Mortalis dw-4

by Robert Salvatore

  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, plagueinfested 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, however, 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 consequences 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 predict," 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 redemption, 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 battled 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 procession from St.-Mere-Abelle's wall, prominent among them Fio Bou-raiy, with his flowered robe and his grim expression.

  He and Francis l
ocked 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 Torrencebut 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, headless 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 thundered 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 Constance, standing a short distance away. Behind her, Merwick and Torrence played in the bliss of youthful ignorance, making toys out of relics, smudging priceless tapestries, laughing and crying with equally fervent passion. "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 plagueridden."

  "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 victims 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 surface 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 succession 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.

  D
anube 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."