Mortalis

Chapter 8

Abbot Agronguerre held his breath as his guests at St. Belfour-Prince Midalis and the two barbarians Andacanavar and Bruinheldeentered 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, interrupted 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."

"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 victory 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 reluctant 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 Bruinhelde 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. Missionaries 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.

"You will use no magic to tend my wounded," Bruinhelde said determinedly, "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 goblins," 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 gemstones, 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 begin 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. Precious, 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 precious Master Jojonah through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle town and tortured 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 determinedly. "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 inquisition," 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 punished mercilessly those who disagreed with him.

De'Unnero had viciously battled Elbryan, and the wound that had eventually 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 Palmaris 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 confident 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 Mirianic 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 Brennilee 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 happened several times in Falidean town during heavy storms: coffins sometimes 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 beautiful, 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 gathered 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 determination, 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 Honcethe-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