argue.

"Do it, and now!" King Danube interrupted. There was no room in his
tone for any debate. "With all speed."

Kalas glanced to the side, to Constance Pemblebury.

"With all speed and with all heart," King Danube said.

Kalas saluted his King with a thump to his chest, a formal acceptance of
command that did not often occur between the two friends, then turned
sharply on his heel and stormed out of the room, his boots clacking loudly
with every step.

King Danube looked over at Constance and sighed.

"It pains Duke Kalas gready to do anything of benefit to the Abellican
Church," she said, trying to calm him.

King Danube nodded and closed his eyes, remembering all too well the
source of Kalas' pain and resentment, remembering Vivian, his queen. But
then, before he could fall too deeply into the trance of long-ago memories,
he blinked his eyes and shook his head resolutely. His duty as king now was
clear to him: to protect St. Honce as strongly as he would protect Castle
Ursal, and though the brothers within the abbey might be able to contain
the peasant horde now threatening riot at their gates, it was incumbent
upon the Crown to make a strong showing of support for the Church.

There was no room for argument, and no time for debate.

He and Constance sat quietly for a few minutes, each digesting the
sudden but not unexpected turn of events.

And then came the cries of outrage, the explosion of the mob, and then a
crackle of thunder.

"They are going against the abbey," Constance observed.

And then they heard a different sort of thunder, the rumble of horses'
pounding hooves, and the peasants' cries of anger soon shifted to wails of
pain and terror.

The pair in the throne room understood well enough that the Allheart
knights had charged out with their typical, brutal efficiency, understood
that the threat to St. Honce had just come to an abrupt end.

King Danube glanced over at Constance and saw the pained, weary look
upon her face. This was taking such a toll on all of them. The seclusion, the
helplessness, the necessary and exhausting shows of strength.

"You should go and spend some time with Merwick and Torrence,"
Danube offered.

"Duke Kalas will soon return, and his mood will be all the more
foul," Constance replied.

Danube nodded, knowing the truth of that observation. "Go and play,"
he insisted. "Duke Kalas is a member of the court and the appointed leader
of the Allheart knights. He will do as I instruct, and do so properly, or he
will be relieved of his command."

Constance raised her eyebrows, her expression skeptical.

And that, too, Danube understood all too well. In this time of great dis-
content and frustration, replacing Duke Kalas would not sit well with the
Allheart knights, who truly loved the man. But Danube knew, as well, that
it would never come to that. Kalas was stubborn and his hatred of the Abel-
lican Church could not be underestimated, but in the end and above all
else, he was Danube's man, a true friend. He and his knights had per-
formed beautifully outside St. Honce, no doubt; and he and Danube could
quickly put that distasteful errand behind them.

Constance, after a moment, seemed to come to the same conclusion, for
she rose from her seat and walked past King Danube, giving him a kiss on
the cheek, and then made her way out of the room.

Duke Kalas appeared within minutes.

"Near to fifty dead," he announced grimly, "trampled on the streets."

"And your knights? " Danube asked.

Kalas scoffed, as if at the notion that any of his magnificent Allhearts
could even be wounded by the likes of a mere peasant.
"Then we did as we had to," the King went on. "We defended
St. Honce, as our agreement with the Abellican Church demands, and
we reminded the peasants that even in a time of plague the laws must
be obeyed."

If only it were that simple! Danube silently added, for though he
remained stern and solid, and though he believed in his proclamation, the
reality that his prized Allheart knights had just slaughtered fifty of his own
people offended him profoundly.

And offended Kalas, too, Danube noted, as the man walked past him and
took the seat Constance had vacated, dropping his chin to his palm and
staring blankly ahead.

Outside, on the streets, occasional cries of outage, of betrayal-by both
the monks and the peasants-resonated grimly in their ears.

The rallying shouts ended abruptly as Marcalo De'Unnero, the self-titled
Brother Truth, shoved through the ranks of the Brothers Repentant and the
gathered peasants of Palmaris, and charged down the lane the short dis-
tance to where the Behrenese had gathered.

The dark-skinned southerners had come out in response to the shouts of
anger, a group of men and women asking for nothing but to be left alone at
their dockside homes in peace. But Brother Truth had spoken, had pro-
claimed the mere presence of the Behrenese as a source of God's anger, as a
source of the rosy plague.

The nearest Behrenese man lifted a weapon, a gaff, at the charging monk,
but De'Unnero skidded to an abrupt stop and snap-kicked the underside
of the shaft, launching it far and wide. In the same motion, the expert
fighting monk brought his leg down and to the side, caving in the knee of
the next closest southerner. Then, still without ever bringing his foot back
to the ground, De'Unnero brought his leg back, kicking his first opponent
in the gut, doubling the man over.

De'Unnero dropped his foot and pivoted it, lifting his other foot as he
turned, angling it to slam the Behrenese in the chin, snapping his head vio-
lently to the side and dropping him facedown on the stone.

Then he felt the weretiger roaring within him, screaming to be let loose
that he might devour and destroy all who stood before him. He almost
complied, almost fell into the beast, but then his consciousness screamed
out even louder that to reveal that side of himself in this city-this city that
had lost its beloved Baron Bildeborough to such a cat!-would surely spell
his defeat. He fought with all his willpower, concentrating, concentrating,
and actually took a slight hit from one of his pitiful opponents, so distracted
was he.

But then he had the urges put down, and he leaped ahead, spinning and
kicking. He landed right before one man, who, apparently thinking he
had the monk vulnerable, brought a huge axe straight up over his head.
De'Unnero hit him with a left, right, left, right, left, right, square in the face,
and the axe fell to the ground behind the stunned man. He started to drift
down, but vicious De'Unnero hit him again in the face-left, right, left,
right, left, right-all the way down to his knees. There the Behrenese
remained, kneeling and beyond dazed, and De'Unnero leaped in the air
and came down with a double stomp on the top of the man's chest.

He heard the crack of backbone.

De'Unnero threw his arms up high, fists clenched, and roared in victory;

and then he looked around and saw the hundred Brothers Repentant and
twice that many common Palmaris citizens driving hard against the Behre-
nese, overwhelming them with sheer numbers, dragging them down and
beating them to death.

But even more satisfying to Brother Truth was the spectacle of the Pal-
maris city guard, sitting astride their horses down at the end of a lane, a
force large enough to successfully intervene. They did not; they sat and they
watched, and the Brothers Repentant swept the Behrenese enclave away,
killing those they could catch and burning down every structure that had
housed any of the dark-skinned folk.
CHAPTER 35
Borne on Wings
of Desperation

It's Roger!" Pony said happily to Belster, when she recognized
the man driving the wagon that was rolling into the southern end
of Dundalis. Her smile disappeared almost as soon as it began to
spread, though, as she took note of the form beside her friend, slumped and
huddled under a heavy cloak, though the day was quite warm.

It was Dainsey, Pony knew, and she could guess easily enough why the
woman was so postured.

"She's got the plague," Belster remarked, obviously deducing the same
thing. "Why'd the fool bring her here, then? "

That uncharacteristically bitter statement brought a scowl to Pony's face,
and she showed it to Belster directly.

He shook his head, showing embarrassment for the callous remark but
also holding fast to his anger. Pony could understand that well enough;

Dundalis had remained relatively free of the dreaded disease thus far, but
one victim could change all that, could send the rosy plague rushing
through the town like a fire. Those who knew the oral histories of the
plague had claimed that entire villages, even fair-sized towns had simply
disappeared under the deadly sweep of the disease.

But, without even talking to Roger, Pony also understood why he had
come. She could see the look on his face as the wagon approached, an
expression sad and panicked, a desperate and hopeless plea.

Some people went out to Roger, calling greetings, but he waved them
back from the wagon. "A safe distance!" he cried, and every one of those
villagers wore at first a perplexed expression but one that inevitably fast
turned to horror.

They knew; everyone in the kingdom knew.

Then Roger spotted his dear friend, the last hope of his beloved Dainsey.
"Pony," he called weakly.
She rushed up to the wagon and grabbed the bridle of the draft horse,
stopping the beast.

"Stay back," Roger warned. "Oh, Pony, it is Dainsey, sick with the rosy
plague!"

She nodded grimly and continued past the horse and onto the wagon's
bench. She gently lifted the edge of Dainsey's hood, reaching in to feel her
forehead.

Dainsey's teeth were chattering, but she was hot to the touch.

Pony sighed. "You've tried your best, but you are tending her in the
wrong manner," she explained, pushing back the hood, untying the cloak,
and pulling it off Dainsey's frail-looking shoulders.

"I tried.. . ." Roger started to reply. "I went to Palmaris, to Braumin, but
he . . ."

"He turned you away," Pony finished grimly.

Roger just nodded his head.

"Well, you will not be turned away here," Pony promised, and she gently
lifted Dainsey into her arms-and how light she was! "Follow me to Fel-
lowship Way," she instructed.

"You can cure her?" Roger asked.

Pony couldn't ignore the flicker of hope that came into his voice, the
light that suddenly brightened his face. She wanted to say that she could-
how she wanted to tell Roger that!-but she knew that false hope could
be a more devastating thing than no hope at all, and she could not lie to
Roger.

"I will try," she promised, turning to slip down the side of the wagon.

Roger grabbed her by the arm, and she turned to see his desperately
pleading face.

"This is the rosy plague, Roger," she said softly. "I have had no luck at all
in battling it thus far. None. Everyone I have attempted to heal is dead. But
I will try."

Roger sucked in his breath and stood, wavering, for a long moment.
Then he collected himself and nodded.

True to her promise, Pony brought Dainsey into her private room above
Fellowship Way, gathered her hematite, and went at the disease with all her
strength and determination. As soon as her disembodied spirit entered
Dainsey's battered body, though, she knew that she had no chance. The
plague was thick in the woman, thicker than Pony had ever seen it before, a
great green morass of disease.

She tried and she tried, but inevitably wound up fighting the wretched
stuff away from herself and gaining no ground at all in actually helping
Dainsey.

She came out of the gemstone trance a long while later and slipped off
the side of the bed. Her legs wouldn't hold her, so exhausted had the battle
made her, and she slumped heavily against the wall, then slid down with a
thump to the floor. She heard Roger call out to her, and then he was there,
beside her.

"What happened? " he asked repeatedly. "Did you defeat it? "

Pony's expression spoke volumes. Roger slumped to the floor, fighting
hard against the sobs.

Pony gathered her own strength-she had to, for Roger-and went to
him, dropping her hand on his heaving shoulder.

"We do not surrender," she assured him. "We will use the herbal poul-
tices and syrups on her, as many as we can make. And I will go back to her
with the gemstone. I promise I will."

Roger looked at her squarely. "You will not save her," he said.

Pony could not rightfully disagree.

They huddled on the field before St. Belfour as they huddled before all
the other abbeys in Honce-the-Bear, the pitiful plague victims praying for
help that would not come. For the rosy plague, in all its fury, in all its indif-
ference to the screams of the suffering, had come to Vanguard.

Inside St. Belfour, the scene was no less one of distress. The plague
hadn't crept into the halls of the abbey yet, but for the brothers of
St. Belfour-gentle Brother Dellman and all those trained under the com-
passionate guidance of Abbot Agronguerre-witnessing such horrendous
suffering in their fellow Vanguardsmen was profoundly upsetting. After the
initial reports of the plague in Vanguard had filtered into St. Belfour, Abbot
Haney and Brother Dellman had huddled in Haney's office, arguing their
course of action. The two had never truly disagreed, yet neither had they
been in a state of agreement, both of them wavering back and forth, to help
or not to help. They knew Church doctrine concerning the rosy plague-it
was written prominently in the guiding books of every Abellican abbey-
but these were not men who willingly turned their backs on people in need.
And so they argued and they shouted, they banged their hands in frustra-
tion on Haney's great desk and thumped their heads against the walls.

But in the end, they did as the Church instructed; they locked their gates.
They tried to be generous to the gathered victims, tried to persuade them
to return to their homes; and when that failed, they offered them as many
supplies as they could spare. And the crowd, understanding the genero-
sity and much closer to the brethren of the region than were the folk of
many southern cities to their abbeys, had complied with Abbot Haney's
requests. The gathered victims had formed two groups, with a distinctive
space in between them so that the monks could go out on their daily tasks,
mostly collecting food-much of which would be turned over to the plague
victims.

Still, for all the cooperation and all the understanding on both sides of
St. Belfour's imposing wall, Haney and Dellman remained miserable pris-
oners, sealed in by the sounds of suffering, by their own helplessness.
Every day and every night, they heard them.

"I cannot suffer this," Dellman advised his abbot one morning. He had
just come from the wall, from viewing the bodies of those who had died
the previous night, including two children.

Abbot Haney held up his hands. He had no answers, obviously; there
was no darker and more secluded place to hide.

"I will go out to them," Brother Dellman announced.

"To what end?"

Now it was Dellman's turn to shrug. "I pray that you will afford me
a single soul stone, that I might try, at least, to alleviate some of the
suffering."

"Ye're knowin' the old songs, I trust," Abbot Haney replied, but he was
not scolding. "And ye know where the Church stands concernin' this."

"Of course," Dellman replied. "The chances are greater that I will
become afflicted than that I will actually cure anybody. I, we, are supposed
to lock the gates and block our ears, sit within our abbeys-as long as we
do not contract the plague-and speak of the higher aspects of life and of
faith." He gave a chuckle, a helpless and sarcastic sound. "We are to dis-
cuss how many angels might kneel upon our thumbnails in ceremonies of
mutual prayer, or other such vital issues."

"Brother Dellman," Abbot Haney remarked, before the man could gain
any momentum.

Dellman relented and nodded, understanding that his friend was as
pained by all this as he was.

They stood facing each other quietly for a long while.

"I am leaving the abbey," Brother Dellman announced. "I cannot suffer
this. Will you give me a soul stone? "

Abbot Haney smiled and turned his stare to the room's only window. He
couldn't even see out of it from his angle, for the opening was narrow and
the surrounding stone wall thick; and even if he could have seen through it,
the view was of nothing but the trees of the hills behind St. Belfour. But
Haney didn't actually have to see outside to view the scene in his mind.

"Do not leave the abbey," he said quietly.

"I must," said Dellman, shaking his head slowly and deliberately.

"Ye canno' suffer this," said Haney, "nor can I. Don't ye leave the abbey,
for we'll soon throw wide our gates and let the sufferers in."

Dellman's eyes widened with shock, still shaking his head, even more
forcefully now at this unexpected and frightening proclamation. "Th-this is
something I must do," he stammered, not wanting to drag his brethren
down his own chosen path of doom. "I did not mean ..."

"Are ye thinkin' that I'm not hearin' their cries? " Haney asked.

"But the other brothers ..."

"Will be gettin' a choice," Haney explained. "I'll tell them me plans,
and tell them there's no dishonor in takin' a boat I'm charterin' for the
south, for the safety o' St.-Mere-Abelle. Let them go who will-they'll be
welcomed well enough by Abbot Agronguerre in the big abbey. And for
St. Belfour, we'll make her a house o' healin'. Or oftryin', at least." He rose
from his seat and came around the desk, nodding his head for every shake
that Dellman gave of his. When he got close to the man, Dellman broke
down, falling over Haney and wrapping him in a hug of appreciation and
relief. For Holan Dellman was truly terrified, and Haney's bold decision
had just lent him strength when he most needed it.

"You should not be here, my friend," Prince Midalis said to Anda-
canavar when the ranger arrived unexpectedly at Pireth Vanguard. "Our
fears have come true: the plague is thick about the land. Run north to your
home, my friend, to the clean air ofAlpinador."

"Not so clean," Andacanavar said gravely, and Midalis understood.

"I have no answers for you," he replied. "We have recipes for salves and
the like that will ease the suffering, so it is said, but they'll not cure the
plague."

"Perhaps the winter, then," Andacanavar said. "Perhaps the cold of
winter will drive the plague from our lands."

Prince Midalis nodded hopefully and supportively, but he knew the grim
truth of the rosy plague, and he suspected that the fierce Alpinadoran
weather would only make the plague even more terrible for those suffering
from it.

She went at the plague again, and was again overwhelmed. She tried dif-
ferent gemstone combinations-and many of the previous ones-and was
again and again overwhelmed. They used the salves and the syrups and
their prayers, all to little or no avail. Pony quickly came to realize that she
would not save Dainsey, and also strongly suspected that this infection, so
brutal and complete, would be the one to get her, that her attempts with
Dainsey would spell her doom. And yet she understood that she could not
stop trying. Every time she looked at Roger's heartbroken expression, she
knew that she had to try.

One evening after her latest miserable attempt, the exhausted Pony rode
Greystone out of Dundalis to the north, to the grove and the little hollow
she used for Oracle. She was going to Elbryan this night, as much to inform
him that she believed she might soon be joining him as to garner any par-
ticular insights. She just needed his spirit at that moment, needed to know
in her heart that he was close to her.

Such a dark night was coming on by the time she got to the hollow that
Pony had to set a candle just outside the opening, using its meager light to
give her enough of a view of the mirror to recognize the shadowy images
within that other realm. She sat back and half closed her eyes, her focus
solely on the mirror, her heart leaping out in a plaintive call to her Elbryan.
And then she was comforted, for he was there, in the cave with her.

And then she was confused, for Elbryan's shadowy silhouette faded,
replaced by another indistinct image, one that Pony could not make out for
a long, long while.

And then it came clearer to her, combining with memories of a long-ago
time in a faraway place.

Avelyn's hand.

"She's clear to the stream, and that's where ye should be settin' yer
camp," Bradwarden said to Pony.

"And you will look beyond it tonight, while I am at work with Dainsey?"
the woman asked.

The centaur gave her a scowl. "Ye get yerself some sleep tonight," he
demanded. "Ye been runnin' yerself straight for the five days since we left
Dundalis. Ye got Symphony tired, and that's not a thing I've seen done
before."

Pony started to argue, but wound up just nodding her head, for his
words were true. She had gone straight back to Dundalis after her vision at
Oracle, had roused Roger and Dainsey, and then had gone out from the
town, sending her thoughts wide and far for Symphony, magnificent Sym-
phony, the only horse in all the world strong enough to get her and Dainsey
to the Barbacan and Mount Aida in time to save poor Dainsey.

The horse had come to her almost immediately, as if he had been waiting
for this very moment, as if Symphony-with that intelligence that was not
human but seemed in so many ways to be beyond human-had known that
he and Pony would make this journey.

Perhaps that was exactly it, Pony dared to believe. Symphony had been
intimately connected to both Elbryan and Avelyn through the turquoise
gemstone. Perhaps those same spirits that had imparted the image to Pony
at Oracle had done the same to Symphony through the continuing magic of
the turquoise.

Pony had to believe that, for the sake of Dainsey and of herself and of all
the world.

They had set out that same night-and wasn't Roger heartbroken when
Pony explained without room for debate that he would not be joining
them, that Greystone, for all his strength and desire, could not begin to
match the pace they needed to set with Symphony. Two days north of Dun-
dalis, Pony had found unexpected assistance when they had come upon
Bradwarden; and the centaur, with the strength and stamina of a horse and
the intelligence of a human, had agreed to scout the fields and trails ahead
of them long into each night, then report back to her on the best and fastest
course.

And how swiftly Symphony, though carrying both Pony and Dainsey,
had run that course. Pony had aided Symphony's effort with the malachite-
magically lightening the load-and with the hematite-spirit-walking and
leaching some of the strength from creatures, deer mostly, along the road,
then imparting it to the stallion. Now, five days out, they had covered hun-
dreds of miles. The ring of mountains that marked the Barbacan was already
in sight.

It was a good thing, too, Pony knew. For though she had spent every
night with Dainsey, using the soul stone to try to beat back the edges of the
encroaching plague, and though she had coated the woman in salve, Dainsey
was nearing her bitter end. She couldn't even reply to Pony anymore, spent
her days and nights in delirium. Her eyes rolled open and closed, unseeing;

her words, when she said anything, were jumbled and confused. Dainsey
could die at any moment, Pony knew; so she could only pray that the woman
would live long enough to get to the flattened top of Mount Aida, and that
Pony's interpretation of the vision would prove correct.

The thought of going back to Roger with news that Dainsey had died
nearly broke her heart.

They traveled to the stream and set camp. Bradwarden lingered about
the area for a while, then disappeared into the forest to scout the road
ahead. To Pony's surprise, he returned a short while later, looking none too
pleased.

"Goblins," he said. "Ye knew we'd meet up with the scum."

"How many? " she asked, scooping up her sword and buckling it about
her waist, then checking her pouch ofgemstones.

"Small tribe," Bradwarden asked. "I might be finding a way around
them."

Pony shook her head. "No time."

"Now what're ye thinkin'?" the centaur asked. "If ye go in there
throwin' yer fireballs, then ye're likely to bring hosts o' the creatures down
upon us. I'll find us another road."

"No time," Pony said again grimly. She tossed blanket and saddle on
Symphony, tightened the girth, and mounted.

"Goblins killed Elbryan's uncle Mather," Bradwarden said suddenly.
"As fine a fighter as-"

"He did not have these," Pony replied, jingling her purse ofgemstones-
and she put her heels to Symphony's flanks and the great stallion leaped away.

She wore the cat's-eye circlet around her forehead and so had little
trouble seeing in the dark. She followed the lone trail available and soon
noted movement among the branches of a tree: a pair, at least, of goblins
doing sentry duty for the campsite in a small clearing beyond.

Pony hit the tree with lightning, the resonating thunder shaking the
stunned and blinded creatures from the limbs.

Pony rode right by them, into the clearing. "Begone from this place!" she
cried. Symphony reared as she pulled Defender from its sheath-though, in
truth, her other hand clutched the weapons, serpentine and ruby, that she
intended to use.

"Begone! Begone!" she cried again in warning.

Goblins howled and shouted, ran all over and screamed curses at Pony,
who was now, along with her horse, glowing blue from the serpentine fire-
shield. And then one of the miserable creatures rushed out from the side
and launched a spear Pony's way.

The woman ducked and parried it with her sword, barely deflecting the
missile harmlessly high. But the goblins gained confidence from the bold
attack and came on, howling.

Pony loosed a fireball, the concussive force blowing goblins from their
feet-charring some, setting others ablaze to roll roaring in agony and
terror. Those not injured by the fire blast scrambled back to their feet: some
running off; others standing still, confused and terrified; and still others
stubbornly charging at the woman again.

Pony lifted her hand, her magical energies wrought of rage, and altered
the magic of the gemstone, now shooting a line of fire at the nearest crea-
ture, engulfing it in flames. A shift of her arm and another goblin became a
living torch.

And then a third, and now most of the goblins who had been charging
skidded to a stop and wheeled about, running, screaming, into the forest
night.

When Pony got back to her encampment, she found Bradwarden still
standing on the edge, keeping watch over poor Dainsey.

"Subtle," the centaur remarked, for even here, Pony knew, her display
had been visible.

"Effective," she promptly corrected. "You can go and scout out the
northern road now."

Travel was easy the next day, with not a sign of goblins-living goblins-
anywhere to be found. Pony rode Symphony into the foothills before dark
and found a campsite among a tumble of boulders.

Bradwarden caught up to her sometime later, though he remained
far away.

"Are you to go ahead again this night?" she asked.

The centaur looked to the steeply inclining trail doubtfully. "Too many
rocks, too many hills, and too many little ravines," he answered. "I'd walk
right by a host o' the creatures and never see 'em. And I'm not for the
climb," he added, "nor should ye be bringin' Symphony-he'll slow ye down
more than help ye."

"Wait here, then," Pony replied, "with Symphony. I'll take Dainsey
alone tomorrow."

"Long way for carrying," Bradwarden remarked.

Pony nodded. So be it.
They were long gone before first light, earlier than Pony had planned, for
the night had been difficult on poor Dainsey. She was restless now, clawing
at her clothing as if trying to escape somehow from that which she knew
was coming.

And coming fast, Pony understood. She had seen people die-far too
many people-and she realized after the turn of midnight that Death had
come calling for Dainsey. And so she had set out, first on Symphony and
then, when the trails became too difficult for the horse to serve any pur-
pose, Pony turned him loose. She hoisted the woman onto her back and
trudged on, forcing step after step as the minutes became an hour.

On she went stubbornly, pausing only for short rests. On one such break,
she lay Dainsey down gently, thinking the woman asleep.

But then Dainsey's eyes opened wide.

"Dainsey? " Pony asked, moving close, and she realized that Dainsey was
not hearing her, was not seeing her. She waved her hand right before those
eyes-oh, those eyes!

Nothing. Dainsey did not see her at all.

The woman began to thrash about, her arms waving.

"No, no," Pony said. "No, damn you, Death, you cannot have her! Not
now! Not after all this way!"

But she knew. The end was upon Dainsey. Pony glanced all about des-
perately; small sounds escaped her throat, feral and angry, for they were but
a hundred feet or so from the break in the mountain pass, and from that
spot, she would be able to see Mount Aida and the plateau that held
Avelyn's mummified arm. How could Death, how could God, have been so
cruel as to let them get this close, a mile perhaps, from their goal?

"No, no," Pony said over and over, and hardly thinking of the move-
ment, the woman tore at her belt pouch violendy. Gemstones fell all about
the ground, but one did not escape Pony's grasp. A gray stone, a soul stone.

She went into it, flew out of her own body, and charged into Dainsey's
battered form. The plague was all about her, then, the stench and the
images of rot.

Pony attacked, and viciously, her rage preventing her from even consid-
ering her own welfare. She tore at the soupy morass, slapped it down,
scraped it from Dainsey's lungs. She fought and fought, throwing all her
strength fully against the tiny demons.

And then she was done, sitting to the side, crying.

Dainsey was still alive-Pony had bought her some time, at least. But
how much? And how could she hope to go on, for she could barely lift her-
self off the ground?

She did get up, though, and she went to Dainsey and, with a growl, lifted
the woman into her arms, half carrying her and half dragging her, up, up,
until she reached the summit of this pass, breaking through the ring of the
Barbacan. There before her loomed Mount Aida, a mile perhaps to the
plateau and Avelyn's arm. Only a mile! And with several hundred miles
already behind her.

But she couldn't hope to make it, not now; and already Dainsey was
showing signs that Death had come calling once more, that the reprieve was
at its end.

"Malachite," Pony whispered, and she looked all about, then realized
that the gem must be on the ground with the others back down the path.
She set Dainsey down again, and turned to get it, but stumbled, exhausted,
and went down hard. She started to rise, so stubbornly, but understood
that it was over, that even if she could find the gemstone quickly, she'd
never find the strength to use it to any real effect.

It was over.
CHAPTER 36
The Ghost of Romeo Mullahy

They walked through the streets as unobtrusively as possible, making the daily run for supplies down to the dock section before the sunrise. This day, though, they had learned of the riot in that area, of many Behrenese beaten, even murdered, and all at the hands of this strange cult, the Brothers Repentant.

The five monks had lingered longer than they had planned and now
understood, to their alarm, that they would not get back into St. Precious
before daylight. They moved with all speed in their flower-sewn robes, like
walking tussie-mussie beds. They moved to each street corner carefully,
peeking around, making sure that they would not rush onto the next lane
into a host of plague victims. Those folk of Palmaris weren't pleased with
the Abellican Church at that time.

Brother Anders Castinagis, leading the group this morning, breathed a
little easier when the wall containing the secret back entrance of St. Pre-
cious at last came into view. He could have brought his brethren around in
a wide loop to avoid being seen by the host encamped before the abbey,
but Castinagis figured that such a delay might prove even more dangerous.
He led them, then, across the boulevards to the side of the square.

Cries rang out behind them, but Castinagis wasn't overconcerned, for he
had known before this last expanse that they would not make the run
without being spotted. But he was confident, too, that he and his four com-
panions could get through the back door before any of the roused plague
victims got anywhere near them.

They hustled off, trotting along the wall toward the door, glancing back
confidently.

They should have looked ahead.

Coming around the corner at the back of the abbey, running fast and
with obvious purpose, came a host of black-robed, red-hooded monks.

Castinagis skidded to a stop. He saw the crack of the concealed door-a
portal that would not be noticed by anyone who didn't know it was there-
and measured the distance immediately against the speed of the approach-
ing band.

He dropped his supply-laden pack, crying for his brethren to do the
same, and sprinted away, calling out for the door to be opened.

And it was, a crack, and Castinagis could have gotten there ahead of the
approaching Brothers Repentant, but his companions could not, he recog-
nized, and so he burst right by the door, meeting the charge of the leading
red-hooded monk. "Get in!" he cried as he went.

Anders Castinagis was a fine fighter, a big and strong man with fists of
stone and a jaw that could take a punch. He had trained well at St.-Mere-
Abelle, was graduated from the lessons of arts martial near the top of his
class.

He did not know that now he was about to battle his instructor.

He came in hard, thinking to knock the leading attacker back, hit him
quickly a few times, then wheel back to join his brethren inside.

His surprise was complete when the first punch he threw, a straight right,
got picked off cleanly, a hand snapping up under his wrist, catching hold
and easily turning his arm over. Castinagis tried to ward with his free left
hand as his opponent came forward, right hand positioned like a serpent's
head aiming to strike his throat.

But then, suddenly and unexpectedly, the red-hooded monk brought his
straight-fingered hand out to the side, then kicked Castinagis' twisted
elbow, shattering the bone. As Castinagis moved his free hand down to
grasp at the pain, that serpentlike hand snapped in against his exposed
throat.

He felt himself falling, but then he was caught, a strong hand clamping
tightly over his face, and he knew no more.

Marcalo De'Unnero thought to drop his catch when he noted the
fighting by the back door of St. Precious. His brethren had run past him
and the monks from inside the abbey, knowing a brother to be trapped out-
side, had come pouring out to meet the charge.

Also, farther back but closing fast, came the angry mob, throwing stones
and shouting curses. And behind them came the clatter ofhoofbeats, of city
guardsmen, De'Unnero knew.

It was all too beautiful.

He hoisted the half-conscious monk up under his arm and dragged him
down one side alley, and many of his brothers followed.

And so began the impromptu trial of Anders Castinagis, with De'Un-
nero, Brother Truth, holding him up as an example of the errors of the
world, an Abellican monk who, like all the brown-robed churchmen, had
fallen from the path of God and had thus brought the rosy plague down
among them all.
The plague victims wanted to believe those words-needed someone to
blame-and they came at poor Castinagis viciously, spitting at him and
kicking at him.

Over by the abbey, there came the sound of a lightning stroke, and even
more general rioting.

That would have been the bitter end of Anders Castinagis, but then a
contingent of horsemen, city guard, turned into the alleyway and came
charging down, scattering plague-ridden peasants and Brothers Repentant
alike.

De'Unnero thought to make a stand against them, thought to leap astride
the nearest horse and kill the soldier, but he understood that this was not a
fight he wanted. He wasn't personally afraid, of course, but thus far the sol-
diers of Palmaris-and thus, implicitly, the Duke serving as ruler of the
city-had not hindered the Brothers Repentant from their orations and
their occasional attacks on the Behrenese. Better not to make them an
enemy, the cunning De'Unnero understood.

He leaped out of the way of the nearest approaching soldier and yelled
for a general retreat. There was no pursuit, for the soldiers likewise did not
wish to do battle with De'Unnero and his group. No, they were merely
acting as the law required them, to protect an Abellican brother.

From the end of the alley, the fierce monk watched the soldiers scoop up
the battered form of Anders Castinagis and turn back for St. Precious,
forming a tight, defensive ring about the monk and warding the angry peas-
ants away.

De'Unnero smiled at the sight. He knew that while many were dying
each day of the plague, the numbers of the discontented, of the outraged,
would continue to swell. He knew that he would find many allies in his war
against the Abellican Church-no, not the Abellican Church, he mused, for
it was his intent to reestablish that very body in proper form. No, this incar-
nation of his beloved Church more resembled a Church of Avelyn, or of
Jojonah.

He would remedy that.

One abbey at a time.

One burned abbey at a time.

"It was De'Unnero," Castinagis, lisping badly from a lip swollen to three
times its normal size, insisted. " No one else could move like that, with such
speed and precision."

"Rumors have named him as the leader of the Brothers Repentant,"
Abbot Braumin replied with a sigh.

"Then we expose him to the people of Palmaris," Viscenti chimed in
eagerly.

The door of the audience chamber banged open then, and a very angry
Duke Tetrafel stormed into the room.
"How did you-" Abbot Braumin started to ask.

"His soldiers had just helped us, abbot," came a nervous remark from
behind the Duke, from the brother who had been charged with watching
the gate that day.

Abbot Braumin understood immediately; Duke Tetrafel had used the
leverage of his soldiers' intervention to bully his way into the abbey. So be
it, Braumin thought, and he waved the nervous young sentry monk away.

"You submitted to the gemstone inspection, of course," Braumin remarked,
though he knew well that the Duke most certainly had not.

Tetrafel scoffed at the absurd notion. "If your monks tried to come to
me with that stone of possession, my soldiers would raze your abbey," he
blustered.

"We are allowed our rules and our sanctuary," Braumin replied.

"And did my soldiers not just allow several of your monks to get back
into that sanctuary?" Tetrafel asked. "Your friend Brother Castinagis
among them? He would have been killed in the gutter. Yet this is how you
greet me? "

Braumin paused for a long while to digest the words. "My pardon," he
said, coming around the desk and offering a polite bow. "Of course we are
in your debt. But do understand that we have set up St. Precious as a sanc-
tuary against the rosy plague, and to ensure that we must spiritually inspect
everyone who enters. Even the brothers are subjected to such inspections,
myself included, if we venture out beyond the tussie-mussie bed."

"And if it was discovered that you had become afflicted with the
plague? " Tetrafel asked suspiciously.

"Then I would leave St. Precious at once," Abbot Braumin replied
without the slightest hesitation and without any hint of insincerity in his
voice.

Tetrafel chuckled and stared at the abbot incredulously. " Then you are a
fool," he said.

The abbot only shrugged.

"And if I became afflicted?" the Duke asked slyly. "Would I, too, be
denied admittance to St. Precious? And if so, would you and your brethren
come out to tend to me? "

"Yes," said Braumin, "and no."

Tetrafel paused a moment to clarify the curt responses, then a great
scowl crossed his face. "You would let me die?" The soldiers behind the
Duke bristled.

"There is nothing we could do to alter that."

"The old songs of doom proclaim that a monk might cure one in
twenty," Tetrafel argued. "Would not twenty monks then have a fair
chance of saving their Baron and Duke? "

"They would." Again, Abbot Braumin kept his response curt and to the
point.
"But you would not send them," Duke Tetrafel reasoned.

"No," answered the abbot.

"Yet I risk my soldiers for the sake of your monks!" the Duke snapped
back, and he was having a hard time masking his mounting anger.

"We can make no exceptions in this matter," Braumin replied, "not for a
nobleman, not for an abbot, not for the Father Abbot himself. If Father
Abbot Agronguerre became so afflicted, he would be cast out of St.-Mere-
Abelle."

"Do you hear your own words as you speak them?" Duke Tetrafel
roared. "Could you begin to believe that the lives of twenty minor monks
were not worth the gain of saving a duke or even your own Father Abbot?
Pray you then that King Danube does not become so afflicted, for if he did,
and if your Church then did not come to his aid with every Abellican
brother available, then the kingdom and the Church would be at war!"

Abbot Braumin seriously doubted that, for it was not without precedent.
Furthermore, while it pained gentle Braumin to watch the suffering of the
common folk, Tetrafel's point was lost completely on him. In his view of
the world, the life of a single brother, even a novitiate to the Abellican
Church, was worth that of a duke or a king or a father abbot. As were the
lives of every commoner now suffering on the square outside St. Precious.
Yes, Braumin Herde cursed his helplessness daily, but he was glad, at least,
that he was not possessed of the arrogance that seemed to be a major trait
among the secular leaders of the kingdom.

"I have your words and your thoughts now," Duke Tetrafel fumed. "I
see your perspective all too clearly, Abbot Braumin. Understand that I now
relinquish all responsibility for the safety of your brethren if they venture
outside St. Precious. Exit at your own peril!" And he turned and stormed
out of the room, sweeping his soldiers up in his wake.

"That went well," Castinagis lisped sarcastically.

As if to accentuate the point, a stone bounced off Braumin's window,
clattering for a second, then falling harmlessly away. All day long, since the
near riot at the back door, the peasants had been throwing rocks and curses
at the abbey.

"We have lost the city," Abbot Braumin remarked.

"We could send word to St.-Mere-Abelle for help," Viscenti offered.

Braumin was shaking his head before the man even finished. "Father
Abbot Agronguerre has his own troubles," he replied. "No, we have lost
the hearts of those in Palmaris, and cannot regain them short of going out
with our gemstones among the people."

"We send out salves and syrups, blankets and food, every day," Casti-
nagis interjected.

"And it is not enough to placate those who know they are dying," said
Braumin.

"We cannot go out to them," Viscenti reasoned.
"Then we weather the plague within our abbey," Abbot Braum
decided, "as it has been in the past, as we have done thus far. We will co
tinue to send out the salves and other supplies as we can spare them, but
the peasants-led by the Brothers Repentant, no doubt-come against i
then we will defend St. Precious vigorously."

"And if we lose the abbey? " Castinagis asked grimly.

"Then we flee Palmaris," Braumin replied, "to Caer Tinella, perhap
where we might establish' the first chapel of Avelyn."

"That course was denied," Viscenti remarked.

Braumin shrugged as if that fact wasn't important. "Perhaps it is time v,
think about establishing the Church of Avelyn, in partnership with d
Abellican Church if they so desire, a separate entity altogether if they d
not."

The strong words raised the eyebrows of the other two brothers in th
room, and Braumin, too, understood the desperation of such a course. Th
Church would never agree to such a split, of course, and would likel
declare Braumin a heretic-again-and excommunicate any who side.
with him. But they wouldn't come after him, Braumin knew, at least no
until the time of plague had passed. And in those years, it was quite con
ceivable that he, with a more generous attitude toward the terrified peas
ants, might establish himself so securely that the Abellican Church woulc
think it wiser to just let him be.

Those fanciful thoughts continued to roll in Braumin's head for a Ion;

while, long after both Viscenti and Castinagis had taken their leave. But ir
the end, they didn't hold, for Braumin recognized them as the course ol
a desperate fool. His current problems were not the making of a new
Church-indeed, he and his comrades had pushed the Church in a direc-
tion favorable to Avelyn and Jojonah, favorable to his own beliefs. The
current problem was the plague, pure and simple, and even if Braumin suc-
cessfully managed to go and establish his coveted chapel, even if he split
from the Abellican Church altogether and began his own religion, what
would be the gain? The rosy plague would still be among them, and
Braumin would still be helpless against it.

Another rock thudded against the abbot's wall.

He glanced that way, toward the window, and tuned in to the curses
and shouts being hurled against his abbey. No, he would not run away. He
and his brethren would defend St. Precious from all attacks, and vigor-
ously, as he had instructed. If all the city came against them, then all the city
would be destroyed, if that is what it would take.

Braumin hated his own thoughts.

But he wouldn't deny the truth, nor the righteousness, of them.

Pony knelt over Dainsey, holding her hand and talking comfortingly to
her, trying to give her some dignity and some sense that she was loved and
was not alone at this, the end of her life. How bitter it all seemed to Pony,
to fail here, just a mile from her destination, though in truth, she doubted
that even if she could get to Avelyn's arm, it would do Dainsey any good.
The poor woman was too far gone.

"Let go, Dainsey," she whispered, wanting the woman's misery, her
obvious fear and pain, to end. "It is all right to let go."

If Dainsey heard her, she made no indication, but Pony kept talking,
kept hoping that she was doing some good.

Then a strong hand grabbed Pony's shoulder and pulled her up to her
feet. She glanced back to see Bradwarden, right beside her, holding the
pouch of gemstones she had left far back down the path.

"What? " she started to ask.

" Ye get her up on me back and climb yerself up with her," the centaur
explained. "I'll get ye to the top o' Mount Aida."

"B-Bradwarden, the plague," Pony stuttered.

"Damn it to the dactyl's own bed!" the centaur roared. "I'd rather be
catchin' it and dyin' than to keep away and watch me friends sufferin'!"

Pony started to argue-that generous nature within her thought immedi-
ately to protect her unafflicted friend. But who was she to so determine
Bradwarden's course, or anyone's for that matter? If she was willing to take
such risks with her own life as to dive spiritually right into the disease as it
ravaged Dainsey, or even complete strangers, then how could she presume
to warn Bradwarden away?

Besides, she didn't disagree with him. There were indeed fates worse
than death.

She helped Bradwarden to get Dainsey in place on his strong back, and
then she climbed up behind her.

"All this time, you have helped, but from a safe distance," Pony
observed. "Why now? "

"Because I trust ye, girl," the centaur admitted. "And if ye're thinkin'
that ye can heal the plague at the arm, and if ye're hearin' that from Avelyn
and Nightbird themselves, then who might I be to be arguin'?"

Pony considered the words and merely shrugged.

"I'll keep it as smooth as I can," the centaur promised.

"She is feeling nothing," Pony replied. "Speed is more urgent than com-
fort. Fly on!"

And Bradwarden did just that, pounding along trails that he knew all too
well. He came down the side of the Barbacan ring, onto the expanse
leading to Mount Aida, fields growing thick with new grasses after the dev-
astation of Avelyn's fight against Bestesbulzibar. Then up, up, went Brad-
warden, running along familiar trails.

"I'll be coming up on the south face," he explained. "It's a quicker run
to the plateau, but I'll not be able to get up the last climb to the place
with ye."
"I may need you there," Pony remarked.

"And I'll join ye as soon as I can get meself to the other side," Brad-
warden promised.

On they went. They came to places where Pony had to dismount and run
along beside, and one cliff where Pony found the strength to use the mala-
chite, levitating both Bradwarden and Dainsey up behind her and saving
many hundreds of yards of winding trail.

"Off ye go," the centaur announced, skidding to a stop when they
arrived at the last expanse. Pony brought Dainsey around, and Bradwarden
hoisted her seemingly lifeless form up over the short rise, laying her atop
the flat plateau, then helping Pony up beside her.

"I will get you up with malachite," the woman started to say, but Brad-
warden waved the notion away.

"I'll be joinin' ye soon enough," he explained. "Ye save yer strength for
Dainsey's last fight." And he turned and thundered away, along the trails
that would bring him to the other side of the plateau and an easier route to
the top.

Pony turned and stared at the mummified arm ofAvelyn Desbris, standing
strong out of the very rock of the blasted mountain. In the final explosion
that had destroyed the mountaintop and the physical form of Bestesbulzi-
bar, Avelyn had thrust that arm skyward, holding Tempest and the bag of
gemstones for his friends to find. For some reason that Pony did not under-
stand, that arm had not rotted, nor had the continual wind worn it away. It
appeared just as she had found it those years before, without the sword or
the stones, and she couldn't deny the comfort she felt in merely viewing it.

She gathered up Dainsey in her arms and walked over to the arm, laying
the woman on the ground gently before it.

Now what?

Pony knelt before the arm and began to pray, to Avelyn, to Elbryan, to
anyone who would give her the answers. Before her, Dainsey continued to
squirm uncomfortably, fighting against the seemingly inevitable end.

Pony prayed harder. She took out her soul stone and fell into its magic,
then soared boldly into the rot that was Dainsey Aucomb. Might she find
better results here, in this sacred place?

Pony attacked.

And was beaten back.

"No!" she cried when she came out of the gemstone trance, sitting on the
ground helplessly before Dainsey, who was now writhing in the very last
moments of her life. "No! It cannot have been a lie!"

"This is my covenant with you," came a voice behind her, and Pony
whirled about-to see a young monk, Romeo Mullahy, standing behind her.

But he was dead! Had died in this very place, throwing himself from the
rocks rather than accept capture at the hands of Father Abbot Markwart.

Pony stammered a few incomprehensible syllables.
"Whosoever tastes the blood of my palm shall know no fear from the
rosy plague," Mullahy said.

Pony reached for the man-and her hand went right through him! It was
Romeo Mullahy, his ghost at least, and he was far less than corporeal!

Pony played back his words desperately.

"But ye're dead!" came a cry from farther back, Bradwarden climbing
onto the plateau.

Pony looked at Mullahy's insubstantial hands for the blood.

"I spoke for Avelyn," he explained. "This is the covenant ofAvelyn."

Pony snapped her gaze back to the mummified hand, to see, to her sur-
prise and her delight, that there was indeed a reddish liquid upon the palm.

Dainsey cried out then, as Death reached for her. Pony reacted faster,
reaching down and lifting her face to Avelyn's hand, pressing Dainsey's lips
against the palm.

The effect was immediate and stunning, for Dainsey went limp but not in
death. No, far from that, Pony knew; Dainsey was-so suddenly-more
comfortable than she had been in many days!

Pony laid her down gently before the arm, then she, too, leaned in and
kissed the bloody palm-and that blood seemed not to diminish in the
least.

She felt the warmth all through her body, and knew then for certain that
she had contracted the plague from her work with Dainsey, that it was
within her, beginning to gather strength.

But no longer. Pony felt that implicitly.

Whosoever tastes the blood of my palm shall know no fear from the rosy
plague.

Pony looked down at Dainsey, who was resting and breathing easily. She
glanced back to Romeo Mullahy, but the ghost was already gone, its mes-
sage delivered.

Bradwarden came up to her.

"Ye got blood on yer lips," he remarked.

"Avelyn's," Pony tried to explain, shaking her head. "The taste of his
blood grants freedom from the plague, so said-"

"The ghost of Mullahy," the centaur finished. "I seen him jump meself,
back then when Markwart and King Danube came to catch us. Hit them
rocks hard."

"How can it be?" Pony asked.

Bradwarden laughed aloud, shaking his head with every rolling bellow.
"I'm not for disbelievin' anythin' comin' out o' that arm," he said, and then
he paused for a moment, staring from Pony to the still-bloody hand. "Are
ye goin' to take some with ye, then? "

Pony, too, looked at the hand. "I cannot," she explained, and indeed, in
her heart, she knew. She understood all of it now. " It is the blood and it is
this place."
"What're ye thinkin'?" Bradwarden asked suspiciously. "We're a long
way from yer homeland."

Pony just turned a determined look his way.

"That Mullahy ghost tell ye that? "

"No," Pony answered with perfect calm. "The spirit of Avelyn did,
just now."

Bradwarden and Pony stared at each other for a long while, then the cen-
taur came in low and kissed the bloody hand.
CHAPTER 37

The Vision

Symphony ran as never before, bearing Pony straight to the souti
thundering down the roads to Dundalis. Bradwarden carried Dainse
now, who was recovering with each passing minute, but the cental
couldn't begin to pace Symphony and Pony. Even when Symphony ha
been carrying both women on the trip to the Barbacan, Bradwarden had t
run on much longer each night to keep up.

But Pony couldn't wait for her two friends. Now that she knew Dainsey t
be out of danger and was confident that no goblins would surprise the cur
ning centaur, her purpose shifted to the wider world, to all the plague vie
tims who had to know the truth ofAvelyn's arm. A thousand variables rollei
about in Pony's head. Would her newfound immunity against the plagui
allow her to begin a general healing process throughout the southland:

Would plague sufferers begin to make the pilgrimage to the wild Barbacan!
How would Pony protect them from monsters and animals, from th<
weather as the season turned to winter? And what of food? Would she offei
blind hope to thousands only to have them starve on the road to the north?

Too many questions, too many dire possibilities. But none, Pony point-
edly and repeatedly reminded herself on that wild run to the south, were
nearly as dire as the reality that the folk of the kingdom now knew, the
reality of the rosy plague and so many dying with each passing day.

With each passing minute, she told herself; and she used the malachite as
much as she could to lighten Symphony's load; and she used the soul stone
to catch some of the strength from nearby deer and other animals, giving it
to Symphony; and she used the cat's-eye circlet to see in the dark, then
transferred those images to Symphony so that the run could continue long
after sunset.

On one such night, in the light of Sheila, Pony found a solitary form
standing vigil on the ridge north of Dundalis; and she was not surprised,
but her heart was warmed.

"Greetings, Roger," she called, urging Symphony ahead.
The man nearly fell over trying to get to her. "Tell me!" he cried.
"Where is Dainsey?"

"With Bradwarden, some miles behind."

"Did you get to the B-Barbacan? " Roger stuttered, hardly able to speak
the question. "Did Avelyn ..."

Pony slipped down from Symphony's back, and when she turned, her
beaming smile was all the answer Roger Lockless needed. He exploded into
motion, wrapping Pony in the tightest hug she had ever felt, his shoulders
shaking with sobs of joy.

They were in Dundalis soon after; and there Pony, strengthened by the
miracle of Avelyn's blood, fought the rosy plague.

Her spirit entered the body of an afflicted man. But now she held no fear
of it at all. None. It could not latch on to her spiritual arms as she attacked
the disease, scraping it from bone and organ, her healing spiritual touch
dissipating the greenish disease.

She stayed with the afflicted man for a long time, moving to every edge of
his being, fighting and fighting wherever she found sickness.

Finally, exhausted but satisfied, Pony made her way to her own body.
She sat back, her eyes closed, reorienting herself to her corporeal form.

"I am healed!" she heard the man cry, and then came a host of respond-
ing cheers.

Pony blinked open her eyes, to find Roger and Bolster and Tomas
Gingerwart and many, many other folk of Dundalis gathered in the room or
just outside the window. And all of them were cheering for her, for her
healing of this man.

But Pony knew the truth of it. "You are not cured," she told the man
bluntly. The cheering stopped immediately, and the man seemed as if he
would topple out of his bed. "I have granted you time, a temporary
reprieve, but there is only one way for you to be truly cured."

She paused and looked around, to find them all, every man and every
woman, hanging on her every word.

"You said that Dainsey was cured," Roger dared to remark.

"You must travel to the Barbacan," she explained, "to the flattened top
of Mount Aida and the arm of Avelyn Desbris. You will see blood in his
palm. Kiss it, taste it, and you need not fear the rosy plague anymore."

"The Barbacan?" the man replied, his face bloodless. All about him,
people began repeating that question, that name.

Pony understood their terror. Along with the fact that the Barbacan was
a place of legendary evil that had been home of the latest incarnation of the
demon dactyl, the difficulty of that northern, wild road gave them all pause.
Again that tumult of questions, simple logistical problems, assaulted her
thoughts. They had to go to the Barbacan, everyone afflicted-and even
those who were not yet caught in the grasp of the plague would do well to
make the journey.
But how?

Pony went back to Fellowship Way soon after, needing rest. The towns-
folk had asked her to lead them to the Barbacan, and she had told them
that she would answer them in the morning, but in truth, she had known
her answer all along. She could not go back now. No, her road must con-
tinue to the south, to Caer Tinella and to Palmaris, at least. The word had
to be spread far and wide.

She knew the only hope for making this miracle known to the whole
land: she would have to enlist the aid of the King's soldiers and the Abel-
lican brothers. All of them.

Even if she accomplished such a thing, though, how could she secure the
northern road so that the pilgrimages could begin at once?

For every passing minute brought pain and grief, every passing day made
the pile of corpses grow larger.

Pony fell asleep with those disturbing thoughts in mind, trying to work
out the speech she would make to Braumin and the others, to King Danube
and Duke Kalas, trying to figure out some way that Bradwarden and Bolster
could find aid to begin the first pilgrimages. She woke up sometime later,
the night still dark, the dawn still far away.

She had her answer.

Pony fell into the soul stone once more, freeing her spirit from its corpo-
real bonds, then flying, flying across the miles to the west.

Soon after, she came to a place where she knew that she was not wel-
come, but she called out anyway for the lady of the land.

A few minutes passed; Pony considered plunging through the misty vei]
that covered Andur'Blough Inninness, invading the elven homeland with
her spirit. But then, suddenly, she felt a pull and recognized that Lad)
Dasslerond was using the magic of her emerald gemstone to bring more ol
Pony's corporeal form to the place, that they might speak more clearly.

And then the lady of Caer'alfar was before her, glaring at her danger
ously. Pony noted that many other Touel'alfar were about, and that thosi
she caught sight of were carrying their deadly little bows. Instinctively, shi
reached down and felt her own body, recognizing that she was solid enougl
for Dasslerond's archers to truly harm her.

"We have already had this discussion," the lady said sternly. "Our boi
ders are closed, Jilseponie, to you and to all others of your race."

"The situation has changed," Pony started to say.

"No, it has not!" Lady Dasslerond insisted, narrowing her golden eye
"The plague is a problem for the human kingdoms. We'll not let it, or yoi
touch Andur'Blough Inninness. Now begone from this place-I will relea;

your body and I expect your spirit to follow. On pain of death, Jilseponi
your spirit must follow."

"I have found a cure!" Pony yelled at her, and that did cause the lady
eyes to open wide.
"At the Barbacan, the arm ofAvelyn," Pony began to explain, "the same
arm that brought forth the miracle and killed the goblins. The palm bleeds,
Lady Dasslerond, and that blood, the blood of Avelyn, confers immunity to
the plague."

"Our community has not been touched by the plague," Dasslerond
replied. "Why, then, do you come to tell us?"

" Because you must know, for if the plague does find your valley, you can
survive," Pony replied.

Lady Dasslerond thought for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps we mis-
judged your return," she admitted. "You have our gratitude for this infor-
mation. Should we find that we need it, we will heed your words."

"But I need your help," Pony boldly went on. "The folk will begin their
march to the Barbacan, by the dozens, the score, the hundreds. Until King
Danube and the Abellican monks get their people in place, that will be a
road fraught with danger, I fear. With goblins and starvation."

"What do you expect of the Touel'alrar? " Dasslerond asked, a tightness
coming back to her voice.

"I expect nothing," Pony replied, "but I beg of you that you lend aid in
this time of our need. A host of elves would greatly aid that necessary
journey. Your people could chase away the goblins, even could leave food
along the road, and would never have to make contact with the pilgrims.
You could-"

"Enough!" Dasslerond interrupted. "Your point is made."

"And is my plea heard? "

The lady made no movement, no shake of the head and no confirm-
ing nod.

"Begone from this place, Jilseponie," she ordered after a short while.

Pony started to argue, but she felt a sudden tug as her body separated
yet again from her spirit and sped back to her room in Dundalis. She
blinked her spirit eyes open to find that Dasslerond had already receded
into the misty blanket of fog. She thought to follow, to demand an answer,
but Pony understood it all too clearly: if she did go down there, Lady
Dasslerond would use her emerald to bring her body back, and then she
would be killed.

Bradwarden and Dainsey arrived in Dundalis the next morning, to find
the folk already preparing to make a pilgrimage to the north. How they
cheered Dainsey, many running over to give the miraculously cured woman
a big hug, though it was obvious that Roger didn't want to share her with
anyone!

"I'm going to need you to lead them back to the Barbacan," Pony said to
Bradwarden when she found her way to him.

"Bradwarden and Roger and me," Dainsey said, her eyes sparkling.

Pony shook her head. "I need you," she explained to the woman. "We
must go south, to Palmaris, perhaps farther, to show them the miracle, to
begin the pilgrimages."

"South, then," Roger said.

"But north for you," Pony said to Roger. He started to protest, but her
simple logic cut him short. "You have not yet entered the covenant of
Avelyn," she reminded.

"I do not want to be away from Dainsey," said Roger, and he and his
wife stared lovingly at each other.

"You will have your time together," Pony promised, "but not now." She
grabbed Dainsey by the arm and pulled her away from the man. "You ride
Greystone, and I, Symphony."

"Now?" Roger asked. "This very minute? She has just returned, weary
already from the road. And we have not even found the chance to-"

"And every minute we wait means that another person will die," Pony
said. "That is the truth, is it not? And measured against that truth, does
Roger still believe that we should tarry here in Dundalis? "

The man looked at her plaintively, then turned his loving gaze back to
Dainsey. But then he sighed and kissed his wife. "You and Pony go with all
speed," he said.

"Not Pony," Jilseponie stated, more out of reflex than any conscious
thought. Both Roger and Dainsey looked at her curiously, wondering if she
had changed her mind, if she had decided that Dainsey must go south alone
while she went back to the Barbacan. Pony looked up at them, her expres-
sion as determined as any either of them had ever seen.

"Jilseponie," she declared, "not Pony. Pony was a woman who lived qui-
etly in Dundalis. I go south as Jilseponie."

Roger thought about that for a long moment, then nodded. "A fine road
and a fast horse to both Dainsey and Jilseponie, then," he said. "Go with all
speed."

They did just that, riding out of Dundalis only a few minutes later.

"I telled ye she'd find her heart," Bradwarden remarked to Roger as they
watched the pair gallop away.

"Off to save the world," the dejected man said with more than a little
sarcasm.

"She lit her fires." The centaur laughed. "Now she's ready to go and
fight, beside Braumin, against the plague. Against the Duke, if he's not
hearin' her, and against the King himself, if she has to. Ye remember her
walk across Palmaris when she had enough o' the fool Markwart? " Brad-
warden said with a laugh.

Roger stared hard at the centaur. He did indeed remember that journey
Jilseponie had made across the city. All who witnessed the bared power of
the angry woman remembered it well, and would not soon forget.

"Why're ye lookin' so wounded?" Bradwarden asked, clapping Roger
hard on the shoulder. "Weren't ye the one complainin' when she came
back to us after refusin' both city and Church? Well, boy, ye got what ye
wanted!"

"Maybe she can make a difference," Roger admitted.

"To herself, at least," said the centaur, and Roger looked at him curi-
ously. "Ye need yer purpose in life, lad," Bradwarden explained. "Without
it, ye got nothin'. She's seein' her power now, and clearly, and knowin' the
responsibility that power's bringin' to her. If she doesn't use it, or at least
try, then she'll be failin' her very purpose, and that's a wound ye canno'
heal."

"You think she'll beat them all?" Roger asked.

"I'm not knowin' if ye ever can, nor is Pony," Bradwarden admitted,
"but ye can beat 'em one at a time, beat 'em back and go on as best as ye
can. Pony'11 do good for the kingdom, don't ye doubt, and for the little folk
who got no hope. A hunnerd, hunnerd will live better, or live at all, because
of her workin's, and how can Pony ignore that callin'? "

"Jilseponie," Roger corrected.

They came toward him, toward him, smelling of peat, their lifeless eyes
staring at him, envious of his warmth. He tried to run-always before he
had been able to escape-but this time, the walking dead had come to him
in greater numbers and seemingly in coordinated fashion. Whichever way
he turned, they were there, reaching for his throat with stiff arms.

He kicked out at one, spun and punched the face of another zombie-
though the horrid creature showed no sign that it had felt the blow.

He dropped and scrambled desperately, pushing through.

But they crowded around him, a wall of rotting, dirty flesh, and he had
nowhere to run.

He called out for his companions, but then realized that he had no com-
panions, that he was on his own.

And so he tried to fight, briefly, but then he was down on his back, the
walking dead looming over him, coming down at him . . . down at him.

Duke Tetrafel woke up with a shriek, clawing at his bedsheets so wildly
that he wound up on the floor in a tumble of blankets. He continued to
scream and thrash for some time, until the haze of dreams flitted away,
revealing the dawn, the secure dawn in Chasewind Manor.

He sat there on the floor for some time. The dream was not new to him,
had followed him all the way across Honce-the-Bear every night since his
expedition had been savaged by the little folk and their host of zombies.

But this time, for the first time in his dreams, he had found no escape.
This time, for the first time, the walking dead had caught him. Duke Tetrafel
pondered that disturbing notion for some time, until the door of his room
banged open and one of his attendants came rushing in.

"My Duke!" the man cried. "Are you murdered? "

Tetrafel chuckled and held up an arm to keep the concerned fool at bay.
To his surprise, though, his signal, while stopping the attendant, onh
seemed to make the man grow even more concerned. He stood a few strides
away, gawking openly, and then, to Tetrafel's further astonishment, he began
shaking his head and backing away.

"What is it?" the Duke asked, but the man did not-seemed as if he
could not-respond. He continued backing, almost to the door.

"Speak up, fool," Tetrafel demanded. "What is-"

The man turned and bolted from the room.

Still on the floor amid the tumble of blankets, Tetrafel stared at the open
door for a long time, wondering.

And then it hit him, and then the variation of his too-common dream
made perfect sense. Slowly, slowly, he brought his arm back in and turned
it over.

Rosy spots.

His screams came even more loudly than before.

Abbot Braumin rubbed his hands together nervously as he walked along
the quiet corridors of St. Precious. The day had not been good, not at all,
with devastating rumors rolling along the unruly streets of Palmaris. And
now this news, of a secret visitor that Viscenti had considered important
enough to be admitted to the abbey-quietly and after a thorough gem-
stone inspection.

The abbot came to the door and paused, taking a deep and steadying
breath, trying to find his heart. He pushed through, to find Shamus Kil-
ronney waiting for him.

"Brother Viscenti claims that you are packed for the road," the abbot
said, trying to keep his tone lighthearted.

"As long a road as I can find, my friend," Shamus said, coming forward
and offering a handshake to the abbot. "I have seen too much of all this. I
have no heart left for it."

"Palmaris will be a lesser place without you," Braumin remarked.

"Palmaris will be a place of catastrophe whether I remain or not,"
Shamus corrected. "You have heard the rumors? "

"I hear many rumors every day," said Braumin. "I cannot begin to sort
fact from fancy."

Shamus nodded and chuckled, and Braumin knew that the man under-
stood his evasiveness for what it was. He had indeed heard the specific
rumor to which Shamus Kilronney must be referring, and his obvious
dodge made that truth quite clear.

"It is more than rumor," Shamus said gravely. "Duke Tetrafel has the
plague and is even now in a fit of panic at Chasewind Manor."

"As he should be," Braumin said with sincere sympathy.

"He will turn his eyes outward from his insecure sanctuary, will look to
St. Precious for aid," said Shamus.
"He and I have already discussed-"

"None of that will matter," Shamus interrupted firmly. "His desperation
will lead him to your gates, do not doubt." He held his hand up to stop
Braumin's forthcoming, expected response. "And you will turn him away. I
am leaving, my friend. I cannot suffer this catastrophe any longer."

That last statement, linked with Shamus' insistence that Tetrafel would
come for help, explained it all to Braumin. The catastrophe to which
Shamus was referring was not the plague itself but the coming storm when
Duke Tetrafel realized that St. Precious would not help him. Shamus was
foreseeing-and quite logically, it seemed to Braumin-the chaos that would
ensue within the city, the all-out riot, even warfare, between Tetrafel and
the abbey. To Braumin's thinking, the brothers of St. Precious had already
lost the city, a situation made even more dangerous by the arrival of
De'Unnero and the Brothers Repentant. If Duke Tetrafel, instead of merely
remaining neutral, actually put his muscle behind De'Unnero and the
roused populace, then St. Precious would be hard pressed indeed!

"Where will you go? " Braumin asked his friend.

"North, perhaps," Shamus answered, "to Caer Tinella, and maybe
farther-maybe all the way to the Timberlands."

"Is there nothing you can do to help us?" Braumin asked somberly.

"Is there nothing you can do to help Duke Tetrafel?" Shamus replied.

Abbot Braumin looked around, then rolled his eyes and shook his head
helplessly. "Then pray for us, my friend," he said.

Shamus Kilronney nodded, patted Braumin on the shoulder, and turned
to go.

Abbot Braumin could not bring himself to judge the man, for in truth, he
wished that he might run away with Shamus.
CHAPTER 38
A Miracle for Francis

Francis slapped futilely at the green swamp of plague that bubbled up
all around his arms. He knew that this woman, too, was near death,
but he could hardly bear the thought of watching yet another one
die, the third in three days.




And so he fought, if not to buy some time for the poor infected woman,
then to buy some time for his own shattered sensibilities.

Francis didn't notice that the plague within this woman did not attack his
spiritual presence with any vigor, and so he didn't pause to wonder about
this change and its implications.

He came out of his battle soon after, having done little good. He stared
down at the poor woman, so close to death; and then, as he turned to leave,
he found all the world suddenly spinning.
Francis hit the ground facedown.

Huffing and puffing with every running stride, Father Abbot Agronguerre
hurried to the front gate tower, where Bou-raiy, Machuso, Glendenhook,
and many others had gathered. He pushed through the crowd of brothers
to get to the wall, and peering over, beyond the tussie-mussie bed, he saw
the spectacle that had so attracted them.

There lay Brother Francis, his head propped up by the one-eyed woman
of whom so many demanded beatification.

"The plague has found Brother Francis," Master Machuso softly
explained.

"Ring around the rosy," Master Bou-raiy said dryly. "The old songs do
not lie."

There came murmurs of assent from all about, with many hands moving
through the evergreen gesture.

Father Abbot Agronguerre stared long and hard out over that misty
morning field, thoroughly frustrated. He had been living vicariously
through Francis, he understood, had been saluting the man's courage and
his few triumphs, and also, that greatest triumph of all: that he had been out
among the plague victims working tirelessly, yet for all these months, had
found miraculous immunity to the dreaded disease.

But now, in the blink of an eye, it seemed, all those notions of miracle
had been washed away. There could be no doubt, even looking at him from
this distance. Mere exhaustion alone had not felled Brother Francis.

"This is why we follow the precepts and heed the words of the old
songs," Fio Bou-raiy went on, turning as he spoke, as if making a speech to
the whole gathering. "Our gift from our brothers who came before us lies
in the wisdom that they passed down to us, and what greater fools are we if
we do not heed their words!"

Again came the murmurs of assent, but it all sounded very wrong to
Father Abbot Agronguerre. Not wrong in a practical matter, for he knew
he would not run down then and there and throw wide the abbey gates. But
wrong in a spiritual sense, in the very tone of Bou-raiy, excited and justified,
and in those palpable sighs of relief from all gathered here in the relative
safety behind thick stone walls and tussie-mussie aromas.

"Does it please you to see Brother Francis downed?" Agronguerre asked
suddenly, the question, as it registered, widening Bou-raiy's eyes with sur-
prise and bringing a gasp of near disbelief from Glendenhook. Even
Machuso shifted uncomfortably.

But Agronguerre would not relent so easily. "Every one of you take heed
of Brother Francis and the sacrifice that he made," he said forcefully, letting
his gaze drift from surprised brother to brother. "If in your hearts, even
secretly, you foster some relief, some justification of our course, in seeing
Brother Francis stricken ill, if somewhere deep in your heart and soul you
believe the man a fool deserving of such a fate, then I expect you at the
sacrament of Penitence this very day. We hide because pragmatic Church
doctrine demands it of us, but we, every one of us, should wish that we are
possessed of such courage as Brother Francis', that we are possessed of
such compassion and generosity. We can look out upon him now, knowing
that his end is near, and feel justification, or we can look out upon him now
and feel sadness in losing a heroic brother."

He finished with a deep breath, then, with a final look at Fio Bou-raiy,
stormed out of the gate tower, needing the security of his own chambers.

Inside the gate tower, the mood was more somber and reflective, with
many brothers murmuring and shaking their heads.

"So will you go to Penitence?" Master Glendenhook asked Bou-raiy.

The older master scoffed at the notion. "Brother Francis was guided by
emotions that I cannot discredit," he said, loudly enough to draw the atten-
tion of all the gathering, "but he erred in his thinking."

That seemingly direct contradiction to what the Father Abbot had just
said brought murmurs of surprise, even a few gasps.

"Believe not my words, for they are but opinion," Bou-raiy went on,
turning and sweeping his arm toward the spectacle beyond the wall.
"Believe what you see before you. Brother Francis ignored doctrine
because his heart was weak, because he was unable to suffer the wails of the
dying. Nay, we cannot argue his emotions, but there before us lies the truth
of his course. Perhaps his compassion and generosity, great gifts both, will
grant him some measure of mercy in the eyes of God, whom he will soon
meet; but he will need that mercy because he refused to accept the greater
responsibility that has been thrust upon us-that legacy of constancy, of
protecting the Church itself, and not our own fragile selves, against the
onslaught of the rosy plague.

"Follow Francis, all of us, to the fields and to the grave? " he asked dra-
matically. "Aye, and then, in our weakness, do we plunge the future world
of Corona into complete and utter darkness!"

His departure was not less forceful or dramatic than Agronguerre's.

Master Glendenhook, along with everyone else, watched Bou-raiy storm
away. He had just witnessed the prelude to a titanic struggle, Glendenhook
believed, for it seemed obvious to him then that his friend Fio Bou-raiy
would not back down, would fight Agronguerre to the very end if the sight
of fallen Francis began to weaken the old Father Abbot's resolve.

An image of Agronguerre lying on the field in place of Francis came to
Glendenhook's mind then, and with new Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy watch-
ing the spectacle from the security of St.-Mere-Abelle.

At that particular moment, it seemed quite plausible.

Brother Francis awakened to what he thought was the sound of angels
singing, a chorus of joyous and beautiful harmonies fitting of heaven. When
he opened his eyes, he saw that it was indeed.

Scores of pitiful plague-ridden peasants ringed him, their hands joined
together, their voices blended in chanting prayer. He recognized some who
had been too weak even to stand earlier the previous night; but with the
support of their neighbors, they were standing now and smiling, every one,
despite their pain.

Francis rolled to his side and with great effort managed to stand up,
turning slowly, slowly, looking into the eyes of his angels, sharing their love
and returning it with all his heart.

A fit of panic hit him then suddenly, as he realized that he did not
have his precious soul stone. He glanced all around at the ground, hoping
that someone from St.-Mere-Abelle had not sneaked out and stolen away
with it.

But then, as if in answer to the plaintive expression upon his face, a frail
and scarred, one-eyed little woman shuffled toward him with her hand
extended, the gray stone upon her upraised palm.

"Thank you, Merry," Francis whispered, taking the stone. "My work is
not yet done."
"They're praying for yerself, Brother Francis," Merry replied. "Every
one's sending ye his heart. Ye take yer stone and work upon yer own
troubles."

Francis smiled, but knew that was impossible, even if he had been so
inclined, which he was not. He knew that he had the plague, and under-
stood that it was growing ravenously within him, but Brother Francis was
not bothered terribly by that harsh reality.

"We're all singing for ye, Brother Francis," Merry Cowsenfed went on.
When he looked more closely at her, Francis realized that she had tears
rimming her eye.

Tears for him! Francis had a hard time catching his breath. He could
not believe how profoundly he had touched these poor people, could not
believe that they so cared for him. He looked at them, looked at the dying,
at people he could not save, at people who knew that he could not save
them. And they were crying, for him! And they were praying, for him!

"We're not to let the rosy plague take ye, Brother Francis," Merry
Cowsenfed said determinedly. "We'll pray to God, we'll yell at God! He's
not to be takin' ye from us! Don't ye fear, we'll get ye yer miracle!"

Francis looked at her and offered the most sincere and warm smile that
had ever found its way onto his often troubled face. No, they would not
save him, he knew beyond doubt. He felt the sickness in him, bubbling and
boiling. He could do nothing against it, even with his soul stone, and nei-
ther could they. It would take him, he knew, and deliver him to the feet of
God for judgment.

For the first time in a long, long while, Brother Francis Dellacourt did
not fear that judgment.

"We'll get ye yer miracle!" Merry Cowsenfed said again loudly, and
many people joined in that cheer.

They didn't understand, Francis realized. They would indeed give him
his miracle, but not the one for which they were now praying.

They would indeed give him his miracle-they already had.
CHAPTER 39
Primal Rage

He heard the cries, the angry shouts, and the sound only spurred him on. As he approached the abbey, he heard the rattle of armor and the clatter of horses.

Marcalo De'Unnero slowed his pace, and so, too, did the Brothers
Repentant behind him, figuring that the soldiers of the Duke Tetrafel
had come to restore order yet again. Still, he continued toward the abbey,
hoping that he might find some opportunity to make life a little more
miserable for Braumin Herde and the other heretics who had stolen
St. Precious.

Turning into the square, De'Unnero's eyes brightened considerably, for
he saw that the soldiers-and it seemed as if the entire city guard had
turned out-were not impeding the peasants in any way. In fact, many were
cheering on the ragged rabble as they, one after another, charged the abbey
and launched stones at its unyielding walls.

It was a situation that seemed to De'Unnero to be on the verge of severe
escalation.

He turned to his fanatical brethren. "Our call has been heard at last," he
said eagerly. "The hour of our glory is upon us. Let us go to them, our
flock, and lead them against the heretics!"

The Brothers Repentant squealed as one, raising fists into the air and
charging out onto the courtyard before St. Precious, their red hoods over
their heads, their black robes flying out behind them.

De'Unnero was taking a chance, and he knew it. The soldiers, he
believed, would not stop him and his followers. Not this time.

"The Brothers Repentant," Anders Castinagis said with a growl.
"Marcalo De'Unnero."

Braumin Herde watched the mounting insanity, the growing riot. "Duke
Tetrafel is over there," he said, motioning across the way, to where a
decorated coach could be seen behind the line of stern-faced soldiers. "He
allows this."

"He is angry and afraid," Brother Talumus remarked.

"He is a fool," Castinagis added.

"Can we not just reveal him?" Brother Viscenti asked nervously.
"De'Unnero, I mean. They hate him. Surely they'll not follow him if they
know..."

"They fear the plague more than they hate De'Unnero," Abbot Braumin
reasoned, shaking his head. "We can reveal him, and likely that will weaken
his hold over some. But it will do little to help us in the end, for this riot was
incited not by the Brothers Repentant but by Duke Tetrafel."

The blunt inference, though it made perfect sense, unnerved them all.

"I told you before that we had lost the city," Braumin went on. "Now,
before us, we have the proof."

"They'll not get through our walls," Brother Castinagis said deter-
minedly. "Not if all the Duke's soldiers charge our gates."

"We will beat them back," Viscenti started to agree.

"No," said Braumin Herde. "No, I will not have the walls of St. Precious
stained with the blood of terrified peasants."

"Then how?" Brother Castinagis asked above the tumult that ensued
from the abbot's surprising statement. Had not Braumin, after all, already
determined that St. Precious would defend itself against all attacks?

Abbot Braumin nodded, his expression showing the other monks that he
knew something they did not-that he, perhaps, had found an answer.
"Restraint, brothers," he finished and he left them, walking briskly down
the corridor leading toward his private chambers. After a confused look at
the others, Marlboro Viscenti quickly followed his old friend.

He caught up to the abbot inside the private antechamber, finding
Braumin fumbling with the keys to his desk drawer-the one containing
most of St. Precious' gemstone stash.

"So you will arm the brothers," Viscenti reasoned as his abbot slid open
the all-important drawer. "But you just said-"

"No," Braumin corrected. "I will not have the blood of innocents
staining our walls."

"But then ..." Viscenti started to ask, but he stopped short as he saw the
abbot take only a single stone from the desk, a gray stone.

"I will go out to them," Abbot Braumin explained, "to Duke Tetrafel,
bearing the stone of healing."

"To what end?" a horrified Viscenti asked.

"To try," Braumin replied. "If I go to him and try to help, perhaps they
will relent their attacks upon our walls."

He started to leave, but Viscenti jumped in front of him.

"They will not!" the nervous little man insisted. "And when you go out
and try to heal Tetrafel-only to fail, likely-you will be adding more fire to
De'Unnero's dragon breath. He will claim that if God were really on your
side, your attempt to heal the Duke would have been successful."

"But he claims the wisdom of the true God, yet does not heal," Braumin
reasoned.

"But he does not claim that he can heal," Viscenti replied without hesita-
; tion. "He says only that the plague will continue as long as the Church
remains astray."

Abbot Braumin shook his head. "I will go to Tetrafel," he announced to
Viscenti, and to Talumus and Castinagis, who had just arrived outside of
his open door. "Perhaps I will fail, but I will try, at least."

"Because you are a coward," Viscenti said forcefully behind him.
Braumin stopped short, stunned by the uncharacteristic outburst from the
normally timid man. The abbot slowly and deliberately turned, but the
expression he found staring at him was unyielding.

"You are," Viscenti growled.

Braumin shook his head, his expression incredulous. He was about to go
out of the abbey, after all, and confront the rosy plague. How could this
man construe that to be an act of cowardice?

"You go to Duke Tetrafel, though you know it to be wrong, because you
are afraid that he will send his soldiers against us, or at least that he will not
stop the peasants from a full riot against us."

"They will not get through!" Brother Castinagis declared. "Not if all the
city converges at our front gates!"

"But that is the fear, do you not see?" Viscenti went on, hopping excit-
edly right up to Braumin. "You are afraid of the very measures you deter-
mined that we must take to defend the abbey. You would not preside over
such a slaughter! No, not that!"

His sarcastic tone set Braumin even farther back on his heels.

"But when you go out and fail, they will come anyway," Viscenti went
on, "led by De'Unnero, if not the dying Tetrafel, and then we will have to
fight on without your leadership. You are a coward," Viscenti repeated,
and he was trembling with every word. "You know what we must do, but
you'll not have the blood on your hands."

Braumin glanced back curiously at Castinagis and Talumus, to find them
staring at him coldly.

"And it will only be worse for us, then," reasoned Viscenti. "For how
shall we justify our refusal to come out and help them, all of them, if you
have broken ranks to go to the Duke? What words shall we use against the
peasant curses when you have, by your actions, told them that we who
remained within the abbey are merely cowards?"

That struck Braumin to his very core, as poignant a reminder of the rea-
sons behind Church doctrine as he had ever heard. He surprised the three
onlookers then, because he started to chuckle-not a mocking laugh, but
one of the purest helplessness.
"So you have shown me the error of my ways, my friend Viscenti,"
Braumin remarked. "I cannot go out to them, to him." He shook his head
helplessly as Viscenti sprang forward, wrapping him in a great hug.

"But we'll not aggressively deter our attackers," Braumin instructed.
"We shall hold them back as we must, but with limited magic only. A stun-
ning stroke, perhaps, but not a killing one, if that can be avoided."

Castinagis didn't seem pleased with that, but he nodded his agreement.

Shamus Kilronney came into Caer Tinella to find the place infested with
plague, but also to find, to his surprise, an aura of hope and determination
about the common folk. These were not people preparing to die, Shamus
Kilronney realized, but ones preparing to fight. To his continued surprise,
Shamus saw that those afflicted with the plague were not being ostracized
and told to leave but rather were being embraced by those seemingly unaf-
flicted. While this generous compassion touched him, he honestly won-
dered if the folk of Caer Tinella had all gone crazy.

He met with Janine of the Lake, the appointed mayor of the town, soon
after.

"Got it meself," Janine explained, and she rolled up her blouse sleeve to
show the telltale rosy spots, all over her arm. "Thought me time o' living
was growing short."

"Thought?" Shamus echoed skeptically, and he instinctively recoiled
from the diseased woman.

"Thought," Janine said firmly, fixing the man with as determined a stare
as he had ever seen. "Now I'm knowing better, knowing a way to fight back
and to live."

Shamus continued to match her stare, his skeptical expression hardly
relenting.

Janine gave a great belly laugh. "Thought!" she said again. "But then
Pony-no, she's wanting to be called Jilseponie now-came to us and
showed us the truth."

Shamus winced, thinking, perhaps, that his old friend Jilseponie might
have seen too much of the dying and the suffering, that she, like the
Brothers Repentant, might have discovered some false insight into the
causes of the rosy plague.

"She cured Dainsey Aucomb, she did," Janine insisted against his unre-
lenting stare. "Took the plague right out o' her."

Shamus didn't blink. He knew that a person could be cured of the plague
with the gemstones, but he knew, too, that such cures were rare indeed.
While he was glad to hear that his friend Jilseponie was still alive, he did
not dare to believe that she had become all-powerful with those gemstones.
No, Shamus knew of the fate of his cousin Colleen, who had died in Jilse-
ponie's arms.
He knew better.

"And she has cured you, as well? " he asked.

Janine gave another laugh. "She chased the plague back a bit," she
explained, "but not cured, no."

"Then you are still sick."

Janine nodded.

"But you just spoke of a cure," the increasingly frustrated man blurted.

"So I did, and so Jilseponie found one," Janine quietly and calmly ex-
plained, "but not here. No, here she can give ye a bit o' rest from the
fighting, but to get yerself truly cured ye must be walking, me friend, all
the way to the Barbacan and Mount Aida, to the hand o' the angel and
the healing blood. We're readying for just such a journey-the whole
town's going north-and the three Timberland towns're already on the
road to Aida."

"What?" Shamus asked helplessly, shaking his head and screwing his
expression up into one of pure incredulity, as if the whole thing sounded
perfectly preposterous. "Where is Jilseponie? "

"Went to Landsdown to help 'em out over there and to get them ready
for the road," Janine replied.

Shamus was on the road in a few minutes, riding hard for Landsdown,
the sister village of Caer Tinella, a cluster of houses but an hour away.

When he entered the town, he saw a great gathering in the central
square, where a tent had been hastily erected. A line of plague victims had
formed in front of it, while other people, apparently healthy, rushed about,
loading wagons with supplies.

Though he certainly had no desire to go anywhere near the plague-
ridden victims, Shamus suppressed his revulsion and his fear and walked
along the line until he could see the front of it, where a woman, a familiar
face indeed, worked on them, one by one, with a magical gemstone.

Shamus moved up beside Jilseponie, who was deep into the magic,
working on a young boy, and patiently waited. A few minutes later, Jilse-
ponie opened her eyes, and the boy smiled widely and ran off. The next
sickly plague victim shuffled forward.

Jilseponie glanced to the side, and her expression brightened consider-
ably when she saw her old friend. She held up her hand to motion the
next victim to wait a moment, then stood up-with great effort, Shamus
noted-and came forward to offer a friend a hug.

Shamus stiffened at the touch, and Jilseponie pulled him back to arm's
length, laughing knowingly. "You have nothing to fear from me," she
explained. "The rosy plague cannot touch me now."

"You have become the great healer of the world?" Shamus asked with
more than a hint of sarcasm.

Jilseponie shook her head. "Not I," she explained.
Shamus looked to the line of the sick, to the boy Jilseponie had Just
apparently helped, who was working hard with some others loading a
wagon.

"I do nothing that any brother trained with the gemstones could not do,"
Jilseponie said.

"I have seen their work against the rosy plague," Shamus corrected.
"They can do little or nothing, and are so terrified that they hide themselves
behind their abbey walls."

"They have not kissed the hand," she answered, and she took her seat,
motioning for the next sufferer to come forward. She glanced up at Shamus
once more, to find him wearing a perfectly incredulous expression.

"Why do you doubt?" she asked him. "Did not you yourself witness a
miracle at the arm ofAvelyn?"

"But not against the plague."

"Well, I have so witnessed such a miracle against the plague," Jilseponie
answered firmly. "I brought Dainsey to Avelyn, and she was as near to
death as anyone I have ever seen. There is blood on his hand-perpetually,
I believe-and the taste of that blood brought life back into her body. I saw
it myself, and knew that when I, too, kissed the hand, I needed no longer
fear the rosy plague."

"And so they are going, all of them? " Shamus asked.

"All of them and all the world," Jilseponie answered.

"But how do you know?" the man pressed. "The blood? Will it con-
tinue? Will it truly heal?"

Jilseponie fixed him with a perfectly contented and confident smile. "I
know," was all that she answered, and she went back to her work, brushing
her hand over the feverish forehead of the woman patiently waiting, then
lifting the soul stone to her lips.

"We must talk later," Shamus said. Jilseponie gave a slight nod, then fell
into the magic of the stone.

A very shaken Shamus Kilronney walked out of the tent, straight to the
tavern across the way. The place was empty, but Shamus went to the bar
and poured himself a very potent drink.

Jilseponie joined him there later, looking quite exhausted but quite
relaxed.

"They should all survive the journey," she explained, "or at least, the
plague will not take any of them on the road to Aida." She turned down her
eyes. "Except for one," she admitted. "He is too thick with the plague, and
even if I were to work with him all the way to Aida, which I cannot do, he
could not possibly survive."

Shamus stared at her, shaking his head. "You seem to have figured it all
out," he remarked.

"I was told," Jilseponie corrected. "The spirit of Avelyn, through the
ghost of Romeo Mullahy, showed me the truth."
Shamus hardly seemed convinced, but Jilseponie only shrugged, too
tired to argue.

"So, you can now help to heal the people? " Shamus asked. "Because you
tasted the blood and are now impervious to the plague? "

Jilseponie nodded. "I can help them," she said, accepting the glass
Shamus handed her. "Some of them, at least. But so could any other
brother who has kissed Avelyn's hand. I need not fear the plague anymore,
and that freedom allows me to fight it back in most people."

"But not in those terribly afflicted," Shamus reasoned.

Jilseponie shook her head and swallowed the drink. "For many it is too
late, I fear," she explained, "and every day I tarry, more will die."

Shamus' expression turned to one of horror. "You accept that responsi-
bility? " he asked.

"If not me, then who? "

He still just stared at her.

"I will not go north with them-they leave in the morning," she went on.
"But you should go. Indeed, you must-both to help protect them and to
kiss the hand yourself." She looked deeply into Shamus' eyes, her pleading
expression reminding him of who she was and of all that they had gone
through together. " Bradwarden leads the Timberland folk. Shamus should
help lead the folk of these two towns.

"And Shamus should remain in the northland," Jilseponie continued. It
was clear to him that she was making up plans as she went. "To stand guard
with whatever force he can muster. To keep the road to the Barbacan clear
for those who must make the pilgrimage."

Shamus Kilronney, who had traveled the long, long road to the Bar-
bacan, scoffed at the notion. "You will need the King's army for that!" he
insisted.

"I intend to enlist the King's army," Jilseponie answered, her tone so
strong and grim that Shamus rocked back in his chair and found, to his
absolute surprise, that he did not doubt her for a second. But that only
reminded him of another pressing problem.

"Palmaris," he said gravely. "The people are rioting, and Duke Tetrafel
encourages it. For he, too, has contracted the plague, and Abbot Braumin
can do nothing to help him."

Jilseponie nodded, seeming hardly surprised, and not overconcerned.

"The folk are being prodded, too, by the Brothers Repentant," Shamus
explained, "a group of wayward monks claiming that the plague is a result
of the Church going astray, away from Markwart and toward Avelyn."

Jilseponie did wince a bit at that information.

"They are led by Marcalo De'Unnero, so I have been told," Shamus went
on. He poured another strong drink, for he could see, without doubt, from
her stunned expression and from the way the blood drained from her face,
that she surely needed one.
*        *        *

Stone after stone slammed against the wall or soared over it, making
those few monks on the outside parapet duck for cover.

Down in the square below, De'Unnero and his black-and-red-robed
brethren ran all about, urging the rabble on.

And on they came, shouting curses, throwing stones, and hoisting make-
shift ladders up against the abbey walls. Another group charged the front
gates, a huge battering ram rolling along between their two lines.

"Abbot Braumin!" Castinagis cried from up front, for the abbot had
bidden the monks to use all restraint. With that battering ram rolling at
them, though, they had to act fast.

"Defend the abbey," Braumin agreed, his voice a harsh whisper, and he
turned and walked away.

He heard the sharp retort of a lightning stroke behind him, heard the
cries of pain and of outrage, heard the continuing rain of stones, and heard,
above all else, the voice of Marcalo De'Unnero, rousing the crowd to new
heights of frenzy.

For hours they assaulted the abbey; for hours, the monks drove them
away. Wherever a ladder went up, a brother was on the spot, pushing it
away; while others launched magic crossbow bolts, even hot oil, at the
would-be invaders. Dozens died at the base of St. Precious' ancient stone
wall, while scores more were wounded.

The next day, they were back again, even more of them, it seemed; and
this time another force accompanied the Brothers Repentant and the angry
peasants. The sound of great horns heralded the arrival of Duke Tetrafel
and his soldiers, all of them outfitted for battle.

Abbot Braumin was on his way to the front wall even before the mes-
senger came running for him. "It is the Duke," the younger brother tried to
explain as they hurried along. "He has brought an army and claims that we
must surrender our abbey!"

Braumin didn't answer, just hurried on his way, arriving at the parapet
above the front gate tower beside his three closest advisers.

"Abbot Braumin!" came the cry from the herald standing at Tetrafel's side.

"I am here," Braumin replied, stepping forward into plain view-and
well aware that many of Tetrafel's archers had likely just trained their
arrows on him.

The herald cleared his throat and unrolled a parchment. "By order of
Duke Timian Tetrafel, Baron of Palmaris, you and your brethren now
secluded within the abbey are declared outlaws in the city of Palmaris and
are ordered to vacate St. Precious posthaste. Because Duke Tetrafel is a
generous and noble man, you will not be prosecuted, as long as you depart
the city this very day and promise not to return!"

Abbot Braumin stared hard at Tetrafel all through the reading, purposely
keeping all emotion off his face.
"We have spoken of going to Caer Tinella to open the chapel ofAvelyn,"
Viscenti remarked.

Braumin turned and stared at him, but shook his head determinedly.
"Duke Tetrafel!" he cried out powerfully. "You have no jurisdiction here
and no power to make such demands."

The herald started to respond, but Tetrafel, obviously still possessed of
some amount of vigor, grabbed the man and pulled him back. "All the city
has come out against you!" he yelled at Braumin. "How can you claim the
rights of a Church when you have no followers? "

"We did not give you the plague, Duke Tetrafel," Abbot Braumin
bluntly answered.

"But you did!" came a cry from the side, from De'Unnero. He ran out
before the gathering, waving his arms at the crowd. "They did! Their sacri-
lege has brought the vengeance of God upon us all! Unseat them and He
will be contented, and the plague will lift from our lands and our homes!"

"Duke Tetrafel!" Braumin called out, "We did not give you the plague,
nor have we the power to cure your sickness. But how many times have the
brothers of St. Precious-"

"Out!" the Duke interrupted, leaping out of his carriage and stumbling
forward. "Out, I say! Get you gone from that building and from my city!"

Abbot Braumin stared down at him; his cold expression gave the fright-
ened and angry man all the answer that he needed.

" Then you are besieged, I say!" Duke Tetrafel declared. " If the night has
passed and you have not fled the abbey and the city, then know that you
leave your walls at your own great peril. Besieged! And know that our
patience is not great. Your terms of surrender worsen with each passing
hour!"

Braumin turned and walked away. "If they come on again, defend the
abbey with all necessary force," he told his friends. "And, please, for my
own peace of mind, if the opportunity presents itself, strike Marcalo
De'Unnero dead."

Castinagis and Talumus nodded grimly at the request, but Viscenti, more
familiar with De'Unnero's reputation, blanched at the mere thought of it.
He watched Braumin go back into the abbey and wondered if he had been
foolish to talk his friend out of going to Duke Tetrafel's aid, wondered if
they should not take the offer and vacate Palmaris at once. All of them,
every one.

Viscenti looked back to the courtyard, to see De'Unnero leading a prayer
session with hundreds-no, thousands!-of folk gathering about the
square, lifting their voices in response to his own. The Brothers Repentant
filtered through the crowd, enlisting allies.

No, this would be no traditional siege, Viscenti knew. The outraged
peasants would come at them again and then again, until St. Precious was
no more than a burned-out husk of broken stone. And what would happen
to the brothers? he wondered. Would they be dragged through the streets
and tortured to death? Burned at the stake, perhaps, like poor Master
Jojonah?

He heard the prayers and, more clearly, the words of anger, the prom-
ises that the brothers of St. Precious would pay for bringing the plague
upon them.

A shudder coursed down Viscenti's spine. He did not sleep at all that night.

"Here they come," Brother Talumus said grimly to the monks standing
at his side between the outer wall parapets a few mornings later. He knew,
and so did the others, that this would be the worst assault yet. Duke
Tetrafel had declared a siege, but in truth, the actual attacks against the
abbey had increased daily, for the common folk, roused by De'Unnero and
with many of them plague-ridden and thus short of time, had no patience
for any lengthy siege.

A hail of stones led the way, followed by the ladder bearers and many
with makeshift grapnels attached to long lengths of rope. A group stub-
bornly picked up the battering ram, which had been repelled three times
already-the last time with a dozen peasants toting it slain-and started
toward the main gate, cheering with each grunting stride.

Monks scrambled along the outer wall, some with gemstones, some with
crossbows, some with heavy clubs or knives. They threw lightning and shot
quarrels, pushed aside ladders and slashed ropes.

A hail of arrows soared in just above the wall. Several brothers dropped,
some groaning, some lying very still.

"Tetrafel's archers!" Brother Talumus cried, scrambling in a defensive
crouch. "Lightning to the back! Lightning to the back!"

Abbot Braumin rose up bravely down the line, graphite in hand. He
brought forth a streaking white bolt, slamming into the archer line, scat-
tering men. He started to duck back for cover, but saw a figure he could not
ignore: De'Unnero, rushing madly among the charging peasants, cheering
them on to certain death.

A second bolt, much weaker in intensity, erupted from Braumin's hand,
but De'Unnero saw it coming, and with the reflexes of a cat, he skipped
aside, just getting clipped on one leg.

With a yell that sounded more like a feral growl, the wild monk charged
the abbey.

Braumin glanced all about, seeking the rope or ladder that De'Unnero
might use, and in his distraction, he did not note that the monk's strides
resembled more the gallop of a tiger than the run of a man. Hardly missing
a step, De'Unnero came to the base of the wall and leaped up, up, clearing
the twenty-five-foot height, catching hold of the crenellated wall and pull-
ing himself up with frightening agility and ease right before the stunned
Braumin.
He hit the abbot with a blow that dropped him to the stone, A pair of
brothers rushed De'Unnero, but he dipped, thrust one leg out and tripped
one, then pushed the tumbling man off the parapet and down to the court-
yard; then he rolled under the lunge of the second, catching the scrambling
man on his shoulder. De'Unnero's left hand snapped in with a sharp blow
to the monk's throat and then, with hardly an effort, he flung the man right
over the wall.

The unfortunate monk was still alive when he hit the ground outside the
abbey. The peasants fell over him like a flock of ravenous carrion birds.

A third brother approached De'Unnero, loaded crossbow out before him.

De'Unnero locked his gaze, studied his eyes, and anticipated every move-
ment, and even as the man squeezed the trigger, the powerful tiger legs
twitched, launching De'Unnero skyward. The bolt crossed harmlessly be-
neath him.

De'Unnero came down, exploding into a charge that had the cross-
bowman helpless. He hit the man repeatedly, his fists smashing bone, and
this monk was dead before he ever went over the wall.

Still more monks charged the savage warrior, heedless of their doom,
thinking only to protect their fallen abbot. De'Unnero went for Braumin
and rolled him over as he raised his fist for the killing blow, wanting
Braumin to see it coming.

A lightning bolt hit the weretiger in midchest, sending him rolling over
the wall. He landed lightly-miraculously to the stunned peasants!-and
shook away the stinging pain.

He could not go right back up, for many monks had then converged on
the area, many of them with crossbows and all of them aiming his way.

De'Unnero quickly melted back into the crowd.

Despite that setback, the rabble came on furiously, scaling the walls,
pounding at the doors. The brothers responded with everything they pos-
sessed, but their magic was fast weakening and their numbers, though they
took care to stay protected, continued to dwindle under the rain of arrows
from Tetrafel's archers.

Abbot Braumin, dazed from the punch and bleeding from the nose-but
refusing any help from a brother with a soul stone-looked around at the
confusion, at the sheer mass of people coming at the abbey, at Tetrafel's
deadly archers raining death from the back of the square, and he knew.

St. Precious would fall this day, and he and all of his brethren would be
executed.

She heard the too-familiar sound of battle as she approached the
northern wall of Palmaris, the cries of rage and of pain, the slash of steel,
the thunder of magical lightning and a deeper, resonating sound: a bat-
tering ram thumping against a heavy gate.

Jilseponie urged Symphony into a faster trot, trying to get a bearing on it
All. She noted that no soldiers manned the wall, that the gates were closed
but apparently unguarded.

"Open!" she cried, now urging Symphony into a canter. "Open for
Jilseponie!"

No response.

She knew then that it was St. Precious under attack, and the absence of
city soldiers made it apparent to her that Shamus' warning about Duke
Tetrafel was on the mark.

"Come in with care, as you may," she said to Dainsey, who rode Greystone
beside her. Jilseponie slowed Symphony just enough so that she could fumble
within her gemstone pouch, pulling forth several stones, and then she sent
her thoughts to him, straight on, asking him for a full and flying gallop.

And flying it was indeed, for as they approached-the horse not slowing
at all but taking confidence in his rider-Jilseponie activated the malachite.
Squeezing her legs and urging Symphony into a great leap, they went up,
up, lifting nearly weightlessly into the air, their great momentum keeping
them flying forward, rather than merely levitating.

Over the wall they went, but Jilseponie didn't then relinquish the magic.
Her thoughts, her energy, flowed into the stone powerfully, keeping them
aloft. She liked the vantage point, and the image she might bring this way to
the battlefield.

But how to steer? And how to maintain speed if Symphony's strong legs
couldn't contact the ground?

Another thought-Avelyn-inspired, she knew-came to her, and she
reached into her pouch and took out another stone, a lodestone. Jilseponie
fell into this one, as well, looking out across the city, to the raging battle she
could now see over at St. Precious abbey. She focused on the abbey, on
the great bell hanging in the central tower. She felt the metal distinctly
through the stone, and while ordinarily she would have gathered that
attraction into the lodestone, building energy until she could let it fly as a
super-speeding missile, this time she used the attraction to bring the stone
and the bell together; and as she was holding the stone, and she and her
mount were nearly weightless, they flew off toward the tower.

Jilseponie saw the insanity clearly, and the image nearly had her turning
herself right around and running off to the sanctuary of the northland. A
wild mob seethed about the base of the abbey walls. Up on the parapets,
men were being hurled to their deaths, brothers pulled down and torn
apart, lightning bolts and arrows and crossbow quarrels killing in numbers
that would humble the total felled by the rosy plague!

She brought up a third stone then, her energies not diminishing in the
least as the rage rose within her. She was fully into the magic-levitating,
magnetically "flying"-and now both herself and her great horse were
limned in a bluish white glow, a serpentine fire shield.

Over the battleground she soared, reversing the lodestone energy to
break her momentum to slow her, even to angle her out above the main
square and the bulk of the fighting. Some heads turned up to regard her,
but most, too engaged in the battle, didn't notice.

But then everyone noticed indeed! For Jilseponie brought forth the
powers of the ruby: a tremendous, concussive fireball that rocked the
ground beneath their feet, that shook the walls of St. Precious more vio-
lently than the battering ram ever could. Then she loosed a tremendous
lightning strike, angling it for the bell tower, the great gong immediately
following the thunderous report.

Duke Tetrafel's archers turned their bows toward her, but not one had
the heart and courage to fire. On the abbey walls, the brothers of St. Pre-
cious stared in awe, knowing, as each came to recognize the rider, that their
salvation was upon them.

Down went Jilseponie and Symphony, onto the square, the horse
neighing and stomping the ground.

"What idiocy is this? " Jilseponie demanded, and the battlefield had gone
so quiet that she was heard in every corner. "Is not the rosy plague a great
enough enemy without us murdering each other? What fools are you who
diminish yourselves to the level of powries and goblins? "

Men about the square shied away from her, some ducking, some falling
to their knees in fear.

"They are to blame!" one of the Brothers Repentant cried.

"Silence!" Jilseponie roared, and she lifted her handful of gemstones in
the man's direction and he scrambled away.

But another brother did not similarly run, but rather came forward delib-
erately, slowly pulling back his hood, his intense gaze locked upon her.
"They are to blame," he said with perfect calm.

Jilseponie had to fight hard to maintain her seat in that moment of recog-
nition, of painful memories and the purest hatred. For she knew him,
indeed she did. Despite the long hair and the beard, she recognized
Marcalo De'Unnero as clearly as if they had both suddenly been trans-
ported back to that fateful day in Chasewind Manor.

"They follow a demonic course," De'Unnero added, still approaching,

"They follow Avelyn," Jilseponie replied.

The man smiled and shrugged, as if she had just agreed with him.

Jilseponie growled and pulled her gaze from the man. "Hear me, all of
you!" she cried. "Avelyn was your savior in the time of Bestesbulzibar, and
so he is again!"

"Avelyn brought the plague," the leader of the Brothers Repentant, the
self-proclaimed Brother Truth, declared.

Various shouts, of hope and of denial, came at her; but Jilseponie hardly
heard them, as De'Unnero continued to approach. She understood then
that she would not reach them with any effect as long as this figurehead
stood before them, denying her every claim.
And at that moment, Jilseponie hardly cared. Suddenly, at that moment,
the scene about her mattered not at all. Not the fighting, not even the suf-
fering. No, all that mattered to Jilseponie at that moment was this figure
coming toward her, this murderous monster who had begun the ultimate
downfall of her dear Elbryan. She swung down from Symphony, dropping
all but one of her gemstones back into her pouch, and in the same move-
ment, drew Defender.

De'Unnero continued to smile, but slowed his approach. "Avelyn is a
lie," he said.

"Says Marcalo De'Unnero, former bishop of Palmaris," Jilseponie
returned. Many in the crowd gasped, telling her that she had guessed cor-
rectly: not many in attendance knew the true identity of the man.

"The same Marcalo De'Unnero who murdered Baron Rochefort Bilde-
borough, and his nephew, Connor," Pony declared. This time, the gasps
were even louder.

"Lies, all!" Brother Truth cried, holding his outward calm. "Baron
Bildeborough was killed by a great cat, so say the witnesses and all those
who investigated his death."

"A creature that can be replicated through use of the gemstones."

"No!" De'Unnero yelled back before that thought could gain any
momentum. "The gemstone may replicate but a limb of the cat, perhaps
two if the wielder is strong enough. But that is not the tale told by the scene
of Baron Bildeborough's death, and so your claim is the preposterous lie of
a desperate fool!"

Pony looked around at the crowd, the uncertain and very afraid peasants.
She could not begin any trial here, she realized, could not possibly slow all
this down enough to turn the tide against De'Unnero.

"Let them decide their course later," she said to the man. "Let us finish
our private business here and now." And she waved Defender before her, a
motion for the dangerous monk to be on his guard.

With a laugh most sinister, De'Unnero shrugged off his robes and fell
into a fighting stance, circling, circling to Pony's left.

"Do not!" Jilseponie heard Abbot Braumin cry from behind. "You do
not know the power of-" She held up her hand to silence the man;

nothing would deter her from this fight. Not now. This was the man who
had wounded Elbryan, who had, in fact, brought about his death in his sub-
sequent battle with Markwart. This was the man who had brought the
crowd against St. Precious, without doubt, the symbol of all that Jilseponie
despised. This was the man, and no doubt, Jilseponie meant to wage this
fight.

Quicker than she could believe, De'Unnero leaped forward, his left arm
going under Defender, then coming up and out to keep the sword wide,
while his other hand came straight in, a heavy punch aimed for Jilseponie's
face. She thought that he would measure her, would take some feinting
strides and punches, and so she was caught somewhat off guard, and had to
skitter back defensively, taking a clip on the face as he followed the punch
through to the end.

The fight would have been over, then and there, for De'Unnero con-
tinued ahead, launching another right, then a straight left, then another
right.

But Jilseponie knew bi'nelle dasada, had mastered much of the dance-
particularly the straightforward charge-and-retreat routines-perfectly, and
she managed to elude the charging monk long enough to get her sword in
line and force him back.

Now she came forward, a sudden charge and thrust; but De'Unnero, so
agile-too agile!-leaped into a sidelong roll that forced Jilseponie to turn.
By the time she had, he had already come inside her sword reach, and she
had to skitter into another desperate retreat.

Only for a moment, though, for she slid down to one knee, under a wild
right hook, disengaging Defender from the blocking arm, then slashed the
sword across.

Up went De'Unnero, tucking his legs. Jilseponie stopped and pulled
the sword in, then thrust straight out, and De'Unnero had to throw his hips
to the side to dodge.

He rolled right about that pivot, lifting one leg high, then stomping
down; Pony threw her free arm out to block-and then fell back, tucking
the bruised limb in against her side.

She didn't let the pain deter her and retreated only a couple of steps
before reversing and thrusting, charging ahead several fast strides, angled to
keep up with De'Unnero, and thrusting again. Then it was the monk's turn
to clutch a wounded limb, a torn forearm.

But if Jilseponie thought that she had any advantage, then she didn't
understand the fiber of Marcalo De'Unnero. With a feral growl, he came
on, his hands working a blur of circles in the air before him-a blur that
Jilseponie didn't dare thrust her sword into, for if she missed any mark, he
would certainly disarm her or at least deflect Defender out too far to the
side. On he came, hands working a defensive frenzy and every so often
launching a straight jab; legs working furiously, keeping perfect balance,
and every so often launching a kick for her face.

And Jilseponie was backing, backing, trying to sort out the blur, trying to
find some opening. She called to Elbryan then, to guide her.

But he was not there or could not answer. It was only herself against this
man, this monster, and she understood clearly at that moment that she was
badly overmatched. How she wished she hadn't so depleted her magical
energies! How she wished she could activate serpentine and ruby and burn
the skin from De'Unnero's bones!

Out came a jab, and she had to slash Defender to turn the punch away,
and only then did Jilseponie realize that she had been duped.
Down went De'Unnero, throwing his leg out wide, sweeping it forward,
catching the retreating woman on the ankle and tripping her.

She fell with enough balance to prevent any real injury, but again, the
monk leaped ahead too quickly and stood towering over her.

She couldn't get Defender in line this time. She noted then that the man's
arm had become that of a great tiger.

For Marcalo De'Unnero, this was the moment of complete triumph,
of full circle. Jilseponie would die, there and then, and all threat that
the followers of Avelyn would somehow push back his brethren would die
with her.

For he was the victor, he was the one who would stand among the
masses, sending them with renewed fury against the diminishing defenses
of St. Precious Abbey.

He had sensed that, had sensed the kill, even as his foot connected with
her ankle, sending her tumbling to the cobblestones. He had smelled her
blood, had felt the tiger awakening within him. The woman was good-
very good-and he knew that he would get only one strike in before she
managed to come back on the defensive. But he had the great beast within
him; his paw carried lethal claws.

He would need only one strike.

He started his swipe, her neck open to him. She could not possibly bring
her sword in line, could not begin to roll out of death's way.

But she opened her other hand and a missile fired out, a small gemstone
homing in on the metal in the one piece of jewelry Brother Truth wore: an
earring dangling the evergreen symbol of the Abellican Church.

The magic stone drove up against the side of De'Unnero's head, tearing
away his ear. His attack became a shriek as he brought his arm in reflexively
to grab at the wound.

Jilseponie rolled back, setting her feet under her and coming up; and
De'Unnero, too, retreated, howling with pain and outrage.

"Deceiver!" he cried.

"Tell me when I claimed to fight you fairly," she spat back.

"Deceiver!" he cried again.

"I did not use magic until you did!" Jilseponie yelled back. She came for-
ward with a thrust, and De'Unnero leaped aside.

It churned in him, boiling, boiling, the primal rage, the primal beast. His
head burned with pain; his brain swirled with red rage. He had won! He
had victory right in his grasp, his clawed, tiger's grasp!

He hardly felt the transformation, the crackling and reshaping of bone,
the beast overwhelming his control. He knew that he should not, must not,
allow this! Not out here, in front of all the folk, not so soon after Jilseponie
had just declared him the murderer of Baron Bildeborough!

But he couldn't stop it, not with the blur of pain, the red wall of outrage.
His senses heightened; he saw Jilseponie, her horse behind her, rearing
and neighing.

He heard them, all of them, gasping, and then crying out against him.

Desperation had given her the strength to launch the lodestone, but only
luck had brought it into such a sensitive area as his ear. She produced
another stone now, a graphite, but Jilseponie knew that the thunderbolt she
brought forth from it would be of little real effect. Her magical energies
were now depleted to the point where she doubted that her bolt would
even slow the charge of this terrifying, tremendous cat.

She would have to use Defender alone to stop him; and when she consid-
ered the sword, magnificent as it was, Jilseponie realized that she was in
dire trouble.

But De'Unnero didn't charge; and suddenly, she realized that their per-
sonal battle had come to an abrupt end. Tetrafel's archers had their bows
low and level but not aiming at her; the cries from the peasants all about her
did not call for her death.

No, De'Unnero had revealed the truth of himself to the folk of Palmaris,
had shown them that he had been the murderer of their beloved Baron
Bildeborough.

They knew now the truth of Brother Truth.

The great cat sprang-not at Jilseponie, but by her, breaking into
a sprint. A volley of arrows followed, some hitting the mark; but on
De'Unnero ran, away he leaped, clearing the dodging and ducking peas-
ants, breaking for the city's outer wall with a host of arrows, of crossbow
bolts from St. Precious, of charging horsemen, right behind.

Jilseponie stood calm through the storm, held her ground, and turned
her attention away from the fleeing tiger toward the more important
adversary.

Duke Tetrafel was there, staring back at her from the window of his dec-
orated coach.

Pain and rage, primal hunger and blind hatred all swirled in his mind,
along with abject despair at the deep-buried but deep-seated realization
that he had failed. He had gone from victory to complete defeat in the blink
of an eye, and now he was revealed and banished forevermore.

He charged for the wall, hearing the pursuit, feeling the pain of a dozen
stinging arrows that had burrowed under his black-striped orange coat. Fear
and rage alone kept him moving, running, running, for the northern gate.

He saw a woman on a familiar horse, but he couldn't stop to tear out her
throat, to feast upon her warm blood. He had to get to the gate-and
through the gate.

No, the great cat realized, and he quickly turned down a side alley.
Not to the gate. The horsemen could follow him through the gate, and
he was fast tiring. He was a predator, built for short bursts of speed, and he
was sorely wounded, but those horses could run and run.

He headed for the wall again, but not near any gate. The pursuit closed,
closed, but De'Unnero used his last remaining strength to get to the base of
the wall and to leap high and far.

Another arrow caught him in midnight.

He landed heavily on the field outside, slumping to the ground, but then
pulling himself back up and dragging his punctured body away into hiding.

He felt the darkness closing all about him, could hear the rasp of death
and feel the cold and merciless hand closing in.
CHAPTER 40
Cynicism Laid Bare

They stood in the square, watching the soldiers galloping in pursuit
of the fleeing monster.
Jilseponie didn't follow. She just stood there, beside Sym-
phony, open and exposed and vulnerable, out of magic and exhausted. She
looked across the way to the remaining Brothers Repentant and the hordes
they held back, to the line of soldiers still sitting ominously on their
chargers, to Duke Tetrafel, staring at her from the window of his coach, his
expression indecipherable.

Slowly, she dared to glance back at St. Precious, to see the monks hold-
ing stoic vigil, some with gemstones, some with crossbows, some flanking a
great black kettle steaming with hot oil. There stood her friend Braumin
Herde staring back at her with a mixture of respect and love, gratitude
and fear.

For she was out there, in the calm valley between two great waves; and
those waves, despite what she had just done, despite that she had shown the
folk of Palmaris the truth of Marcalo De'Unnero, seemed destined to crash
together one more time.

By the time Jilseponie looked back across the way, Duke Tetrafel had
stepped out of his carriage. She could see the slump of his shoulders, the
dark blue under his eyes. Yes, he had the plague; she could smell it thick
about him even this far away.

"The brothers of St. Precious did not cause this," Jilseponie said loudly,
sweeping her gaze quickly about all the crowd, but then quickly refocusing
it on Tetrafel. "The plague is not the work of men, nor is it the scourge of
an angry God."

"So you claim!" shouted one of the Brothers Repentant from the side.
"So you must, for you have led the way against God!" He came forward as
he spoke, prodding his finger at Jilseponie. Her responding look was one of
perfect calm and confidence, and perfectly cold; and the man, who had just
seen his adored leader beaten away by this dangerous woman, gradually
calmed and slowed.

"They are innocent," Jilseponie said to Tetrafel when the threat of the
irate brother had passed.

"They hide while the people suffer and die!" the Duke came back.

"As did you, until you learned that the plague was within your own
body," she replied. "I do not judge you, Duke," she quickly added, seeing
the soldiers all about him bristle at the accusation. "Nor can I, can any of
us, judge all the folk who so hide from the plague-monk or soldier,
brother or even father-who out of fear for the rest of his family must put a
victim out of his house."

"But you never hid from it!" came one cry from the crowd; and Jilse-
ponie recognized the speaker as one of the attendants at the house where
Colleen had died.

"But that was my choice to make," Jilseponie quickly answered, before
any negative comparisons could be drawn concerning the brothers of
St. Precious. "As it was yours, Duke Tetrafel."

The clump of hooves to the side alerted Pony that Dainsey Aucomb and
Greystone had at last arrived at the square.

"But take heart!" Jilseponie cried. "For our salvation is upon us, and
there is the proof!" She pointed at Dainsey as she finished, then looked
back to the crowd to see a great mixture of expressions, and many of them
verging on uncontrollable excitement.

"Duke Tetrafel, will you come with me inside the abbey, to meet with
Abbot Braumin, that I might explain my revelations to you? "

The sick man stared at her hard.

"A trick!" cried another of the troublesome Brothers Repentant. "A
deception to take the heart from our fight!"

Jilseponie didn't even glance the man's way. "You have the plague and
will die," she said bluntly to the Duke. "I cannot help you, nor can the
brothers within the abbey. But there is an answer, a cure for your sickness,
and I know how to reach it."

" Then tell us!" came a cry from the crowd, a plea echoed many times over.

Jilseponie held up her hand. "It will take all of us to do this thing,"
she shouted back, "It will only work if Duke Tetrafel agrees." And she
settled her gaze upon him again as she finished, putting the weight of a
thousand desperate prayers squarely on his sickly shoulders. "Will you
come in with me?" she asked again. "On my word, you'll not be harmed
nor detained."

"Your word? " Duke Tetrafel echoed skeptically, glancing past her to the
brothers of the abbey.

"Mine as well," said Abbot Braumin.

The monks about him shifted nervously, staring at him with disbelief.
Jilseponie could not enter the abbey, by his own words, unless she sub-
mitted to thorough inspection to ensure that she was not afflicted, and
Duke Tetrafel, of course, could not be admitted at all, for he was obviously
ill with plague.

"We will meet at the gate," the abbot clarified, "on opposite sides of a
tussie-mussie bed we will lay out within the tower antechamber."

"A hero to the end," Duke Tetrafel muttered, loudly enough for Jilse-
ponie to hear, but in truth, that arrangement seemed perfectly suited to her
needs.

"All of you stay back," Tetrafel said to his soldiers and to the common
people. He sucked in his breath and strode forward, then walked with Jilse-
ponie and Dainsey to St. Precious' front gates. It was some time before the
monks had the flowers in place within the gatehouse, but soon after, the
doors swung open.

Abbot Braumin and his advisers, Viscenti, Talumus, and Castinagis,
stood across the flower bed from the trio.

Now it was Jilseponie's turn to take a deep breath. This was her moment,
a critical one for the fate of all the world.

She told them the story, all of it, of Dainsey and Roger, of her trip to the
Barbacan with Bradwarden and Dainsey, of the ghost of Romeo Mullahy-
which made Master Viscenti gasp fearfully-and of the second miracle
of Aida.

"I, too, have kissed the hand of Avelyn," Jilseponie finished. "Thus, the
rosy plague cannot touch me."

The expressions coming back at her from across the tussie-mussie bed
ranged from joyful Master Viscenti, hopeful Brother Talumus, skeptical
Brother Castinagis, and, even worse than that, something beyond skeptical,
sympathetic Abbot Braumin. Beside Jilseponie, Tetrafel was more ani-
mated, was grabbing at the hope she had just offered to him.

"Then you are my angel," he said, taking Jilseponie's hand in his own.
"You will take this wretched disease from my body!"

Jilseponie turned to him, trying to find the words to explain to him that,
while there was indeed an answer, a true hope, she was not the source of
his, or anyone else's, cure.

"The plague is not always fatal," Abbot Braumin interrupted. Jilseponie
and Tetrafel both turned to regard him, for the manner in which he had
spoken those words showed that he believed Jilseponie's "revelation" to be
nothing so spectacular. "People have been cured, though it is rare," the
abbot went on.

"Then why do you hide behind your walls? " Duke Tetrafel demanded.

"One in twenty, so say the old songs," the abbot calmly replied. "One in
twenty might be helped, but one in seven will afflict the helping brother.
We hide because those numbers, learned through bitter experience,
demand that we hide."

Tetrafel trembled and seemed on the verge of an explosion.
"This is different," Jilseponie put in. "Dainsey was not helped by me-
indeed, I tried and was repulsed, again and again."

"Perhaps you had more success than you believed," suggested Braumin.

Jilseponie was shaking her head before he ever finished the words. "I had
no effect, and was, in fact, afflicted by my efforts. Yet the plague is not
within me any longer and cannot enter this, my body purified by the blood
of Avelyn. It is real, Ab-Braumin. It is real and it is up there, at the Bar-
bacan, the cure for the plague for those who can make the journey, the
armor that can turn it aside without fail."

Now it was Braumin's turn to shake his head, but that only made Jilse-
ponie press on more forcefully.

"You doubt, as many doubted your own tale of a miracle at Mount
Aida," she reminded him. "I speak of ghosts and of blood on a hand long
petrified. I speak of a miraculous recovery by a woman who had already
begun her journey into Death's dark realm. And so it is difficult for you to
dare to hope." She paused and stared at the abbot intently, even came for-
ward onto the tussie-mussie bed. "You know me, Braumin Herde. You
know who I am and what I have done. You know of my attributes and of
my failings. False hope has never been among those failings."

"The bell! The bell!" came a cry, echoing along the corridors and the
ramparts. "The bell!" the excited young brother cried again, scrambling
down beside the abbot and the other leaders of the abbey. "My abbot, the
bell!" he stammered, pointing back toward the abbey's central bell tower.
The man hardly seemed able to stand, so overwhelmed was he.

"What is it, Brother Dissin?" Braumin demanded, putting his hands on
the man's shoulders, trying to hold him steady.

"The bell!" he cried again, tears flowing down his cheeks. "You must
see it!"

Even as he finished, more cries came from the back of the abbey, shouts
of "A sign!" and "A miracle!"

Castinagis, Talumus, and Viscenti started off that way. Braumin turned
to regard Jilseponie and saw that she and her two companions were boldly
crossing the flower bed. He started to motion for them to stop but found
that he could not-found, to his surprise, that he had come to believe that
something extraordinary was indeed happening here, something that he
could not and should not deny.

Together they ran into the abbey, up the stone stairs, along a corridor,
down another and up another set of stairs, and into the bell tower. They
had to push past many brothers-monks who were so overwhelmed that
they hardly seemed to notice that Duke Tetrafel, a man infected with the
rosy plague, was crowding among them.

Up the winding stairs, they climbed and climbed, coming at last to the
highest landing, in plain view of the great bell of St. Precious, the bell Jilse-
ponie had struck with a lightning bolt to herald her arrival in Palmaris.
And there, scorched into the side of the old metal, was an unmistakable
image: an upraised arm clenching a sword at midblade.

Braumin's jaw fell open. He turned back to the woman. "How did
you ..." he started to ask, but the question fell away, for it was quite
obvious that Jilseponie was every bit as stunned and confused as he.

He was tired and he was dirty, and he knew that if he wasn't already
afflicted with plague, then he soon would be. But Brother Holan Dellman
would not surrender his work, not with so many people dying about the
grounds of St. Belfour Abbey.

Nor would Abbot Haney, nor any of the other brothers who had chosen
to remain within the structure after the decision had been made to open
wide the gates. Three of those brothers had died, and horribly, of plague
contracted through their futile healing efforts, and not a single person had
been healed, though many lives had been extended somewhat by the heroic
efforts.

Even that grim reality had not deterred Haney, Dellman, and the others
from the course they knew they must pursue. Nor was Prince Midalis, ever
a friend of the common folk, hiding away in his small palace in the complex
at Pireth Vanguard. For he, like the monks, could not suffer the cries of
the dying.

Midalis had not taken ill yet, but Liam was showing the beginnings of the
plague.

Holan Dellman headed for his darkened room, wanting nothing more
than to fall down into unconsciousness. He had heard the news of Liam's
illness that same morning, soon after he had begun his work with the sick at
St. Belfour, and that news, more than his efforts with the sick, had taken the
strength from him. How he wanted to go to the man and comfort him!
How he wanted to focus all his healing energies on that one man, now, early
on, before the plague had taken solid hold of him!

But Dellman could not do that, could not place the fate of his dear friend
above that of the others. That was not the way of his faith or of his God;

and as much as he had come to love Liam O'Blythe during his time in Van-
guard, Holan Dellman loved his God above all else.

But that didn't stop his very human misery at the news.

He collapsed onto his small cot, buried his face into the blankets, and
tried to block out all the world.

And then he sensed her, and, with a start, he jerked about and he
saw her.

Jilseponie, standing in his room, looking back at him.

Holan Dellman bolted upright. "How did you get here?" he asked. "Did
the ship-"

Dellman stopped, suddenly realizing that this was not Jilseponie physi-
cally before him, was something less substantial. He gasped, trying to find
His breath, and retreated across the cot, eyes wide, his head shaking, his
body trembling.

"We have found the answer, Brother Dellman," Jilseponie said to him, in
a voice half audible and half telepathic.

Holan Dellman understood spirit-walking, of course, but he had never
seen anything this extreme. His first thought was that Jilseponie had died
and that her ghost had come to him. But now he realized that this was
spirit-walking taken to a level that he had never before seen.

"Brother Dellman!" she said to him, more insistently, and he understood
that she was trying to steady him, that her time, perhaps, was not long here
in Vanguard.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"In St. Precious," she answered. Her voice seemed weaker suddenly, and
her answer was more a feeling than words, an image of a place that Holan
Dellman knew well. So, too, came her next communication-an image of a
flat-topped mountain, of a mummified arm protruding from the stone.

"Go there, all the sick and all the well," Jilseponie said. "Go and be
healed."

Jilseponie's spirit image vanished.

Brother Dellman sat there, gasping, for a long while. Then, no longer
exhausted, he ran out to find Abbot Haney.

"They all must go," Jilseponie said to Tetrafel and Braumin when they
met later that day in St. Precious Abbey. "The ill and the healthy, in coordi-
nated fashion and with your soldiers to protect them."

Duke Tetrafel, only then beginning to digest the overwhelming logistics
of the proposition, hesitated. "I will send some soldiers," he agreed.

"All of them!" Jilseponie argued, her tone showing no room for debate.
"Every man and woman. And you must send word to Ursal, telling King
Danube to open the roads to the north, to call out the entirety of his army
to wage this war as completely as he would if the goblins had returned.

"And you, Abbot Braumin, must send all of your brothers, as quickly as
possible, using all the magic available to you, to the Barbacan," she con-
tinued. "Once you have tasted the blood of Avelyn, then you, too, might
begin to aid those making the journey to Aida without fear of becoming ill."

"But you cannot cure me," Duke Tetrafel argued, "by your own words."

"But I can help to battle the plague, to push it back long enough so that,
perhaps, you will survive the journey to the mountaintop, and there be
healed."

"You are so certain of all of this?" Braumin asked somberly; and Jilse-
ponie nodded, her expression serious and grim.

"We must have soldiers and monks lining the road, all the way from Pal-
maris to the Barbacan," she explained, "supply camps, with food and with
bolstering healing, with fresh horses, and with soldiers to guide the newest
group of pilgrims to the next site."

"Do you understand the difficulties?" Duke Tetrafel asked skeptically.

"Do you understand the implications if we fail in this?" Jilseponie shot
back, and that surely silenced the skeptical, plague-infected man.

" You went to Dellman? " Braumin Herde asked.

Jilseponie nodded. "Vanguard is alerted. For now, they must determine
their course."

"And you will similarly go to the Father Abbot at St.-Mere-Abelle?"
Braumin asked.

Jilseponie thought on that for a few moments, then shook her head. "I
will go in body to St.-Mere-Abelle, along with Dainsey. I will face them
directly."

Braumin, too, paused and mulled it over, then nodded his agreement.
"They will not be easily convinced," he said, remembering his previous
meeting with Glendenhook and understanding well the doubting, cynical
nature of powerful Fio Bou-raiy.

"We need them," Jilseponie said. "All of them. All of the brothers of
your Church. They must go to Aida and protect themselves, then work tire-
lessly to aid those who will follow them to that holy place."

"Palmaris first," Duke Tetrafel demanded.

Jilseponie nodded. "Let our work begin, now, out in the square."

And so it did, with Jilseponie working with the soul stone, bolstering
those sick plague victims who would head out that very day, while the sol-
diers and the other healthy pilgrims began readying the many horses and
wagons.

While Braumin and the others, on Jilseponie's own orders, could not
offer direct aid to the plague sufferers, they did work with soul stones,
leeching their own strength into Jilseponie, bolstering her efforts.

She worked all the day and all the night. Several, she found, were beyond
her help, were simply too thick with plague for her to offer any real relief.
They would not make the journey, could not hope to survive the road, even
if she went along with them, working on them all the way. She did not
turn them away, though, and tried to enact some measure of relief, at least,
upon them.

That very night, magically and physically exhausted but knowing that
every minute she delayed likely meant the death of another unfortunate
victim, Jilseponie and Dainsey Aucomb set out from Palmaris. Instead of
taking the normal, slow ferry across the Masur Delaval, the pair were
whisked across the great river by Captain Al'u'met on his Saudi']acintha.

Also that very same night, Abbot Braumin and every brother of St. Pre-
cious began their swift pilgrimage to the north, using gemstones to lighten
the burden on their horses, using gemstones to illuminate the trail before
them and to scout the area spiritually, using gemstones to leech the strength
from nearby animals, as some of them had learned on their first trip to the
Barbacan.

They meant to get there as quickly as possible and return, stretching their
line along the road to offer aid to the pilgrims.

Braumin Herde remained doubtful, though he trusted Jilseponie im-
plicitly, and marked well the seemingly miraculous image burned into the
bell at St. Precious. But too much was at stake here for the gentle monk. He
could not allow his hopes to soar so high, only to learn that Jilseponie had
erred, that there was no miracle to be found or that it had been a onetime
occurrence, a blessing for Dainsey Aucomb.

What would happen in that instance? the abbot had to worry. What
might the peasants or the Duke and his soldiers do if they discovered that
they had traveled all the way to the Barbacan, no doubt with many dying
along the road, chasing a false hope?

He shuddered at the thought but reminded himself of the character
of the messenger. When he had last seen Jilseponie before her return to
St. Precious, he had given her an assortment of gemstones and had prayed
that she would again prove the light against the darkness. Now she had
returned to him with just that claim, and his own doubts of her had laid his
cynicism bare before him.

What friend was he if he did not believe her?

What holy man was he if he could not see past his earthly cynicism and
dare to believe in miracles?
CHAPTER 41
Despite Herself

We cuts 'em, and that horsie-man leading them won'ts help 'em!" Kriskshnuck, the little goblin, said with a toothy sneer. "Cuts 'em and eats 'em!"

His companions bobbed their heads eagerly, for down on the trail, in clear
sight of them, came the line of folk from Dundalis and the other Timberland
towns-the first pilgrim group that had set out for the Barbacan.

For the goblins who had swarmed back into the area just south of the
mountainous ring, this seemed like an easy kill. The goblins knew this
rugged land, where the humans did not. They'd hit the fools on the road,
and repeatedly, whittling at their numbers and their resolve, setting them
up for the final, overwhelming assault.

And as more and more goblins joined in, their numbers now swelling
to over three hundred, it did indeed seem as if that assault would be
overwhelming.

Kriskshnuck couldn't keep all of the eager drool in his mouth as he and
his companions scrambled down from the ridge, excited to give their
reports to their waiting kin. Halfway down the rocky outcropping, though,
one of those other goblins cried out in pain.

"Ow!" the wretched little creature yelped. "A bee stinged me." And
then, "Ow! Ow!" over and over, and when Kriskshnuck looked back, he
saw his companion swatting futilely at the air, waving and jerking spasmod-
ically, before giving one final howl and falling over onto the stone.

Before Kriskshnuck could begin to ask, another of his companions began
a similar dancing routine, and then the third of the group.

Kriskshnuck was smart, as goblins go, and so he asked no further ques-
tions but just turned and sprinted and scrambled to get out of the area. He
got over one ridge, across the flat top of a huge boulder, then down a short
cliff face. He turned and started to run, with only twenty feet of open
ground separating him from the relative safety of a tree copse.

He felt the first burning sting on his thigh, and looked down to see a
small shaft protruding from the muscle. He limped on and got hit again, on
the hip, and again after that, in the belly.

Doubled over, clutching his belly with one hand, his thigh with the other,
Kriskshnuck scrambled on.

"The trees," he said hopefully, thinking his salvation was at hand. But
then he saw them-small forms sitting among the boughs of the closest
trees, leveling bows his way.

A volley of small arrows blasted the goblin to the ground.

King Danube stared down at the parchment in disbelief. It had been
penned by a trader whose ship had put into Ursal's port that morning, a
message that had been shouted down the Masur Delaval, ship to ship, in
advance of a formal ducal declaration.

Danube looked up at his advisers, Constance and Kalas, both of whom
had seen the parchment before bringing it to him; and their grim expres-
sions accurately reflected one half of the emotions battling within him.

"This could be our salvation," he reminded them.

"Tetrafel is plague ridden and willing to chase any hope," Duke Kalas
argued.

"The false hope," Constance was quick to put in. She winced as she con-
sidered her own sharp tone, a reflection, perhaps, of her petty fears that
Jilseponie had once more come to save the world.

"Can we be so certain?" the King asked. "And we are still days away
from the official ducal declaration, dispatched under Tetrafel's own hand."

"Many advance writs prove inaccurate," Kalas reminded him, his tone
making it fairly obvious that he was hoping that to be so in this case, as well.

But Danube didn't think so, and he shook his head slowly. "Too impor-
tant," he remarked.

"Many of the callers are likely as desperate as poor Timian," Constance
argued. "Plague ridden themselves or a member of their family, perhaps."

King Danube looked down at the writ again, reading it slowly. Duke
Tetrafel was on his way to the Barbacan, it said, along with the entire gar-
rison at his disposal, and most of the folk of Palmaris. How could even des-
perate callers confuse an event on a scale such as that?

"The particulars might be confused, but the general message of the writ
will likely prove accurate," King Danube decided.

"You believe that Timian Tetrafel would be fool enough to turn over his
garrison to Jilseponie Wyndon? " Kalas asked incredulously.

"If she has found the answer, then he would likely see that as an obvious
course."

Constance snorted and turned away.

"Let us make our plans on the assumption that the particulars of this writ
are correct," Danube offered.
"That a cure has been found?" Duke Kalas asked, shaking his head with
every word. "Are we to tell that to the desperate thousands in Ursal? What
riots might we cause, and what of the cost to the Throne if we are proven
wrong?"

"Not that far," King Danube corrected. "We will await Timian's official
writ before deciding upon any such course as that. But let us assume that
the lesser particulars, the desertion of Palmaris by soldier and citizen alike,
are indeed accurate. What, then, must we do? "

Kalas' breathing came in hard rasps, and Constance continued to stare
across the room, shaking her head. If those particulars were true, then the
implications to Danube could be grave indeed. If Timian Tetrafel had
turned the garrison of Palmaris over to Jilseponie, or had sent them out in
accordance with Jilseponie's words, then this event could prove politically
disastrous for an inactive King Danube. But if Danube fell in with his often
unpredictable Duke, and turned his army and his citizenry into the hands
of the woman, and her apparent "cure" proved invalid, then the disaster
would be multiplied tenfold.

"We could send a small force-Duke Bretherford's sailors, perhaps-
sailing north to investigate," Kalas offered.

"And by the time they can return to us, the season will be past, and the
roads north closed," King Danube argued. "And the winter will claim many
lives that otherwise might have been saved."

Constance turned on her heel. "It sounds as if you have already thrown
your faith in with the woman," she said sharply, and she and Danube stared
at each other long and hard.

"We are all desperate for an end to the plague," Duke Kalas quietly put
in, acting in the uncustomary role of mediator.

"Ready the soldiers for the road," Danube ordered.

"But, my King ..." Kalas started to argue, and Constance chimed in,
as well.

But Danube, expecting such an outburst, was already patting his hand
calmly in the air. "I did not command you to begin the march," he clarified,
"only to ready the troops in case we so decide. And let us send for Abbot
Hingas, that we might learn the disposition of the Church on this matter.
The situation at St. Honce and the other abbeys will likely prove even
more tentative than our own, for the majority of the folk have come to
single out the Church and not the Crown as the source of the plague."

Rain fell, but it hardly dampened the mood of the Timberlands folk, for
the mountains of the Barbacan loomed before them, less than a day's march
away. Roger Lockless and Bradwarden knew how to get through those
mountains; and from there the trip to Mount Aida, to Avelyn's hand and to
salvation, would be an easy one indeed.
Roger was up front with Bradwarden that morning, scouting the road
carefully, for the centaur had caught a strong scent of goblin and feared
that the little wretches were about.

They feared they would encounter a large tribe, an army of the creatures,
but the first goblin they actually saw was no threat at all.

It was lying dead on the side of the trail.

Roger went over to inspect the body, prodding it with his foot, then
rolling it over. He saw many puncture wounds on the creature's face, neck,
and chest-very similar to injuries he had witnessed before.

Immediately his eyes went up to the nearby trees, scouring the boughs.

"What're ye about? " Bradwarden asked. "What killed the little beastie? "

"Arrows," Roger answered, walking about and still looking up. "Little
arrows. Elv-"

"Elvish arrows," came the answer from the shadows of one tree, a
melodic voice that Roger had heard only once before, but one that he surely
recognized.

As did Bradwarden. "Dasslerond?" the centaur asked with a surprised
laugh. "Is that yerself, then? "

"Greetings, Bradwarden," Lady Dasslerond answered. "It is good to see
you again, though I am surprised to find you in the company of humans in
this time of illness."

"Goin' to find an old friend," the centaur answered. "Ye beared
o'Avelyn?"

"Jilseponie has told us," Dasslerond answered.

"So ye've been to the arm? "

No answer came back, and Bradwarden understood the elves well
enough to let that particular matter drop.

"You will find the road open all the way to Mount Aida," Lady
Dasslerond said to the pair.

"Were many o' the goblins about, then? " the centaur asked.

"Not enough," came another, even more familiar elvish voice. "I still
have many arrows in my quiver." Belli'mar Juraviel hopped down to the
lowest branch on a wide-spreading elm, in clear sight of Roger and Brad-
warden. Roger started toward him, but the elf held up his hand and warned
the man back.

"We have cleared the road and will remain in place for a short time
longer," Lady Dasslerond explained. "But this road is for humans to travel
and for humans to guard, and we will be on our way back to Andur'Blough
Inninness before the turn of the season."

"Well, ye have our thanks, then," Bradwarden remarked, bowing his
human torso respectfully. "And take the goodwill o' Avelyn with ye."

"Straight on to Aida," Lady Dasslerond said, aiming her comment at
Roger. "And know that the road will be clear for your return through this
region."
"There will be many more following us," Roger started to explain.

"They are already on their way," Juraviel put in, "from Caer Tinella and
Landsdown-from Palmaris, even, for Jilseponie has passed through the
city. Braumin and his brethren will likely find you before you have traveled
far out of the Barbacan, and the new Baron of Palmaris, along with a host
of soldiers, will be along not far behind."

Roger and Bradwarden beamed at the news.

"Ah, but Pony's a good girl," the centaur remarked.

"And Dainsey," Roger was quick to add. He turned back to tell Juraviel
of the new love that had come into his life, but he found that the ever-
elusive elf was already gone, vanished completely into the canopy. He
called out several times but was not answered.

The pair went back to the caravan, then, and told them that the way was
clear.

That night, they camped on the high ground of the mountainous ring,
with Mount Aida in sight. The next day, the first pilgrims found the arm of
Avelyn and tasted the blood in the fallen man's palm.

Roger was first to it, following Bradwarden's instructions, and as soon as
he entered the covenant with Avelyn, he knew, beyond doubt, that the rosy
plague could not touch him.

"It is a fool's journey!" Constance Pemblebury scolded.

King Danube continued to dress in his traveling clothes, strapping his
sword belt about his waist.

"What if this is no answer?" Constance continued. "To what dangers do
you, in the name of compassion, expose yourself? What price to the
kingdom?"

Danube had heard all the arguments before, repeatedly, since he had
announced that he and a great force would go out from Ursal, to Palmaris
and perhaps, he hinted, even beyond. He fixed Constance with a calm stare
and managed a smile. "If this is the answer, then I must be present at
the beginning of it," he tried to explain. "What king am I if I hide in
Castle Ursal while the potential salvation of all the world comes to fruition
in the north? "

"We have hidden in Castle Ursal for all these months," Constance
reminded. "Torrence has never been outside these walls."

"And too long it has been!" Danube retorted. He started to leave the
room, but Constance rushed around him, blocking the way.

"You are weary of it all, I know," she said, "as are we all. But we must
hold strong for the sake of the kingdom."

"Duke Tetrafel has turned his garrison over to Jilseponie," Danube
reminded her. "He has emptied Palmaris on her proof that the miracle has
been found."

"He is desperate."
"That may be true, but I know, as do you, that I cannot sit back and
allow this to happen without me. Many soldiers will be needed to secure
the road north; and if this is indeed the answer, then that road will become
even more traveled."

"The brothers of St. Honce are not even ready to commit to departure
yet," Constance argued, and it was true enough. Abbot Hingas had heard
of the supposed miracle, even claimed that Jilseponie had visited him spiri-
tually and bade him to join the pilgrimage to the north. Yet he and his
brethren would not commit to such a journey at that time.

King Danube paused and took a deep breath, then grabbed Constance
by both shoulders, holding her rock steady. "I believe in this," he said. "I
have to. And if it is indeed the salvation of Honce-the-Bear, then I must
preside over it. For the good of the people and of the Crown."

"You believe in this?" Constance asked somewhat sharply. "Or in her?"

That took Danube a bit by surprise, for it was the first revelation of Con-
stance's jealousy of Jilseponie, a somewhat stunning revelation given the
enormity of the consequences beyond personal relationships.

He stared at Constance for a long while, not blinking, not letting her pull
free of his somber gaze. "I must do this," he declared, and he firmly but
gently moved the woman out of his way and walked out into the hall.

Duke Kalas, looking none too pleased, but dressed for the road, was
waiting for him.

"Duke Bretherford's ships are ready to depart," he said. "The roads are
secured all the way to the docks."

"Then let us be off at once," Danube replied, and he started down the
hall, sweeping Kalas up in his wake.

"My King!" came the call behind them, turning them both.

Constance leaned heavily on the doorjamb. "You walk off into peril,"
she explained. "You must name your successor."

Danube stared at her curiously, surprised by such a request. He had gone
off on many perilous journeys without ever issuing such a formal declara-
tion. His confusion was short-lived, though, for then he understood that,
before this time, there had never been any decision that needed to be made.

"I will return," he said to Constance, not wanting to have to speak the
obvious aloud, not wanting to wound the woman.

"I demand this, for the good of the kingdom," Constance said loudly.

King Danube felt Kalas' stare boring into him, but he did not take his
own gaze off Constance. "In the event of my demise, my brother, Prince
Midalis of Vanguard, will assume the throne," Danube stated clearly. "I
will have that formally recorded before I depart Castle Ursal."

Constance's look shifted subtly, to show the flush of anger behind
her mask.

King Danube turned and walked away.
Duke Kalas stood staring at Constance for a long while. "Patience," he
said when Danube was too far away to hear. "Merwick is not nearly ready."

Constance glowered at him for just a moment, then retreated into the
room and slammed the door.

Kalas, who was also against leaving Ursal at that time, but who more
readily understood his place and acceded to the wishes of his King, couldn't
contain his chuckle as he hurried off to catch Danube.
CHAPTER 42
Redemption

The sight that loomed before Jilseponie when she and Dainsey came
in view of St.-Mere-Abelle made her memory of the suffering in
Palmaris pale in comparison. Scores of tents had been erected on
the bleak plain before the great abbey; and it seemed to Jilseponie as if
there were a score of sick people for every tent.

Hundreds of them, the walking dead, moving listlessly about the dreary
landscape.

"So many," Dainsey Aucomb whispered at her side.

Jilseponie nodded, but she knew the truth of this scene. St.-Mere-Abelle
was a fairly isolated place, with no real cities anywhere near-the closest
was Palmaris, some eighty miles to the northwest. And still, the grounds
teemed with the sick, nocking here from all over the region, no doubt,
coming to this greatest bastion of the Abellican Church, dying on the field
before the walls of the Father Abbot.

How many more had died on the road? Jilseponie wondered. Likely as
many as had arrived here.

The mere thought of it nearly overwhelmed her; in that moment of
despair she wanted nothing more than to turn Symphony and pound back
toward Dundalis and Fellowship Way, toward the hole she had once dug
for herself. She had to stop herself, close her eyes, and conjure an image of
Avelyn's arm.

"Too many," she whispered back to Dainsey. She kicked her heels into
Symphony's flanks and the great stallion leaped away, galloping down
across the field.

Many eyes followed the two riders as they wove their way across the
wretched encampment, toward the front gates of the abbey. Jilseponie felt
like a sailor on a vast sea; the abbey walls seemed a distant island.

But no refuge, that place, she knew.

She meant to tear those walls down.

*      *      *
Brother Francis paced slowly before St.-Mere-Abelle's tussie-mussie bed,
feeling his legs weaken with every step.

He wanted them to see this.

He was exhausted now, beyond belief. He had the soul stone in his
pocket, and he had considered spirit-walking, having his spirit violate the
sanctuary of St.-Mere-Abelle.

Yes, like a ghost, he wanted to haunt them.

He wanted them to see this.

He rolled the stone in his fingers now, knowing that he had missed his
chance, for Francis couldn't possibly find the strength to enter its magic
now, to separate spirit from body.

He could hardly even find the strength to call out "Bou-raiy!" at the wall.

And his legs were tiring fast and his breath was becoming harder and
harder to find.

They had to see this, had to bear witness to the end of Brother Francis, to
learn that he faced that end courageously and with the conviction that he
was right!

But now he was no longer walking, was, suddenly and without even real-
izing the movement, not even standing. He managed to roll over a bit, to
see the wall, and he took some comfort in the forms he noted up there. He
couldn't make them out through his failing eyes, but he sensed that they
were watching him, that they were pointing.

They knew, and they would tell Bou-raiy.

Taking comfort in that, Francis turned his attention to the tussie-mussie
bed, bathing himself in the aromas, losing himself in the colorful sights and
fragrances. He felt as if those very smells might lift him up, up, might sepa-
rate his soul from his body as surely as would the hematite. He could float
on a cloud of aromas to God, to a judgment that he no longer feared.

He hardly heard the horses gallop up to a stop a short distance behind
him, hardly heard the gathering crowd-and surely they were gathering,
led by Merry Cowsenfed, several hundred people coming to say farewell to
Brother Francis of St.-Mere-Abelle.

It would have made Francis happy, if he had known.

Jilseponie knew before she ever moved beside the man that he-like sev-
eral of those she had encountered in Palmaris, like one she had found on
the road here to St.-Mere-Abelle-was beyond her help, that even if she
went to him with all of her magical strength, she would buy him only a few
minutes or hours, and those he would spend in pain.

She knew by his emaciated form, lying listlessly, that the plague had won
this particular fight. She knew by the look in his eyes that he was seeing as
much on the other side of death as in the material world.

Jilseponie would never have recognized the man had she not heard his
name as she had crossed the field. When last she had seen Francis, he had
been strong and stout, even a little portly, clean-shaven and with hair neatly
cropped. Now he was a ragged thing! His hair and beard had grown wild,
had thickened as his body had thinned.

She went to him and knelt beside him, and took up his hand in her own.

He stared at her for a long while, seeming not to recognize her.

"Greetings, Brother Francis," she whispered. "I have heard of your work
here, of your courage and compassion."

Francis continued to stare at her curiously, and then a smile widened on
his face, a light of recognition. "Jilseponie? " he asked.

She nodded and reached for her soul stone, though she doubted she
could even get into the magical energy in time for Francis.

Francis' smile turned down suddenly. "Can you forgive me?" he asked,
his voice a rasping thing, for a discernible rattle came from his chest with
every word and every breath.

Jilseponie paused and looked back at him curiously.

"Your brother," Francis remarked, "Grady Chilichunk. I was the one."

Jilseponie moved close to him, trying to suppress a scowl.

"I killed him," Francis admitted, "on the road from Palmaris. It was an
accident... I did not mean ..."

Jilseponie put her finger against Francis' lips to quiet him. That battle
seemed so far removed now, that hatred so irrelevant to the current
situation.

"Forgive me," Francis said again. "We were all so confused then, and all
so wrong."

"And now you see the truth? " she asked him.

Francis' smile returned, but then he winced and closed his eyes. Jilse-
ponie started to reach for her soul stone again, but, as if he had read her
mind, Brother Francis reached over and held her arm. "I go without fear,"
he whispered, and it seemed to Jilseponie as if he were speaking more to
himself than to her.

"I do not fear justice," he finished, never opening his eyes, and those
were the last words that Brother Francis Dellacourt of St.-Mere-Abelle
would ever utter.

It hurt Jilseponie more than she would ever have believed to watch this
man die. She held little fondness for Francis, had once been his avowed
enemy; and even in those last days when she had been with him in St. Pre-
cious after the fall of Markwart, even when he had declared that she should
become the mother abbess of the Abellican Church, she had not been over-
fond of him.

And he had died peacefully, contentedly, it seemed; and yet, to her sur-
prise, Jilseponie found that his passing had wounded her.

She gently removed his hand from her forearm and placed it over his
chest, then slowly rose and turned, first to regard the teary gathering of
plague sufferers and the one-eyed woman who led them, then to turn and
face the dark and foreboding walls of St.-Mere-Abelle. It took her a while
to steady herself, to get over the emotional shock of looking at this place.

The place that had served as prison for Bradwarden. The place where her
adoptive parents had died horribly.

She took another steadying breath, reminding herself of her purpose and
her need, and she forced her gaze to drift up, up, to the dark, cloaked forms
standing along the wall. She took Dainsey's hand and walked toward them.

"Francis is dead? " came a call down, a sharp voice she did not recognize.

"He is," Jilseponie answered.

The snort that she heard next seemed to her one of derision.

"They never was likin' him much for comin' out to us," came a voice
from behind. Jilseponie turned to see the one-eyed woman standing there.
Behind her, the others were gathering up the body of Francis, wrapping it
lovingly in sheets.

"They put him out when he came down with plague? " Jilseponie reasoned.

The woman shook her head. "He came out of his own doin'," she
answered, "and not a sign o' the plague in him. And he worked with them,"
she added, turning back to motion to the crowd of the sick. "All of 'em.
And he helped one or two afore the plague caught up to him. Ah, a good
man was Brother Francis. A saint, I say! But them on the wall don't know
it." She spat on the ground. "Bah, they're not knowin' anythin' but their
own scaredness. Won't come out and will shoot us dead, any of us, if we
walk across their precious flowers."

Brother Francis, a saint. The incongruous notion rolled around in Jilse-
ponie's mind as she stood there, staring at his body being borne away by
the peasants. His last words, the proclamation that he did not fear justice,
weighed more heavily on her, then. Had Francis truly found the light and
the truth? Was his contentment at his death as real as it had seemed? Could
he so understand that he had redeemed himself, and thus, need not fear the
judgment of his God?

Jilseponie turned back to look at the monks on the wall, and many more
had come up by then, no doubt to watch the last journey of their brother.

"I need to speak to the Father Abbot," she called to them.

"You cannot come in," came the reply from that same, sharp voice, and
in a purely condescending tone.

Jilseponie looked at the great doors of the abbey, her hands going re-
uexively to the gemstones hanging at her belt. "Ah, but I could if I wanted
to," she muttered under her breath. She looked back up at the wall, at the
harsh speaker, and only then did she note that one of the monk's sleeves
was tied off, as if he was missing an arm.

"I will speak to him in the gateway, from across the tussie-mussie bed,"
she said.

The monk scoffed at her and started to turn away.

"Do you know who I am?" she cried out, stopping him in midturn. "I
am Jilseponie Wyndon of Dundalis, friend to Avelyn Desbris, friend to
Braumin Herde, wife of Nightbird! I am she who destroyed the demon of
Father Abbot Markwart!"

The monk walked back to the edge of the wall and leaned out through
the break in the batdement, peering at her intently.

"Tell Father Abbot Agronguerre that I have come bearing the most
urgent news," she went on. "The most urgent."

"Tell me, then," the monk replied.

"Bid him meet me by the tussie-mussie bed," Jilseponie continued,
ignoring the man's command. "If you wish to hear my tale, then join him.
I've not the time to tell it more than once." Then she turned away, gath-
ering the one-eyed woman and Dainsey in tow and walking toward the
other peasants.

The monk called out several times to her then, mosdy cries for her to
stop and explain herself and a threat or two that he would not bring
Agronguerre to meet with her.

But Jilseponie wasn't playing that game with him. Not then. Not with so
much obviously critical work right before her.

"Tell me your tale," she bade the one-eyed woman, for she knew that this
one had somehow survived the plague and had, subsequently, come to be
the leader of this tent city.

Soon after, while she tended yet another in the long line of plague
sufferers that Merry Cowsenfed had ordered for her, the great gates of
St.-Mere-Abelle swung open. In the archway across the tussie-mussie bed
stood several brothers, flanked, Jilseponie noted, by monks armed with
heavy crossbows. She motioned for Merry Cowsenfed to join her.

"Keep them quiet and in line," she explained. "I will be back soon
enough."

"I seen them that ye healed," Merry started to spout, so obviously
thrilled.

"Not healed," Jilseponie quickly corrected, "no, not that. That will come
later, as I told you, and from one much greater than I." She patted the
woman on the shoulder, then motioned for Dainsey to follow her and
strode over to her side of the tussie-mussie bed.

"We have heard much of your good work, Jilseponie Wyndon," greeted
the largest man there, an older monk who seemed to Jilseponie as if he
could be Belster O'Comely's father. "I am Father Abbot Agronguerre, for-
merly of St. Belfour. It pains my heart gready to learn that you are with
plague."

"Not I," Jilseponie replied immediately.

"But you tend to the victims," the Father Abbot reasoned.

"And soon to find the same fate as Francis, no doubt," the one-armed
monk beside him remarked.

"The plague cannot touch me," Jilseponie replied, "for I have tasted of
the blood of Avelyn's covenant. Thus I can tend them with the soul stone
without fear that the plague demons will attack me, and thus am I more
effective in the tending."

"You will heal them all?" the one-armed monk asked, his tone half skep-
tical and half sarcastic.

"I will heal none, likely," the woman replied, "but I will make many
strong enough for the road, for the journey they must now undertake." She
paused, trying to measure the level of interest as it crossed all their faces.
"To the Barbacan, to Avelyn," she explained. "There they will be healed."

The one-armed monk snorted and started to respond, but Agronguerre
put his arm up before the man, silencing him.

"It is true, Father Abbot," Jilseponie went on, staring at him. "This
woman-" she pulled Dainsey forward "-is my living proof. I took her to
the Barbacan. She was no better off than was Francis when I came upon
him on the field. I thought her death imminent, but then-"

"But then I kissed the bleeding palm," Dainsey interrupted, "and it was
like all the angels o' heaven came down and burned the plague from me
body."

"Francis is dead," the one-armed monk remarked. "You did not save
him."

"He could not make the journey," Jilseponie replied. She turned and
looked back to the hundreds at the tent city. "Nor will many of them," she
admitted. "But many others will, and there they will find healing. And
those who go though they have not yet been touched by the plague will find
armor against it."

The monks didn't immediately respond, and when Jilseponie turned
back, she found the Father Abbot stroking his chin pensively.

"You wished to speak with me, and so I assume that you believe that we
have a role to play in this," he said. Again, the one-armed monk snorted.

"Preposterous," he muttered. "No doubt you wish us to come out on the
field beside you, to work our sacred stone magic to help the peasants, that
we might all die of the plague together."

"I wished to tell you of the miracle at Aida," Jilseponie explained to
Agronguerre, again trying very hard to ignore the unpleasant one-armed
monk. "You and all of your brethren must make the pilgrimage there, and
with all speed, to enter the covenant. Only then can you truly begin to help
the plague sufferers. Before you make such a journey, I would not even
want you to try to tend the sufferers, for your brethren will prove vital in
the long battle we must wage against the plague."

Agronguerre didn't immediately reply, but Jilseponie saw his emotions
clearly. He didn't believe her, but how he wanted to!

"Take not my word for it," she said sharply, even as the one-armed monk
started to jump in with another negative remark. "Go out with your soul
stones. To Palmaris, where you will learn that the whole city is on the
march to the north, Duke Tetrafel's soldiers and your brothers of St. Pre-
cious with them. Go out farther to the north, and see the lines of those
living in the towns in and about the Timberlands, well on their way to that
most holy of places."

She paused, just to see if the monks would try to interject anything,
but she saw from their dumfounded expressions that she would not be
interrupted.

"Go all the way to Mount Aida with your gemstones, Father Abbot," she
finished. "See that holy place for yourself, if you must. Go and be con-
vinced, and then send your brethren, all of your brethren, there in body
that they might taste the blood of Avelyn's covenant and know the truth.
Your aid will prove critical in healing the world."

"You ask much of us," Agronguerre remarked quietly.

"I tell you the truth and pray that you will choose correctly," Jilseponie
replied.

"This is nonsense," claimed the one-armed brother. "Your friend sur-
vived the plague, but so have others. The ugly scarred woman on the field
with the sick so survived. We did not cry miracle and send the whole world
marching to the spot where she happened to be when her illness relin-
quished its grasp upon her!"

Jilseponie shrugged. "Believe what you will, or close your heart to the
possibility of miracles and hide behind your walls," she said, and she gave a
chuckle as the irony of her own words hit her. "I can do no more than tell
you the truth and then pray that your faith is a real thing and not some
mask for you to hide behind."

The one-armed monk scowled.

"For if you do not believe in the possibility of miracles, then wretched
creatures you are indeed for hiding within abbey walls." And she turned
and walked away. Dainsey, after a helpless chortle, followed.

"Those gemstones you carry!" the one-armed monk cried after her, and
Jilseponie wheeled about.

"My gemstones," she said.

"They are the province of the Church," the monk corrected.

Jilseponie narrowed her eyes and glared at the man. "Come and take
them," she challenged, and when he made no move toward her, she
walked away.

She almost expected to take a crossbow quarrel in the back.

But nothing happened, and Jilseponie moved back to the line of patient
sufferers again and went back to her duty, working tirelessly with the soul
stone. Merry Cowsenfed directed the procession to Jilseponie and then to
work gathering supplies.

They left in small groups, feeling better than they had in weeks, and
moving with all speed for Palmaris, and for the north. If all went well, Jilse-
ponie explained to them, they could expect to find soldiers guarding the
road north and monks ready to give them more healing all along the way.

"At least we'll no longer need suffer the wails and the groans, and the
stench," Fio Bou-raiy said to Glendenhook as they watched the spectacle of
the thinning crowd. More sufferers continued to stream in, of course, but
Jilseponie continued her work, and Merry sent them right on their way.

"Perhaps there is value to Jilseponie Wyndon after all," Glendenhook
replied.

"Her words were correct," said Father Abbot Agronguerre, coming over
to join the pair. His arrival made Bou-raiy and Glendenhook shuffle embar-
rassedly, given their previous callous remarks. "All of Palmaris, it seems, is
on the road to the north."

Fio Bou-raiy threw up his hand in disgust.

"Suppose she is right?" Father Abbot Agronguerre asked. "Suppose
there is a miracle to be found and we are too cynical even to look."

"And if she is wrong? " Bou-raiy came back. "Are we to send out all the
brethren, as she bade us, only to have half of us die on the road and the
other half return to St.-Mere-Abelle ridden with plague? "

"Her work with the gemstones seems nothing short of miraculous,"
Agronguerre remarked.

"She is not curing them, by her own admission," Bou-raiy reminded him.

Agronguerre turned and walked away.

Back in the abbey, the Father Abbot played all the possibilities about
in his mind. Was he pragmatic or cowardly? What might be the cost of
guessing wrong?

And what might be the cost of guessing right but not having the courage
to act on that guess?

Inevitably, the Father Abbot kept coming back to the image of a brother
dying on the field before the impenetrable walls of St.-Mere-Abelle, a
brother whose courage surely humbled old Agronguerre.

"Ah, Francis," he muttered with a sigh. He remembered the night when
Francis had gone out to the sick, the eve of the New Year. Not only had the
man put himself in obvious physical jeopardy, but the action had brought
him only snickers of derision from many of his so-called brothers.

That image haunted gentle Agronguerre as he walked slowly up to his
private chambers, and it stayed with him all the way back down the circular
stone stairwell.

Down, down, to the first floor of the abbey, he went, and then down
again, until he stood before a little-used but extremely important doorway,
ornately decorated-so much so that the great latch that secured it could
hardly be noticed unless one looked at it carefully.

Agronguerre fumbled with the keys, wanting to get through the door and
get done with this business before anyone could persuade him differently.
For though his heart was strong now in his decision, bolstered by the image
of poor dead Francis, his mind was filled with fear.

He turned open the lock, lifted the latch, and pulled the door open, but
only an inch, for another, stronger hand came against the portal, pushing it
closed.

Abbot Agronguerre stepped back and turned to see Master Bou-raiy, the
man fixing him with a cold glare, a lock of eyes that would have gone on for
a long while had not the two men heard the sound of footsteps descending
the staircase back down the corridor.

"Live a long time, old man," Bou-raiy warned ominously. "For, if you
do this thing, you must know that when you die, the Abellican Church will
be thrown into turmoil beyond anything it has ever known."

"Is that what is honestly within your heart, Master Bou-raiy? "

"That is what I know to be true."

"Would you have me preside over a Chu'rch that turns its back on the
agony of the common folk? " the Father Abbot asked.

"The plague will pass in time," said Bou-raiy, and he lowered his voice as
Master Glendenhook, with Master Machuso right on his heels, appeared a
short distance down the corridor. "The Church must be eternal."

Master Glendenhook walked over to stand equidistant from the two
men, glancing curiously back and forth between them. "Pray, brethren," he
asked, "what is it that so troubles you? "

Father Abbot Agronguerre turned a skeptical look on the man, then
stepped back from Bou-raiy. "You know our viewpoints," he replied. "You
have heard the tale ofJilseponie and thus have seen the drawing of the line.
On which side of that line does Master Glendenhook stand? "

Glendenhook's shoulders sagged a bit at the blunt question, a reflection
of the fact that he did not want to be so drawn into any open argument. He
looked at Agronguerre sympathetically, then turned to Bou-raiy, who fixed
him with an unyielding stare-one, it seemed to Agronguerre, that demanded
the man take a definitive stand.

Glendenhook put out his hand to pat Agronguerre on the shoulder, but
then stepped away from the Father Abbot, to Bou-raiy's side. He faced
Agronguerre and bowed. "With all respect and honor, Father Abbot," he
said, "I fear the plague and heed well the old words written about it-
words penned from the bitter experiences of those who have suffered
through it. I fear sending the brethren out from St.-Mere-Abelle, and I
fear even more the release of the soul stones into hands untrained and
undeserving."

"The brothers will carry the stones," Agronguerre replied, not under-
standing that second point.

"And what of the brothers who will surely die along the road? " Bou-raiy
asked. "They will fall while carrying soul stones, and those stones will,
inevitably, fall into the hands of the undeserving and untrained."

"Jilseponie will train them," Agronguerre argued, his tone sharp, for the
way in which Bou-raiy had said the word "undeserving" had struck him as
very wrong.

"And that, Father Abbot, I fear most of all," Master Glendenhook
remarked.

The words hit Agronguerre as surely as if Glendenhook had just
punched him across the face. The Father Abbot felt so old at that moment,
so defeated, and he almost threw up his hands and walked away. But then
he turned to see the face of Master Machuso, the kindly man who over-
saw all the secular workers at St.-Mere-Abelle, the gentle man whom
Agronguerre had caught on several occasions stuffing extra supplies into
the loads sent out to the sickly masses.

"My young brethren spend too many days looking into old books,"
Machuso said, managing a smile, "and too many hours on their knees with
their arms and eyes uplifted to the heavens."

"We are Abellican brothers!" Master Bou-raiy sharply reminded him.

"Who would learn more of the world if they spent more time looking into
the eyes of suffering folk," Machuso was quick to reply. "Abellican brothers
who are so wrapped up in their own rituals and own importance, who are so
determined to elevate themselves above the flock they pretend to tend that
they cannot see the truth of the opportunity presented to us this day."

"By a laywoman," Bou-raiy remarked.

"A false prophet," Glendenhook echoed.

"She who destroyed the dactyl with Brother Avelyn at Mount Aida!"
Machuso shot back. "And who defeated the demon spirit within Father
Abbot Markwart, by Markwart's own admission to Master Francis at the
time of his death. And now she is showing us the way again, Father Abbot,"
the suddenly energetic Machuso went on, turning to aim his words directly
at Agronguerre, "the way to Avelyn, in body and in spirit."

Agronguerre reached for the door again, and so did Bou-raiy, but then
the Father Abbot fixed him with such a stare that he backed off.

"Do not do this," Fio Bou-raiy warned. "You are condemning us all."

"I am damning myself if I do not," Agronguerre answered firmly. "Send
word throughout the abbey, Master Machuso," he went on. "This is a
choice and not an edict. All who wish to join the pilgrimage should be
ready to leave within the hour."

"The hour?" Glendenhook said, as if the mere thought that hundreds
of brothers could be packed with wagons readied within that time was
preposterous.

"It will be done," Machuso answered with a bow. "And I doubt that
many will choose to remain."
"And if the hope is false? " Bou-raiy had to ask one last time.
"Then better to die trying," Father Abbot Agronguerre said, putting his

face only an inch from Bou-raiy's.

He pulled open the door, the portal that led into the gemstone treasury

of St.-Mere-Abelle, where more than a thousand soul stones waited.
CHAPTER 43

Fulfilling Auelyn's Promise

When Jilseponie returned to the Barbacan near the end of summer, she found that her call to Vanguard had not gone unheeded. Led by Brother Dellman and Abbot Haney, the procession from the northernmost Honce-the-Bear province had nearly
emptied the place.

The woman saw them up on the plateau, hundreds and hundreds milling
about; and she went straightaway to find them, anxious to see Dellman
again and Abbot Braumin, who had become the caretaker of the arm itself,
the guide to any and all who came to enter Avelyn's covenant.

She found Dellman first and shared a great hug with him on the rim
of the sacred plateau, then made her way through the crowd, toward the
arm and Braumin. She was surprised, then, to find a pair of faces that she
recognized.

"Andacanavar!" she cried. "Liam O'Blythe!"

The huge ranger wheeled, his face beaming with a great smile. To Jilse-
ponie's surprise, though, another man off to the side, his hair bright red, his
face covered in freckles, also turned to her, beaming.

"Do I know ye, beautiful lady? " the red-haired man remarked.

Jilseponie looked at him curiously as she made her way toward the ranger
and the man she thought to be Liam. "I think you do not," Jilseponie
answered politely.

"But ye're knowin' me name!" the man protested.

Jilseponie looked at him hard, then turned to see Andacanavar's com-
panion, the man she had thought to be Liam, blushing.

"You are Liam O'Blythe? " Jilseponie asked the red-haired man.

"Anybody tellin' ye different? " he inquired back.

"Telling all the world different, and stealing your good name, I fear,"
Jilseponie said, staring hard at Andacanavar's companion.

"Then gettin' in trouble, not to doubt!" Liam O'Blythe roared, pointing
his finger at his friend.
"I preferred to travel anonymously," the exposed liar explained. "To do
otherwise might have invited trouble."

"A renowned thief, are you? " Jilseponie said, crossing her arms over her
chest. "Or just a thief of people's names?"

"A prince, actually," Liam O'Blythe answered for Midalis. "Brother o'
the King, he is, and Prince o' all Vanguard."

Jilseponie's jaw dropped open, her eyes going so wide that it seemed as if
they might fall right out of their sockets. Now that the man's identity had
been clarified, she could see the resemblance he bore to Danube, a younger
and thinner version of the King.

"I would have expected you to tell her," Andacanavar said, looking past
the woman, and Jilseponie took the cue and turned to see Bradwarden
moving up beside her.

"Didn't think it was needed," the centaur said dryly. "Suren her head's
big enough without her knowin' that she beat the Prince of Honce-the-Bear
in a sword fight!"

"You knew? " Jilseponie asked.

"I felled ye once, girl, there's not a thing in me forest that I'm not
knowin'. When are ye to believe me?"

Jilseponie just shook her head helplessly.

"We are all in your debt," Prince Midalis remarked, moving up to her
and taking her hand. He bowed low and kissed that hand.

"I was near death," Liam added. "I thought that'd be the end o' Liam
O'Blythe! But for Avelyn's hand, it suren would've!"

"You saved the world, young ranger-in-training," Andacanavar said with
a smile.

"That is Avelyn's deed," Jilseponie was quick to correct, motioning
toward the upraised arm. "I was but a messenger."

"A fine one indeed," said Prince Midalis, and he had her hand clasped
between both of his, then, and he stared admiringly into her dark blue eyes.

The sudden tension was broken almost immediately, as Abbot Braumin
came bounding over, crying out for Jilseponie, then wrapping her in such a
hug that he squeezed all the air out of her.

They spent the rest of the day together, and held a great celebration that
night in the valley before the mountain. Jilseponie noted, then, that not
many of Andacanavar's Alpinadoran people were in attendance.

"They fear the gemstone magic, and thus, the covenant," Midalis
explained.

"I do not believe that conversion to the faith is a requirement for
the healing," Jilseponie replied; and when she did, she noted that Abbot
Braumin's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"This is a holy place for the Abellican Church," Braumin noted.

Jilseponie nodded, not beginning to disagree. "It is the place where the
Abellican Church should understand that it stands for all the goodly people
of all the world, whether Abellican or not," she remarked. "If this is the
covenant of the Avelyn that I knew, then healing will be given to any who
come to this place, without question of their beliefs."

Her tone became a bit more sharp as she ended, and that made all gazes
settle on Abbot Braumin.

"I never refused Andacanavar's people," he explained, "nor would I
begin to turn them away or demand anything of them should they taste of
the blood. It is their own fears that keep them away, and not words from
me or any others. Perhaps they fear that this is some ruse designed to con-
vert them to a faith they have many times rejected."

"Or perhaps they fear to see the truth, fear that their old beliefs will
become irrelevant," Dellman added, and Jilseponie did not miss the scowl
that came over Andacanavar's face.

"That is as foolish as it is prideful," she said. "And neither are traits I
would attribute to Avelyn Desbris." She turned to the ranger then, her face
full of compassion. "Has the plague found your homeland? "

He nodded. "Not as bad as in your own, as yet," he explained. "But, yes,
many have been stricken ill and many have died."

"Bring them," Jilseponie said. "Convince them. Tell them that this is as
much a gift of your own God as it is of ours. Tell them whatever you must
to bring them here."

"There are no conditions," Braumin Herde added, and Jilseponie was
glad to see that he was seeing things her way.

"I intend to do just that," the ranger assured her. "Now that I have
tasted the blood."

"And all the brothers of St. Belfour will go with you, if you desire,"
Dellman said, "to offer healing along the road, as the brothers of St. Pre-
cious are doing along the road south."

"We shall see," was all that Andacanavar would concede.

The procession from Vanguard left the next day. The next after that, to
Jilseponie's absolute delight, the brethren of St.-Mere-Abelle began to show
up. Nearly half the brothers of that greatest of abbeys arrived, some three
hundred, led by Agronguerre himself. They went to the plateau and they
learned the beautiful truth. And as they set out again for the south, that very
night-for Agronguerre understood that any delay would mean more suf-
fering to many people-the Father Abbot promised that the rest of the
abbey would arrive within a couple of weeks.

Jilseponie slept well that night, knowing that her vision, the vision given
to her by the spirits of Elbryan and Avelyn at Oracle, would indeed come to
fruition.

A few weeks later, Jilseponie and Bradwarden watched from a distant
mountainside the seemingly endless procession snaking along the road
from the south, some heading for the mountainous ring and Mount Aida,
others already rushing back to the southland in the hopes that some of the
crop might be brought in before the onset of winter.

Now that the seven hundred monks from St.-Mere-Abelle had joined in
the healing line, and soldiers from Ursal had come in support of Tetrafel's
Palmaris garrison, the road was swift and secure.

"They're sayin' that King Danube's on his way," Bradwarden remarked.

Jilseponie nodded, for she had heard the same rumors, claims that his
royal entourage, including a couple of sons, would arrive at the entrance to
the Barbacan by nightfall.

"He's bringin' all o' his court," Bradwarden remarked, and he eyed her
curiously as he finished. "Includin' a pair o' sons, by the tales I'm hearin'."

Jilseponie merely nodded, and did well to hide her smile. Bradwarden
was testing her, she knew, trying to find out if she harbored some feelings
for the King of Honce-the-Bear. In truth, it was nothing that Jilseponie had
even thought about much before and nothing that she was in any hurry to
examine more deeply.

They met with King Danube that very night, and it was obvious to all
in attendance, particularly to Constance Pemblebury, that the years had
done nothing to diminish the man's feelings for this heroic woman of the
northland.

"My work is here," Jilseponie explained against his insistence that she
reconsider accepting the position of baroness of Palmaris.

"It seems to me that the work here will continue with or without you,"
Danube argued.

Jilseponie conceded that fact-to a point. "The northern walls of the
Barbacan teem with goblins and giants," she explained. "And thus I have
become the self-appointed ranger of the Barbacan, for now at least."

"A title she should no' be wearin'," Bradwarden cut in with a chuckle.
"But she's got meself to keep her out o' trouble!"

They all shared a good laugh at that.

"Palmaris awaits your change of mind," Danube said to her in all serious-
ness. "Whether today, tomorrow, or years hence, the city will be yours with
but a word."

Jilseponie started to reply, but changed her mind. The man had just paid
her such a great compliment that she could not deny it, whatever might
then be in her heart. She bowed her head respectfully and let it go at that.

When she looked up, though, she didn't-couldn't-miss the look of
jealousy that Constance Pemblebury had put over her, nor the narrow-eyed
warning gaze of Duke Targon Bree Kalas.

Yes, indeed, she thought, the wonderful world of politics!

"He means to make her his next queen," Duke Kalas said to Constance
as they trotted their horses along the road back to the south. "You know
that, of course."
Constance didn't reply, but her silence spoke volumes to Kalas. Of course,
she knew. How could she not? All Danube had spoken of in the five days
since they had left the Barbacan was Jilseponie Wyndon, the savior of the
world. He had promised her Palmaris, and sincerely; and Kalas knew that
the invitation would be extended, at but a word from her, to include Castle
Ursal and the city itself, to include all the kingdom.

Yes, Kalas knew it and so did Constance: King Danube was stricken with
love for Jilseponie Wyndon. He had to bide his time for now, because she
would not be moved from the Barbacan, but Danube was a patient man
and one who knew how to get what he most desired.

"Queen Jilseponie," Kalas muttered quietly.

Constance Pemblebury fixed him with a perfectly awful stare.

They came in droves, the sick and the healthy, marching north from
every corner of Honce-the-Bear, from Vanguard and from the Mantis Arm,
from southern Yorkey, people living in the shadow of the Belt-and-Buckle
mountain range, and from distant Entel.

Even from Behren, they came in small numbers, frightened people defy-
ing their yatol priests, daring to stow away on trading ships going around
the mountain range's easternmost spurs, sailing up the coast all the way to
the Gulf of Corona and to the mouth of the Masur Delaval, where they dis-
embarked and began the land journey, desperate for healing.

The line of pilgrims thinned considerably, of course, with the onset of
winter, but Jilseponie and Bradwarden and Braumin held their posts atop
the plateau-an area sheltered by the magic of Avelyn from winter's coldest
blows.

Few came as the year turned, and rumors filtered up the line to the sen-
tinels of the covenant that many had died along the road, caught by storms
or by exhaustion.

Jilseponie and the others held their faith, though. Yes, the plague would
continue to claim victims, but hundreds and hundreds were now immune
to its devastating bite.

And hundreds more would come to the Barbacan in the spring, they
knew, for other rumors told of a great swelling of folk in the city of Pal-
maris, waiting for the word that the trails were clear.

One pleasant surprise came to them in the early part of the second
month of the year, when a familiar form, bundled in layers of skins, scaled
the rim of the plateau to stand towering above them.

Jilseponie's smile only widened and widened as more and more
Alpinadorans followed Andacanavar up to that plateau.

"You did not believe that I could lead them here in the winter?" the
ranger asked with a chuckle. "What feeble ranger do you take me for,
woman-ranger-in-training? "

Jilseponie could only laugh and shake her head.
Andacanavar introduced them to Bruinhelde, then; and the man, to Jilse-
ponie's eyes, didn't seem overthrilled to be there.

But, she noted, he was thick with plague.

A few tense moments followed, with Jilseponie and Andacanavar offer-
ing their reassurances that partaking of Avelyn's blood would not be an
admission of any change of faith, that the covenant would hold for them
without any promises of that. "You can return to your homeland, safe from
the plague, and go back to your ways and your God," Jilseponie said, but
she was looking more to Braumin than to the Alpinadorans as she spoke.

"You know the Father Abbot of my Church, good Bruinhelde," Braumin
said, surprising both Jilseponie and Bradwarden. But Braumin had spoken
at length with Agronguerre about the possibility of this very meeting. "You
know the value of the alliance that you entered into with him and with
Prince Midalis. Well, consider this an extension of that alliance, a fur-
thering of the bond of friendship between our peoples."

They all waited as Andacanavar translated the words into the Alpinadoran
tongue, making certain that Bruinhelde understood not only the literal
meaning of them but the manner in which they had been offered.

Bruinhelde then said something to the ranger, and Andacanavar turned
to the trio. "He fears that his actions here will offend his gods," the ranger
explained.

Jilseponie turned to her companions, then looked back to the Alpinado-
rans. "Then you do it, alone," she said to Bruinhelde. "Act as vanguard for
your people, the first to try."

Andacanavar cleared his throat.

"The second, then," Jilseponie corrected, for the ranger certainly had
tasted the blood on his first visit to the Barbacan. "But the first of your
people who was not raised and trained outside Alpinador. Go to the hand
and accept the covenant, of free will. Then you will know better how to
guide those who followed you here."

Andacanavar started to translate, but Bruinhelde held up his hand,
motioning that he had understood the words well enough. He took a deep
breath then, his massive chest swelling, and he strode past Jilseponie and
the other two, right up to the upraised arm.

He dropped to one knee before the arm, studying it intently, even
sniffing at the bloody palm.

Jilseponie came up beside him. "Kiss the palm and you will understand,"
she promised.

Bruinhelde looked up at her suspiciously.

"How can you properly guide your people if you do not know? " she
asked innocently.

The barbarian stared at her long and hard, and then he bent low and,
with but a single quick steadying breath, he dipped his head and tasted the
blood.
His expression showed surprise, and then . . .

Elation.

He looked up at Jilseponie again.

"You are the same man, with the same God," she said quietly, "but now
the plague cannot touch you."

And so it went, throughout the day, the barbarians of Alpinador finding
salvation at the hand of a soon-to-be Abellican saint. They stayed in the
Barbacan for some time, celebrating; and when they left, Bruinhelde
promised Jilseponie that he would spread the word throughout his home-
land, that other Alpinadorans would follow.

And she promised him that they would be greeted as friends.

As predicted, the swarm of pilgrims began again in the early spring,
flowing endlessly out of Palmaris, filtering through the city from points all
across Honce-the-Bear.

Jilseponie and Bradwarden watched them from their mountain perches,
taking heart again that Avelyn's promise would be fulfilled, that the rosy
plague would be washed from the land.

From the wooded trails far below the line of the Barbacan, another
watched the procession, but with very different emotions.

For Marcalo De'Unnero, the nocking of all the world to Avelyn Desbris
was like a dark mirror held up before his wretched eyes, a reminder of his
own mistakes and failings.

He was a beast now as often as a man, consumed by the power of the
tiger's paw gemstone that had somehow become a part of his very being.
He understood it now to be a curse, and surely no blessing, for no longer
could he control the urges of the hunting and hungry cat. He survived by
killing, pure and simple. Deer, rabbits, and, when he could find no alterna-
tive, feasting on the flesh and blood of humans.

He knew that he was sinking, that the creature was consuming him, mind
and soul.

But not in body. Nay, it seemed as if another gemstone, the hematite ring
he had taken from a merchant in Palmaris, had also found its way to
De'Unnero's wretched being. He should have died from the wounds he
had received on that day when he had been chased out of Palmaris, for sev-
eral of the arrows had struck him in vital areas. He had spent days pulling
out the arrowheads, the extraction on several occasions followed by a gush
of blood that had left him weak and even unconscious.

But every time, he had reawakened, his wounds healed. The soul stone
would not let him die!

And truly, at that time, all that Marcalo De'Unnero wanted was to die, to
be released from the bonds of the weretiger, to be freed of this hellish
prison his own body had become for him.

He had even considered going to the shrine of Avelyn. He didn't fear the
plague-nay, he knew somehow that it could not affect him-but he won-
dered if this covenant he had been hearing repeated excitedly by every
person going to or from the Barbacan, this gift of Avelyn, might extend to
the curing of his present condition.

In fact, De'Unnero had even started toward the Barbacan on one occa-
sion, but had become sidetracked, for a woman in the caravan on the road
north of him had strayed out from the revealing light of the campfire one
calm and quiet night.

After his gory feast, De'Unnero understood that he could not continue,
that there would be no salvation for him from the likes of saintly Avelyn
Desbris.

So he melted back into the forest, back to the west and the wilder lands,
where deer were more plentiful and human flesh harder to find.

It went on through the seasons and the years, until the spring of God's
Year 834. The previous spring had brought only thin lines of pilgrims-so
few, in fact, that Abbot Braumin had returned to his duties at St. Precious
and many of the monks along the northern road had been dismissed back
to their respective abbeys-and by all the reports coming out of the south-
land, fewer still would make the journey this year.

The plague had been beaten, it seemed, and so, with mixed emotions,
Jilseponie and Bradwarden left their post at Mount Aida and returned to
the lands they knew so well, the Timberlands and Dundalis.

Jilseponie lingered a long time at Elbryan's cairn before going into the
town. She went to Oracle there, and found that Elbryan's spirit was with
her. For the first time in years, she was not Jilseponie but Pony. Just Pony:

the girl who had grown up in the region beside Elbryan, who had taken
such a strange and roundabout journey to get to this place in her life.

She stayed with the spirit of her lost husband for a long, long time, and it
was late into the evening when she at last emerged. Bradwarden was
nowhere about, but she could hear his piping distantly on the evening
breeze.

So reminiscent of those long-ago days.

She found Dundalis larger than when she had left it, with many of the
pilgrims deciding to remain there rather than march all the way back to
their southern homes. The other towns of the region-and all along the
south road to and including Palmaris-also boasted of many, many new-
comers, so many, in fact, that Palmaris' population was now estimated as
larger than it had been before the plague had begun to claim victims there.

Fellowship Way in Dundalis was a bustling place now, always full of
patrons; and the cheers that greeted Pony when she walked through the
door that spring night resounded as loudly as any she had heard at the pre-
vious Fellowship Way, one of Palmaris' busiest taverns.

She found Belster behind the bar along with Roger. Dainsey was working
tables-whenever her toddler son was asleep enough for her to slip out to
the front of the establishment and do some work.

"Can you take a break from the work?" Pony asked the trio after the
greeting and tearful hugs.

Belster nodded to a couple of patrons, who quickly stepped into place
serving the customers, and Pony led the three into the back room.

"Good to have ye back," Belster remarked.

"For a short while only," Pony replied, and she let her gaze drift from
person to person. "I am going to Palmaris," she announced, "to accept
King Danube's offer."

"Baroness Pony? " Dainsey said with a great and joyful laugh.

"Baroness Jilseponie," she corrected.

"What about yer Church friends?" Belster asked. "They're busy makin'
Avelyn a saint now-should be done this very year-and are hopin' to open
a new chapel in Caer Tinella. I'm thinkin' that Braumin's wantin' ye to head
that chapel, girl, or at least to join with him in his Church."

Pony shook her head throughout the speech. "They will understand,"
she insisted. "I can do more good for the teachings of Avelyn as a secular
leader than if I went into the Church, where I would have to fight every day
for my survival in any position of power merely because I am a woman."

She looked to Roger mostly, for support, because he, above all others
except for Bradwarden, knew her the best. And he was nodding and
smiling.

This was the right course for her.

"I will have a place at Chasewind Manor for Belster," Pony promised,
"and for Roger and Dainsey."

"And Bryan," Dainsey put in with an impish grin.

"Bryan?" Pony started to ask, and then, given the expressions worn by
both Roger and Dainsey, she understood. Again came the hugs; and then
Dainsey, leading Pony by the hand to the back room where little Bryan
slept peacefully, detailed every moment of the child's birth and life thus far.

Jilseponie Wyndon left Dundalis a month later, after having sent word
ahead to Palmaris requesting that King Danube honor his word and give
the city to her as baroness. By the time she arrived in the city, Duke Tetrafel
had long-and gladly-vacated Chasewind Manor.

Brynn Dharielle thought she had him beaten, a clever twist-thrust-
disengage-and-thrust-again movement that seemed as if it had young
Aydrian caught off balance.

But the disengage cut both ways, and as Brynn's slender blade knifed in
for a low strike, Aydrian's slapped down atop it, driving the point to the
ground. A twist of the wrist had the boy's sword tip at Brynn's throat.

"Finally," Aydrian said, for this was his first victory over the older
ranger-in-training, a warrior the Touel'alfar regarded very highly.
"Remarkable progress," Lady Dasslerond said to Belli'mar Juraviel, the
two of them standing in the brush off to the side, unseen by the combat-
ants. "His work is even more promising than that of young Brynn."

Juraviel nodded, finding it hard to disagree, given what had just hap-
pened on the field before them. He didn't know much of Aydrian, hadn't
spent time with the boy, but from what he had heard, the child was pos-
sessed of an enormous amount of pride, and more than a bit of a temper.
Those factors seemed to bother Lady Dasslerond not at all, though, for
whenever Juraviel had mentioned them to her, or anything at all negative
about the youngest ranger, she had merely labeled it "passion," and had
gone about her business.

"It is time to begin the other side of his training," Lady Dasslerond
remarked then, catching Juraviel off his guard.

"The gemstones?" he asked hesitantly.

Dasslerond nodded. "With the inclusion of magical prowess, he will
become the most complete warrior the world has ever known," she said.
"Greater than his father, greater than the original Aydrian, and greater even
than Terranen Dinoniel."

"He is still young," Juraviel dared to say, but what he really wanted to
scream out at his lady was that this one needed more than training with
weapons and gemstones. That he needed emotional training, as well, some
measure of the balance within his own thoughts and, more important,
within his heart.

He didn't say that, though, because he knew that she wouldn't hear his
words.

He listened then to Aydrian, taunting Brynn Dharielle and begging her
for another fight so that he could "beat her again."

Belli'mar Juraviel had a very bad feeling about all this.
Epilogue

I he shrugged off her title, Baroness Jilseponie, as she descended the
, dungeon stairs in Chasewind Manor to a small and dark room she had
•taken as a private place for her meditations, becoming Pony, just
Pony, once more.

And there, in the darkness, with all of the tumult of the politics and the
public solidly put out of her mind, Pony stared into her mirror and sought
the form of her lost love. She had found her place and her reason again, and
when she spoke to Elbryan, with thoughts and not words, she did so with
complete confidence.

I understand now, my love, and in that understanding comes a peace I
feared I never would again know, a true contentment.

When I lost you, I came to fear that it had all been in vain, that we had
really accomplished nothing by our sacrifice. I feared that it was the nature
of man to continue with all that we fought against, that one battle only
served to begin another, and that it could not end. I am still not convinced
of the opposite, not convinced that paradise can be found in the kingdom of
Mankind.

But now I understand that we must continue the fight, no matter the odds,
no matter the outcome. We fight because, in doing so, we make a statement
about who we want to be, about who we must become. We fight because the
opposite is to surrender to a way of thinking that we know to be wrong. We
fight to save ourselves, if not the world.

And we, all humanity, are better for the fight. The world is indeed
a brighter place because of our battle against and victory over Mark-
wart, because of our efforts and your sacrifice. The darkness will come
again, I know; and I know, too, that there will be others to take up the
mantle of battle, to cry out the name Nightbird, as many in our own strug-
gle called out the name Dinoniel. You bettered the world, my love, physi-
cally by lifting the darkness from the highest level of the Church and

483
spiritually by bringing inspiration to those of like mind who would take
up the fight.

And so your death was not in vain, and though I miss you terribly, and
always shall, and though my heart will never be whole again, I accept now the
price of our victory. Yes, my love, the cost was worth the gain.