“Of course,” Brother Braumin replied. “We made no decisions—such are not ours to make—but merely discussed the matter and tried to find some agreement, a proposal shaped between us that I might bring to my colleagues and Abbot Je’howith to his.”
Francis nodded, indicating that Braumin should go on.
“We must speak privately about this,” Braumin answered and turned to the King. “But the College of Abbots will succeed in its task of appointment, and of the correct appointment for the times. I assure you, your Majesty.”
“As we have come to agree on the new abbot of St. Precious,” Je’howith added, surprising everyone. “Master Francis, with great generosity and foresight, has abdicated the post, and plans to nominate …” He paused and motioned to Francis.
“I had th-thought that Brother Braumin,” Francis stuttered, obviously caught off his guard. “Once he has been formally proclaimed as master …”
“Yes,” they heard Brother Talumus say with enthusiasm.
“Immaculate Brother Braumin will become interim abbot of St. Precious within the week,” Abbot Je’howith insisted, “and we will formalize that appointment as soon as we have heard any assenting or dissenting arguments.”
King Danube looked at Braumin, and the monk shrugged. “If asked to serve, I would not refuse,” he said.
Danube nodded, apparently satisfied with that. He paused then and put his chin in his hand, his gaze drifting off to nowhere in particular. All the rest of the people around the table likewise quieted in deference to the King, and Pony understood then that Danube was in control here and that the brothers of the Abellican Church would do well to disturb him not at all. The less King Danube needed to turn his gaze toward the Church, the better the Church would survive.
Danube remained apparently distant for a long while—Pony got the distinct feeling that the man was testing the patience of those around him, waiting to see if anyone would dare to speak. Finally, he sat up straight and stared at Pony.
“And is your decision—or shall I call it your compromise?—Brother Braumin, that it will be a man or a woman who heads the Abellican Church?” Danube asked.
Pony, embarrassed as she was, didn’t turn away but met Danube’s stare.
“Unless Abbess Delenia of St. Gwendolyn makes a bid for the position of mother abbess, it will be a man,” Braumin answered.
“And Abbess Delenia would have no chance of assuming leadership of the Church, even should she so desire it,” a bristling Abbot Je’howith was quick to add.
The man’s tone made Pony glance his way, trying unsuccessfully to determine whether he was upset because of the mere suggestion that a woman might head the Church or because King Danube had asked the question of Brother Braumin instead of him.
“So you have refused the offer, then,” Danube said to her as she turned back to him. “The Abellican Church hands you one of the most powerful positions in all the world, and you turn it down?”
“Brother Braumin and others offered to sponsor me as a candidate for mother abbess,” Pony corrected, “but many others within the Church would have rejected such a proposal. It is a fight I choose not to wage, and the leadership of the Church is a position I do not feel that I have earned.”
“Well said,” said Je’howith, but Danube cut him short with an upraised hand.
“You underestimate your charisma, Jilseponie,” the King went on, “and your accomplishments and potential accomplishments. I doubt not at all that the Abellican Church would fare well under your guidance.”
Pony nodded her thanks for the somewhat surprising compliment.
“But perhaps Je’howith’s and the others’ loss might become my gain,” the King went on. “Since you have chosen to reject the offer of the Church, I ask again if I might somehow persuade you to accept the barony of Palmaris.”
Pony looked down and sighed. Everybody wanted her in his court. She understood the attention—she was a hero among the common folk now, and those common folk had been doing more than a little grumbling about the King, and especially about the Church, of late—but she could not believe how much faith these leaders were willing to place in her. “What would I know of ruling a city, my King?”
Danube burst out into laughter—too much so, it seemed to Pony and to several others who, she noticed, were glancing nervously around, particularly Duke Kalas and Constance Pemblebury, who were both scowling.
And when she thought about it, Pony wasn’t surprised. Kalas, after all, had hinted at some amorous feelings for her, and Constance was the King’s favorite. Had Danube’s exaggerated laughter just put Pony into the middle of some intrigue with those two?
She sighed and looked away, back at Brother Braumin, who was staring at her nervously.
Pony gave in and started laughing as well.
“So you agree that your statement was absurd?” Danube was quick to ask. “What would Jilseponie know of leadership indeed!”
“No, your Majesty,” Pony replied. “I laugh because I cannot believe …” She stopped and just shook her head helplessly. “I am not suited to be baroness, or for any other rank you wish to bestow upon me,” she said, “as I am not suited to be mother abbess of a Church whose policies and intricacies I hardly understand.”
“Nonsense,” Danube declared, but Pony was shaking her head even as he barked out the word. “Nobility runs in your blood,” the King went on, “if not in your lineage, and your ascent to the court of Honce-the-Bear would prove most beneficial.”
Still she shook her head.
The King stared at her long and hard then, another uncomfortable moment, and then he gave a helpless sigh. “I see that I shall not convince you—no, Jilseponie Wyndon, you are one of extraordinary character and determination.”
“Stubborn,” Brother Braumin dared to interject, breaking the tension.
Again the King laughed. “But in a manner suited to heroes,” he said. “A pity that you’ll not change your mind, and truly a loss for both of us, eh, Abbot Je’howith?”
“Indeed,” the old abbot said unconvincingly.
Pony continued to alternate her gaze between the King and his two secular advisers, and neither of them stopped staring at her for one moment.
“Palmaris will be in firm and fine control,” the King went on, addressing the whole of the gathering again. “Duke Kalas will stay on as ruler, for as long as he feels necessary. Also, because of the continuing hostilities outside of Palmaris’ wall with the powries, goblins, and even reports of giant bands roaming the region, he will keep half the Allheart knights. That should suffice to allow the folk of Palmaris some peace of mind.”
Pony glanced at Francis and Braumin and the other young monks, their distress showing her that they understood well the meaning of the King’s decision. Danube didn’t fear any goblins or powries or giants, for Palmaris’ garrison had proven itself time and again in the war against them. No, when the King spoke of potential enemies, he was subtly referring to those enemies Duke Kalas might face from within, particularly from St. Precious. The Allheart knights would make Chasewind Manor a veritable fortress and would strengthen Duke Kalas’ influence tremendously.
At first, Pony, too, was more than a little distressed by the news. Privately, at least, she found herself siding with Brother Braumin; she did believe in the man and his cause. That admission nearly made her speak up then, announcing that she had changed her mind and that she would accept an offer to join the Church, not for the position of mother abbess but as an adviser to Brother Braumin in his new position of abbot of St. Precious. Almost—but even as she considered the action, Pony thought of Elbryan and her lost child, thought of the futility of it all, the waste of effort to battle enemies that seemed to her, at that moment, eternal.
She kept silent; indeed, she turned inward through the rest of the meeting. No further surprises came forth, from either Danube or the monks, and their business was quickly concluded. Pony did note the glare that Constance Pemblebury bestowed
on her as they were leaving the audience hall, a scowl that deepened tenfold when King Danube took Pony’s hand and kissed it, expressing his gratitude yet again for her actions and her sacrifice and proclaiming that Honce-the-Bear was a better place by far because of Jilseponie and Elbryan, Avelyn Desbris and the centaur, Bradwarden, Roger Lockless, and—to Pony’s and everyone else’s absolute surprise—because of the quiet working of the Touel’alfar.
And then Danube and that moment of gratitude were abruptly gone; the King, Constance Pemblebury, and Duke Bretherford rode forth to the docks and the waiting ships. The reality of the still-gloomy day settled over St. Precious.
A temporary moment of truce, Pony thought as she considered the King’s last words to her. A brief shining moment, unlasting in the gloom. Like all such moments.
Pony was on the roof of St. Precious’s highest tower again later that day. The spectacle over at the dock section—with the tall ships unfurling their sails, the crowds cheering, the trumpets blaring—did not hold her attention for long. Rather, she found herself looking north, beyond the city’s great wall, beyond the farmhouses and the rolling hills. Looking in her mind’s eye to Dundalis and her past—and perhaps, she thought seriously, her future.
Chapter 3
Joined by War
THE ICY RAIN DRUMMED HEAVILY AGAINST THE BARE TREES, BLOWING IN SHEETS through the forest, soaking Prince Midalis and his army. They had hoped for snow, a great blizzard as so often blasted Vanguard, a storm gathering strength over the Gulf of Corona, drawing up the water and then dumping snow thigh deep throughout the region. But it was just rain this time: icy rain, and miserable to be sure, but nothing that would drive the goblin horde from their entrenched positions around the large, solitary stone structure, St. Belfour, on the small, bare hill amid the trees.
The cowls of their cloaks pulled as low as they could go, the young Prince and his closest adviser and confidant, Liam O’Blythe, the Earl of Tir-Mattias, made their cautious way to the rocky ridgeline that afforded them a view of the abbey and of the monstrous army firmly encamped about it.
“There’s two thousand o’ the skizzes if there’s a dozen,” Liam remarked, surveying the scene before them. He was a thin fellow, all gangly arms and legs, freckle faced with red hair and gray eyes, as was common among the Vanguardsmen. “They got us five to one, even countin’ that them monks’ll come out and give a hand.”
“A bolt of lightning would be better welcome,” Midalis replied with just a hint of the Vanguard brogue creeping into his Ursal court–trained diction. His crystal blue eyes peeked out from under the edge of the hood, sparkling brightly despite the dullness of the day. When he stood in a room with native Vanguardsmen, it was obvious that Midalis was not from the region. He was of medium height and build, but with a darker complexion and dark brown hair. Anyone who saw Midalis standing beside the older Danube would guess that they were brothers.
“If they got any o’ the magic left to ’em,” said Liam, and he pulled off his soaked hood and shook his unruly mop of red hair, running his hand through it to get it out of his eyes. “They ain’t tossed a bolt or a burst o’ fire out at the goblins in a fortnight.”
“They’ve got it left,” Midalis answered with confidence. “But they know that if they use their magic, they’ll just bring the goblins on in full against them. The goblins understand how much the monks have got to throw, and if those in the abbey grow weary from using their magic, they will find a difficult task in holding back the horde.”
Liam nodded, but his expression remained doubting and grim. “Well, they better have a bolt or two for throwin’ when we go against the horde, or we’ll be chased off or cut down.”
Prince Midalis did not doubt the man’s observations. Vanguard was having a much harder time in the aftermath of the war than the rest of Honce-the-Bear, because in Vanguard, the war wasn’t over. The minions of the demon dactyl had hit the region hard, both along the rocky coast and with a force marching across the land. South and west of the Gulf of Corona, the lands were cultivated, and much more heavily populated; and there, the King’s army had been able to push the hordes away. But here, where the land was much wilder, where forests predominated over farmland and the population of humans was measured in hundreds instead of tens of thousands, the powries and goblins had not so readily retreated. Always, Vanguard had been the roughest region of Honce-the-Bear, its forests full of huge brown bears and hunting cats, its northern border continually crossed by the warlike barbarian tribesmen of Alpinador. The folk of Vanguard had known goblins and powries as more than fireside tales to scare children long before the demon dactyl had awakened to remind the more civilized regions that such monsters did exist.
And though they were certainly outnumbered by their monstrous enemies in the region, the people of Vanguard knew how to fight such foes.
Still, this was a battle that Midalis did not want; this particular army of goblins was too large and too skilled, and the ground around St. Belfour of Tir-Mattias was too rugged for the Prince’s troops to fully utilize their greatest advantage: horses. Thus, Midalis had hoped the dark clouds they had seen gathering over the gulf would bring a killer blizzard, a storm that would weaken the goblins’ resolve to continue their siege.
“The weather won’t be holdin’ so warm much longer,” Liam remarked.
Midalis shook his head, his expression grim. “The monks haven’t got much longer,” he explained. “The goblins have held them in there for near to two months now, and with all the folk who came running before the horde, they’ve not the food to hold on.” He paused there and stood staring long and hard at the windswept rain slashing against the abbey’s stone walls and at the dozens and dozens of sputtering, smoking campfires of the goblin army encircling the place.
“Ye’re to go to him, ain’t ye?” Liam asked.
Midalis turned to regard him. “I see no choice,” he answered. “Abbot Agronguerre came to me last night, in my dreams, begging for our help. They’ve a day more of food, and then they’ll be going hungry. We cannot wait any longer.”
Liam’s expression showed that he was less than enthusiastic about the prospects.
“I’m no more happy about the possibilities than you,” Midalis said to him. “In another time, we’d be fighting the barbarian savages, and now I am asking them for help.”
“Help for the Abellican Church,” Liam reminded him, which only made the prospects darker still.
“Aye, there’s no friendship between the barbarians of Alpinador and the Church,” Midalis agreed; for indeed, the Church had made many forays into the wild northern kingdom, usually with disastrous results, particularly one not so distant memory of slaughter in a small town called Fuldebarrow. “But I’ve got to try, for the abbot and his brethren.”
“And I’ll try with ye, me Prince,” Liam said with a nod. “And all yer men’ll fight beside the demon hisself, if Prince Midalis’ naming him an ally!”
Midalis put his hand on Liam’s elbow, grateful, as always, for the unyielding loyalty of his hardy men and women. The folk of Vanguard had survived all the trials, the killer storms, and now the invasion, by standing united behind their beloved Prince Midalis, younger brother of King Danube Brock Ursal. And Midalis’ loyalty was no less heartfelt and intense. As Danube’s brother, he could have ruled whatever duchy he chose. He could have taken the Mantis Arm and its prosperous trade, or the Yorkey region between Ursal and Entel, with its gentle climate and rolling farmlands. He could have even been named Duke of Ursal, as was usual for a lone sibling prince, ruling the mighty city beside his brother in the luxury of Ursal’s bountiful court.
But Vanguard had held Midalis’ heart ever since his childhood, when his father had sailed with him into the Coastpoint Guard fortress of Pireth Vanguard on a trip to hunt the huge northern elk. Something about the nature of the place—untamed, seemingly unconquerable—had touched a spiritual chord within young Midalis, had shown him an alternative to the bustle and the dirt of the
cities. His brother had been leery about letting Midalis come up to this wild land—would the nearly autonomous people accept him? Or might he meet with an “accident” on a hunting trip?
Those fears had been dispelled the moment Midalis had stepped off the boat onto the low dock of Pireth Vanguard, when a host of folk from all the neighboring communities had arrived to set out a huge feast of venison and fowl, with pipers playing tunes both melancholy and joyous all through the day, and all the young ladies of Vanguard taking turns dancing with their new Prince.
Truly, Midalis had found his home, and so when the minions of the demon dactyl had arrived in force, Midalis had not only called out the militia and sent a message to his brother for aid but he had personally led the Vanguard forces. Never could it be said of Prince Midalis that he sat on a horse in safety at the back of the battlefield, commanding his troops into action.
Thus, when the barbarian Andacanavar had come to Midalis’ camp that night a week before and Midalis had agreed to meet with him, other Vanguard men and women, traditional enemies of the barbarians, had deferred to the judgment of their heroic Prince without complaint.
Still, it was with great trepidation that Midalis and Liam made their quiet way over the forested hills to the field where Andacanavar and his fellows had set up camp. Might the huge barbarian have baited him, feigning friendship so that he could decapitate the Vanguard forces?
Midalis swallowed that distrust and forced himself to focus instead on poor Abbot Agronguerre and the other forty monks of St. Belfour and the three hundred commoners holed up within the abbey’s walls.
At the edge of the field, the pair were met by a trio of huge muscled men, the shortest of whom stood nearly half a foot taller than the nearly six-foot Midalis. Huge spears in hand, the barbarians walked right up before the horses of the visitors, one going to each horse and grabbing the reins just below the beasts’ mouths, pulling down forcefully.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 6