Mortalis

Chapter 13

"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, reminding 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 enemies 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 disaster 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 Markwart, 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 recognized 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.-MereAbelle, that he could not have done it, could not have nominated Jilseponie. Not then and not now. With a sigh, resigned to his own sense of failure, Master Francis Deliacourt 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 considerably 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 immediately 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 tremendous 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 continued 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 forgotten? 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 forward 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 helpless, 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 ridding 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. Precious 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 realized 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 attendance: 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 conniving. 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 devastating 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 stonecutting. 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 mouthpiece. 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 Viscenti 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 amp; 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 understatement, 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 Glendenhook 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 postone 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 efficiently, 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 disturb 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 Markwart's end, to be acceptable," Francis interrupted. "But, yes, we did indeed discuss the matter at length, to find a candidate who would prove acceptable 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 enthusiastically.

"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 rubbing 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 temporary thing.

To the left of Bou-raiy, Glendenhook seemed even more agitated, rubbing 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 election. 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 supporter, 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 maintained, "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 advisement. 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 unquestioning 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 encompass 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 history 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 overwhelmed 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," Bouraiy 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, callous attitude hit hard right in the heart, a poignant echo of another prominent brother he had recently buried.