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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “And you discussed the price?” the new abbot asked.

  “Captain Al’u’met assured me that the price has been paid in full by the new brothers of St. Precious, that our actions against the evil that was Markwart and our defense of the Behrenese of the docks more than suffice.”

  “A wonderful man,” Brother Viscenti remarked.

  “You understand your duties?” Braumin asked.

  Dellman nodded. “I am to observe first, to try to get a feeling for the intentions of Abbot Agronguerre,” he replied, “and then, on my instinct and judgment, I may inform the man that you and others plan to nominate him at the College of Abbots that will be convened in Calember.”

  “You are a messenger first, bringing word of the College and of the events in Palmaris,” said Braumin.

  “Likely, he has already heard,” Viscenti put in, shaking his head. “Who in all the world could not have heard?”

  Abbot Braumin smiled and let the point go to his excitable friend, though in truth he doubted that anyone in Vanguard had heard of the events in Palmaris in any more detail other than the unexpected death of Father Abbot Markwart. The Abellican Church would have been the only real messenger to that distant place; and even if St.-Mere-Abelle had sent a courier, no one there truly fathomed the implications of the events, and certainly no one there would have been so bold as to take sides in the budding philosophical war. But that was just what Braumin had instructed the wise and trustworthy Brother Holan Dellman to do: to take the side of the victors, to show that the good had won out over the cancerous evil.

  “Treat Markwart’s memory gently,” Braumin urged Dellman yet again, “but foster no doubts concerning the fall of the Father Abbot—the fall from grace before the fall from life.”

  Dellman nodded, then turned as Brother Talumus entered the room.

  “Go and accept the passage from Al’u’met,” Braumin instructed Dellman. “Extend to him our profound thanks, and then prepare your thoughts and your belongings. Go with the blessings of Avelyn.”

  That last line, spoken so casually, raised Talumus’ eyebrow.

  As soon as Dellman had exited, Braumin motioned to Viscenti, and the man quickly closed the door.

  Talumus glanced around, seeming suspicious.

  “St. Precious is not nearly as strong as it will have to be, if we are to withstand the continuing assault by Duke Kalas,” Braumin remarked to Talumus. Indeed, many times over the course of the winter, Kalas and Braumin had argued over policy, over minor issues, mostly, but ones that perceptive Braumin understood might well grow in importance now that winter had relinquished its grasp and the folk were out and about the city.

  “Jilseponie is leaving,” the younger monk reasoned.

  “Very good, Talumus,” Braumin congratulated, and he raised a finger into the air. “Keep vigilant, and pay attention to every clue.”

  “She said she would leave when the roads were clear,” Talumus explained. “Many times has she met with Belster O’Comely these last days, and I have heard that it is his intent, with prodding from Jilseponie, to return to the northland.”

  “She will indeed take her leave of us, though truly it pains my heart to let her go,” Braumin confirmed. “What an ally she has been to the Church, a force to counter any potential intrusions on our sovereignty by the aggressive Kalas. But she has her own path to follow, a road darkened by grief and anger, and I cannot turn her from that path, whatever our needs.

  “To that end,” he continued, “we must bolster the strength of St. Precious.” As he spoke, the abbot turned his gaze over Brother Viscenti.

  “A promotion,” Brother Talumus reasoned.

  “From this day forth, Marlboro Viscenti will be known as a master of St. Precious,” said Braumin, and the nervous little Viscenti puffed out his chest. “Master Francis, who departs this very day for St.-Mere-Abelle, will see that the promotion is approved at every level; and even if some wish to argue the point, which I cannot fathom, I am certainly within my rights as abbot of St. Precious to make the promotion unilaterally.”

  Talumus nodded and offered a smile, somewhat strained but more genuine than not, to Viscenti. Then he looked to Braumin, his expression turning curious. “Why tell me now, and why behind a closed door?” he asked.

  Braumin chuckled and walked around his desk, sitting on its edge right before the other monk, removing the physical barrier between them as he hoped to remove any possibility of insincere posturing. “The risks you took and your actions in the last days of Markwart speak highly of you,” he began. “Had you more experience, there is no doubt that Talumus, and not Braumin, would have become the abbot of St. Precious, a nomination that I would have strongly supported. In the absence of that possibility, it has occurred to me that Talumus, too, should soon find his way to the rank of master. Yet, in that, too, you’ve not enough years in the Order for such a promotion to be approved without strong opposition—and, in all honesty, it is not a battle I choose to fight now.”

  “I have never asked—” Talumus began to protest, but Abbot Braumin stopped him with an upraised hand.

  “Indeed, I will support your nomination to the rank of master as soon as it is feasible,” he explained. “As soon as you have enough time—and I do not mean the typical ten years as the minimum. But that is a matter for another day: a day, I fear, that will be long in coming if St. Precious is to withstand the intrusions of Baron Kalas. We need more power and more security, supporters of my—of our—cause, in line to take the helm in the event of unforeseen tragedy.”

  His words obviously hit a strong chord within Brother Talumus, who had recently witnessed the murder of his beloved Abbot Dobrinion Calislas. The man stiffened and straightened, his eyes unblinking.

  “Thus, there must be others, like Master Viscenti, who will ascend above you within the Order at St. Precious,” Braumin explained. “I will need voices to support me at the College of Abbots, as well as against Duke Kalas. I wanted to tell you this personally, and privately, out of respect for your service and loyalty.”

  He stopped, tilting his head and waiting for a reply, and Brother Talumus spent a long while digesting the information. “You honor me,” he said at length, and he seemed genuinely content. “More so than I deserve, I fear. I was not enamored of Jilseponie and Elbryan. I feared …”

  “As we all feared, and yet you certainly took the right course of action,” Braumin interjected, and Viscenti seconded the remark.

  “Very well,” Talumus replied. “I understand now the implications of the battle within Chasewind Manor. My path is obvious to me, a shining road paved with all the glories of the true Abellican Church. My voice will not ring out with the commands of a master at this time, but it will be no less loud in support of Abbot Braumin Herde of St. Precious and of Master Viscenti.”

  The three men exchanged sincere smiles of mutual appreciation, all of them relieved that their team was forging strong bonds now for the fights—against Kalas and against those within the Abellican Church who feared any change despite the momentous events—they believed they would soon find.

  Francis had thought that the road ahead would be an easy one. He started with his stride long and full of conviction. But as he considered the reality he now faced, Francis began to recognize that this journey might prove as troublesome and dangerous, to the Church at least, as the one that had brought him to Palmaris in the first place. For he was walking a delicate line, he came to understand, stepping between the future Church he envisioned and the past one he had served. He believed in Braumin’s cause, in the cause of Master Jojonah, burned at the stake for his convictions, and in the cause of Avelyn Desbris, who had flown in the face of Markwart’s Abellican Church and had, subsequently, destroyed the physical form of the awakened demon.

  Yes, Master Francis had come to accept the truth of many of the explanations that Braumin and the others were according the actions of Jojonah and of Avelyn, and he had come to recognize that Jilseponie and Elbryan we
re indeed heroes to both Church and Crown. But Markwart’s last words haunted the man: Beware that in your quest for humanism you do not steal the mystery of spiritualism.

  There was a threat to all mankind in sharing the mysteries of the gemstone magic with the common folk—not of war or of uncontrolled power, but a threat of secularizing the spiritual, of stealing the mysteries of life and the glory of God. What good would the Church do the world, Francis wondered, if, in its quest to become more compassionate, it took from the populace the one true inspiration of faith, the promise of eternal life? Soul stones or not, everybody would one day die, and how much darker that moment would be, to the one whose life had come to its end and to those loved ones left behind, if there was no faith in life eternal. Men who entered the Abellican Order trained for years before entering St.-Mere-Abelle or any of the other abbeys, and then they trained for many more years before learning the secrets of the gemstones. The Abellican monks understood the reality of the gemstones, the orbiting rings and the stone showers, but they could place that reality within the cocoon of their greater faith as inspired by the years of study. But what of the common man, the man not privy to the days, weeks, months, years of meditation? Might that man come to see the soul stones, the very fabric of the Abellican religion, as a natural occurrence, no more mysterious than the fires he kindled for warmth or the catapults the King’s army used to batter the castles of enemies?

  Francis didn’t know, and he feared that it would take a wiser man than he to comprehend the implications of Markwart’s final warning.

  What he did know, however, was the reality of the situation in St.-Mere-Abelle; and even beyond his private doubts about how far Braumin and his friends should be allowed to open the Church, the young master understood that they would find more enemies than allies at the prime abbey. Thus was Francis, so close an ally to the demon that Markwart had become, walking a delicate line. If he strayed too far against Markwart, he would, in effect, be implicating himself, thus diminishing his own voice. And yet, he could hardly support the dead Father Abbot. He knew now that Markwart had been very wrong; and even aside from that truth that was in his heart, Francis knew that the Church would be inviting disaster if it continued to follow Markwart’s path, that the populace would turn against it, and that Braumin and his followers would successfully establish the church of Avelyn Desbris.

  It was all too troubling for the young master, the former bishop of Palmaris, the former lackey of Markwart—positions all, he feared, far beyond his abilities and experience.

  Now the road to St.-Mere-Abelle lay before him, the road to the past and the future, the road to the wounded masters—such as gentle Machuso, no doubt—who would need reassuring, and to the more volatile and confident masters—the names Bou-raiy and Glendenhook stood out most prominently in his thinking—who would resist change and would likely resist demeaning the memory of Father Abbot Markwart, a man whom they had gladly served.

  Yes, Bou-raiy, Francis told himself; and an image of the man, holding a burning branch in one hand and cheering as the pyre around the heretic Jojonah caught flame, rattled him.

  He heard the door open behind him and turned to see Abbot Braumin entering.

  “So you have not yet departed,” said the abbot. “I had hoped to see you before you began your journey.”

  Francis nodded, though he hardly saw any point to Braumin’s seeing him off. The two did not see things eye to eye, as Braumin painted the world, it seemed to Francis, too much in black and white. Though Braumin had not been pleased when Francis had retracted his support of Jilseponie for mother abbess, they had come to an understanding.

  “Did you find any time alone with Abbot Je’howith before he departed?” Braumin asked.

  Francis chuckled. “Do you fear that I did?”

  “Fear?”

  Francis chuckled again. “I did speak to him, and he told me, I expect, exactly what he told you that morning before the final meeting with King Danube,” said Francis. “Abbot Agronguerre seems a fine choice, a man possessed of a healing soul. Exactly what is needed within the Church, I would say.”

  “So you support his nomination?”

  “I would like to learn a bit more about Agronguerre, but from what I already know, yes,” answered Francis.

  “And was that all Abbot Je’howith expressed to you?” asked Braumin.

  Francis looked at the man hard, tried to get a feeling for the trouble about which his words were hinting. “The memory of Markwart,” he stated more than asked.

  Braumin nodded slightly, his expression grim.

  “Believe me, brother, I am more confused by that issue than are you,” Francis assured Braumin.

  “But you know the evil that Markwart had become?” Braumin pressed.

  “I know the mistake the man made,” Francis pointedly answered.

  “You step backward,” Braumin accused.

  Francis thought about that for a moment, and almost agreed. “Sideways,” he corrected. “There was error in Father Abbot Markwart’s reasoning, to be sure, but there was also a ring of truth that Abbot Braumin would do well to hear.”

  Francis saw the man’s face get very tight.

  “We have been through this before,” Francis remarked, holding up his hands as a peace gesture. “We are not of so different beliefs that you should fear me, Abbot Braumin. I go to St.-Mere-Abelle to speak the truth of the events in Palmaris.”

  “Which truths?” the skeptical Braumin demanded.

  Francis chuckled yet again. “You—we—are both too young for such cynicism,” he said. “The painful events in Palmaris brought resolution, though at a price too high for any of us to be satisfied. Markwart was wrong—he admitted as much to me before he died—and so I threw my support behind Braumin Herde and Jilseponie.”

  “But not enough to nominate her, as you said you would,” Braumin reminded him.

  “Not enough to destroy that which is left of the most stable institution in all the kingdom,” Francis corrected. “We will find our common way, I believe, but by small steps and not ground-shattering leaps. The people are confused and frightened, and it is our duty to comfort them, not to provide more confusion.” He fixed Braumin with a determined stare. “I am not your enemy,” he declared. “And neither need be the memory of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart.”

  Braumin asked, “What of Jojonah? What of Avelyn?”

  “Resurrect those memories in the light of our recent revelations,” Francis answered without hesitation, “bring them up beside Elbryan the Nightbird as victors over the darkness. Yes, I intend to work to those very ends, my brother. Master Jojonah forgave me, though he knew he was a doomed man—no small feat! And I will see him properly interred in consecrated ground, his good name fully restored.”

  “And Avelyn?” the abbot prompted.

  “Avelyn must be investigated … honestly,” Francis replied. “I will second the nomination to beatify Brother Avelyn, should you begin the canonization process at the College of Abbots. I will second it with all my heart and with my voice strong and full of conviction. But that does not mean that I believe him to be a saint. It means only that I believe him worthy of the investigation that might lead us to that end. Let us see what the man truly espoused and accomplished. Let us decide rationally if Avelyn truly saw a better course for the Church or a path that would lead to our destruction.”

  “Do you mean to balance his canonization on a matter of philosophy?” Abbot Braumin asked, shaking his head, his eyes wide.

  “Not his sainthood, no,” answered Francis, “but rather, his belief. I may be willing to vote for his sainthood without necessarily believing that his methods would be the appropriate course for the Church. It is his intent that will determine the decision of the canon inquisitors. But neither will my support for his canonization be wholly based upon the man’s intentions for the Abellican Church, if he even had any such intentions.”

  He paused and watched as Abbot Braumin digested the word
s, the man finally coming to nod his head in agreement.

  “Travel your road carefully and wisely, brother,” Braumin said. “I expect that you will find fewer brothers of like heart than those opposed.”

  “The Church changes slowly,” Francis agreed, and Braumin took his leave.

  Master Francis Dellacourt, thirty years old and feeling as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, left St. Precious soon after, an escort of nearly a score of monks, brothers who had come to Palmaris in the procession that had brought Father Abbot Markwart to this fated city, beside him.

  “What is left for us here?” Pony asked in all seriousness, curling her lips into an obviously manipulating pout. She was in Tomnoddy’s, a bustling tavern that reminded her, somewhat painfully, of Fellowship Way in its best days.

  “What isn’t?” Belster O’Comely responded, smiling as he asked the question and without any sharpness in his tone. He was glad to see Pony excited about something again—about anything—even if that happened to be a decision that the portly innkeeper did not necessarily agree with. Also, Belster was happy that Pony had come to him, begging him to go north. They had been through a fair amount of arguing in the last days of the struggle, when Pony had laid bare Belster’s prejudice against the dark-skinned Behrenese. “We’ve got our friends, after all, bonds made fast in the turmoil.”

  “Prym O’Brien’s going north,” Pony reminded him.

  “He’s been saying that every fair day since last summer,” Belster replied. “Doubt that he’ll ever do it.”

  “It is time to go home, Belster,” Pony said seriously. “I know that, and so I’ll be leaving in two days. I hope that you will share my road to Caer Tinella and to Dundalis, for there I will need you, I fear.”

  “To do what, girl?” Belster asked.

  “To rebuild,” said Pony without the slightest hesitation. “To put up a new Howling Sheila on the very spot of the previous, on the stone foundation that had once served as the base for Elbryan’s home.”