DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga)

by R. A. Salvatore

  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, canonization 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 triumphed 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,” Je’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 title 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 promoting 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 abandonment 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 position, 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. “If Jilseponie 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, for Jilseponie 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.

  If Je’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 protégé.”

  “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 p
ower, 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 himself 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 support 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 Vanguard, 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 formally 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 invitation 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 skepticism 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 obviously 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 College 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 startling 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 confirmation, 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.