As soon as the Saudi Jacintha was secured to the wharf and its gangplank lowered, the captain and Brother Dellman made ready to disembark. “Permission to go ashore?” Al’u’met asked.
“Granted, for yerself and the brother,” one of the soldiers answered. “Warder Presso will want to speak with ye before giving a general invitation.”
“Fair enough,” said Al’u’met, and he and Dellman moved off the ship and followed the pair up a long stairway carved out of the stone cliff, into Pireth Vanguard and to the office of Warder Constantine Presso.
“Al’u’met,” the warder said as soon as the pair entered. He rose and came around his desk, obviously familiar with the Behrenese captain. “How long has it been, my old friend?”
“Back in the days when you served at Pireth Tulme,” Al’u’met replied, “long before the war.”
They shook hands warmly, and Al’u’met introduced his old friend to Brother Dellman.
“I have brought him for a meeting with Abbot Agronguerre,” Al’u’met explained. “Many tidings from the south, some wondrous, some painful.”
“We have heard rumors, but nothing substantial,” Presso replied. “Know that, at last, and through the tireless work of our Prince Midalis, the goblin scum have been cleansed from our land.”
Al’u’met nodded. “We will tell our tale in full to Abbot Agronguerre,” he said. “I believe that Warder Presso would also be welcomed at that meeting, if he was so inclined.” He looked to Brother Dellman as he spoke, deferring to the man but making it quite clear that he trusted Presso implicitly.
“If he is a friend of Al’u’met, then welcome he is,” the monk said with a respectful bow.
“To St. Belfour, then,” Warder Presso said, and he led the way out of the office, giving orders to his men to make Al’u’met’s crew most welcome, and to get a detail inspecting the ship.
The trio rode comfortably in the warder’s carriage through the woodlands to the small clearing and the stone structure of St. Belfour. Abbot Agronguerre was quite busy this day, but he and Brother Haney made time for them.
“The College of Abbots will convene in Calember,” Brother Dellman explained as soon as the formal introductions were ended. “We will take you there in the Saudi Jacintha, if you please.”
“Three months?” Agronguerre asked, looking mostly to Al’u’met. “That is a long time in a fine season for a trader to be tied up, is it not?”
“I am indebted to your—to my—Church, Abbot Agronguerre,” Al’u’met explained, “and mostly to those who bade me to bring Brother Dellman here and to deliver both of you to St.-Mere-Abelle. It is a service I, and my crew, willingly offer.”
“Most generous,” said Abbot Agronguerre. “But perhaps the second part will prove unnecessary. If I am to go to the College, as surely I am, then I will need transport back soon after, and better if it is a Vanguard ship, that it can dock the winter through at Pireth Vanguard.”
Al’u’met looked to Dellman, but the young brother wasn’t prepared to answer that logic at that time.
“We will discuss it at length,” Al’u’met said, “but no need for haste. Let us tell you of the events in Palmaris and in the southern part of the kingdom, momentous events indeed.”
“Father Abbot Markwart is dead,” Agronguerre remarked, “so said one trader who came through. Killed by a man named Nightbird and the woman Pony.”
“Jilseponie,” Brother Dellman corrected. “Elbryan Wyndon, known as Nightbird, and his wife, Jilseponie, who is often called Pony.”
“And they are outlaws?” asked the abbot.
“Nightbird was killed in the battle,” Dellman explained. “And far from an outlaw, Jilseponie is now hailed as the hero of the kingdom.”
Abbot Agronguerre wore a perplexed expression indeed!
Brother Dellman took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. He had to go back to the beginning, he realized, to bring this man through the last tumultuous year in the southern reaches of Honce-the-Bear, and the western stretch, all the way through the Timberlands and up to the Barbacan and the miracle at Mount Aida.
The three Vanguardsmen listened intently, leaning forward so far in their seats that they seemed as if they would topple onto the floor. Brother Haney repeatedly brought his right hand up before his face, making the gesture of the blessing of the evergreen, particularly when Dellman told of the events at Mount Aida, at Avelyn’s grave, when the blessed arm of the martyred brother shot forth waves of energy to utterly destroy the horde of goblins that had trapped Dellman and his companions on that forlorn plateau.
And Agronguerre, too, made the sign of the evergreen when Brother Dellman told of the final battle at Chasewind Manor, of the fall of Markwart—from grace and from life.
When he ended, the three Vanguardsmen sat there silently for a long, long time. Brother Haney looked to his abbot repeatedly, deferring to Agronguerre’s wisdom before he voiced his own thoughts.
“Where is this woman Jilseponie now?” the abbot asked.
“She went home—to the Timberlands and a town called Dundalis,” Al’u’met explained. “There lies her husband.”
“An impressive woman,” Agronguerre remarked.
“You cannot begin to understand the depth of her heroism,” Al’u’met was pleased to reply. “In the time of Bishop De’Unnero and the last days of Father Abbot Markwart, my people were being persecuted brutally in Palmaris, and Jilseponie stood strong beside us, risking all for folk she did not even know. There is a goodness there, and a strength.”
“None is stronger in the use of the sacred gemstones,” Brother Dellman remarked, and both Agronguerre and Haney gasped and made the evergreen sign.
“Both the Church and King Danube himself recognized it within her,” Al’u’met went on. “She was offered both the barony of Palmaris and a high position within your Church, as abbess of St. Precious, or even …” He paused and looked to Dellman.
“There was talk of nominating her as mother abbess of the Abellican Church,” Dellman admitted. “Proposed by Master Francis Dellacourt—”
“Markwart’s lackey,” Agronguerre interrupted. “Well I know Brother Francis from the last College of Abbots. I found him most disagreeable, to be honest.”
“Master Francis has seen the error of his ways,” Brother Dellman assured him. “He saw it on the face of his dying Father Abbot, and heard it in the last words, of repentance, that Markwart spoke to him.”
“It has been an interesting year,” Abbot Agronguerre said with a profound sigh.
“I should like to meet this Jilseponie,” Warder Presso remarked.
“She once served in your Coastpoint Guard,” Brother Dellman told him, and the Warder nodded appreciatively. “Indeed, she was at Pireth Tulme when the powries invaded, perhaps the only survivor of that massacre.”
That widened Presso’s eyes, and he stared hard at Dellman. “Describe her,” he demanded.
“Beauty incarnate,” Al’u’met said with a chuckle.
Dellman was more specific, holding up his hand to indicate that Pony was about five foot five. “Her eyes are blue and her hair golden,” he said.
“It could not be,” Warder Presso remarked.
“You know her?” Al’u’met asked him.
“There was a woman at Pireth Tulme who went by the name of Jill,” Presso explained. “She had been indentured into the King’s army—something about a failed marriage with a nobleman—and had worked her way into the Coastpoint Guard. But that was years ago.”
“A failed marriage to Connor Bildeborough, nephew of Baron Bildeborough of Palmaris,” Brother Dellman explained, smiling, for he knew that they were indeed speaking of the same remarkable woman. “A marriage that could only fail, since Jilseponie’s heart was ever for Elbryan.”
“Amazing,” Warder Presso breathed.
“You do know her, then,” said Agronguerre.
Presso nodded. “And even then, she was impressive, good Abbot. A woman of high mora
l character and strength of heart and of arm.”
“That would be her,” said a smiling Al’u’met.
“We can decide on your passage at a later date,” Brother Dellman said to Abbot Agronguerre. “In the meantime, I have been instructed to spend the summer in Vanguard, and truly, I do wish to see this wondrous land.”
“And you are most welcome, Brother Dellman,” said the congenial Agronguerre. “There is much room here at St. Belfour, and with so many brothers off in the north with Prince Midalis, an extra set of hands would greatly help.”
“And Captain Al’u’met and his crew will stay with me at Pireth Vanguard,” said Warder Presso. “I, too, find myself shorthanded, with many soldiers on the road with my Prince.”
“And when do you expect their return?” Al’u’met asked.
“We have heard rumors that it will be soon,” Presso replied. “They ventured to southern Alpinador with the barbarian leader Bruinhelde and the ranger Andacanavar, repaying the northmen for their aid in our struggles.”
“An alliance with Alpinador?” Captain Al’u’met asked skeptically.
Warder Presso shrugged. “That is a story for another day, I suspect,” he answered when there came a soft knock on Abbot Agronguerre’s door.
“Vespers,” the abbot explained, rising. “Perhaps you would lead us in our prayers this evening, Brother Dellman.”
Dellman rose from his chair and bowed respectfully. He stared at Agronguerre, continuing to take the measure of the man. If first impressions meant anything at all, though, Dellman suspected that he would indeed be recommending that Braumin Herde and the others nominate this man for the position of father abbot.
Chapter 16
Too Much Akin
“ONE RETURNING BROTHER AFTER ANOTHER,” MASTER BOU-RAIY SAID WITH OBVIOUS sarcasm as Marcalo De’Unnero walked into his office in St.-Mere-Abelle. “First Brother—oh, do pardon me, it is Master Francis now—comes in unexpectedly, and now our pleasure is doubled.”
De’Unnero wore a smirk as he studied the man. Bou-raiy had never been a friend of his, had resented him; for, though younger, De’Unnero had been in greater favor of Father Abbot Markwart, and, through deed after deed, had elevated himself above Bou-raiy. Their rivalry had been evident to De’Unnero soon after the powrie fleet had come to St.-Mere-Abelle. De’Unnero had distinguished himself in that fight, while Bou-raiy had spent the bulk of it at the western wall, waiting for a ground invasion that had never come.
De’Unnero wasn’t surprised to find that Bou-raiy had used the power vacuum at St.-Mere-Abelle to further his own cause; who else was there, after all, to take up the lead at the great abbey? So now Bou-raiy, a man long buried under Markwart’s disdain, had stepped forward, with that lackey Glendenhook at his heels.
“Two masters—former bishops, former abbots, both—returned to bolster St.-Mere-Abelle in this time of trial,” De’Unnero said.
“Bolster?” Bou-raiy echoed skeptically, and he gave a sarcastic laugh. De’Unnero pictured how wide that smile might stretch if he drove his palm through Bou-raiy’s front teeth. “Bolster? Master De’Unnero, have you not listened to the whispers that hound your every step? Have you not heard the snickers?”
“I followed Father Abbot Markwart.”
“Who is discredited,” Bou-raiy reminded him. “Both you and Francis found your zenith under Markwart’s rule, that is true. But now he is gone, and will soon enough be forgotten.” He paused and shook his head. “Offer me not that scowl, Marcalo De’Unnero. There was once a day when you outranked me here at St.-Mere-Abelle, but only because of Father Abbot Markwart. You will find few allies among the remaining masters, I assure you, even with Master Francis, if what I have heard about his admission of error is true. No, you have returned to find a new Church in the place of the old—the old that so welcomed a man of your … talents.”
“I’ll not defend my actions, nor recount my deeds, for the likes of Fio Bou-raiy,” De’Unnero retorted.
“Deeds inflated in your recounting, no doubt.”
That statement stopped De’Unnero cold, and he stared hard at the man, felt the primal urges of the tiger welling inside him. How he wanted to give in to that darker side, to become the great cat and leap across the desk, tearing this wretch apart! How he wanted to taste Fio Bou-raiy’s blood!
The volatile master fought hard to keep his breathing steady, to restrain those brutal urges. What would be left for him if he gave in to them now? He would have to flee St.-Mere-Abelle and his cherished Order for all time, would have to run and exist on the borderlands of civilization, as he had done over the last months. No, he didn’t want that again, not at all, and so he fought with all his willpower, closing off his mind to Bou-raiy’s continuing stream of sarcastic comments. The man was a gnat, De’Unnero reminded himself constantly, an insignificant pest feeling the seeds of power for the first time in his miserable life.
“You are nearly ten years my junior,” Bou-raiy was saying. “Ten years! A full decade, I have studied the ancient texts and the ways of man and God longer than you. So know your place now, and know that your place is beneath me.”
“And how many years more than Master Bou-raiy have Masters Timminey and Baldmir so studied the ways of man and God?” De’Unnero asked with sincere calm, for he was back in control again, suppressing the predator urge. “By your own logic, you place yourself below them, and below Machuso and several others as well, and, yet, it is Bou-raiy, and none of the others, who now sits in the office of the Father Abbot.”
Bou-raiy leaned back in his chair, his smile widening on his strong-featured face. “We both understand the difference between men like Machuso and Baldmir and men like us,” he said. “Some were born to lead, and others to serve. Some were born for greatness, and others … well, you understand my meaning.”
“Your arrogance, you mean,” De’Unnero replied. “You separate brothers along whatever lines suit your needs. You claim ascendance above me because of experience, yet rebuff the notion in those who would so claim ascendance over you.”
“They would not even want the responsibility of the position,” Bou-raiy replied, coming forward suddenly, and again, De’Unnero had to hold fast against his surprise and the sudden killer urge it produced.
“And do you intend to have your stooge, Glendenhook, nominate you for father abbot formally at the College of Abbots?” De’Unnero asked bluntly. “They will destroy you if you so try, you know—Braumin Herde and Francis, and the newest master, Viscenti,” he said with a derisive chortle. “Je’howith and Olin, and Olin’s lackey, Abbess Delenia. They will all stand against you.” He paused for dramatic effect, though he realized there would be little surprise in his proclamation. “As will I.”
Bou-raiy sat back in his chair again, obviously deep in thought for a long, long while. De’Unnero thought he understood where the man’s line of reasoning might be leading, and his suspicions were confirmed when Bou-raiy announced, rather abruptly, “They will back Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour, as will I.”
Yes, it made perfect sense to De’Unnero. Bou-raiy knew that he’d never defeat Agronguerre, and so he would throw all his influence behind the gentle Vanguardsman, the old Vanguardsman, in the hopes that Agronguerre would do for him what Markwart had done for De’Unnero and Francis. The difference, though, was that Bou-raiy was much older than either Francis or De’Unnero had been when Markwart had taken them firmly under his black wing. Thus, when old Agronguerre died—likely within a few years—Bou-raiy would be right there, the heir apparent, and with all the experience and credentials to step in virtually uncontested.
“Abbot Agronguerre is a kind man of generous nature,” Bou-raiy said unconvincingly, for though the words were accurate, De’Unnero understood that those qualities of which Bou-raiy now spoke so highly were not admirable in his eyes. “Perhaps our Church is in need of exactly that at this troubled time: a man of years and wisdom to come into St.-Mere-Abelle and begin the healing.”
&n
bsp; Marcalo De’Unnero knew this game, and knew it well. He almost admired Master Bou-raiy’s patience and foresight, and would have said as much to him—except that he hated Bou-raiy.
De’Unnero went about his business acclimating himself to the daily workings of St.-Mere-Abelle. Bou-raiy didn’t oppose him at all, to his initial surprise, and even allowed him to step back in as the master in charge of training the younger brothers in the arts martial.
“Your left arm!” De’Unnero cried at a second-year brother, Tellarese, at training one damp morning. The master stormed up to him and grabbed his left arm forcefully, yanking it up into the proper blocking position. “How do you propose to deflect my punch if your arm hovers about your chest?”
As he finished, the obviously weak man’s arm slipped down again, and De’Unnero wasted not a second in a snapped jab over that forearm and into Tellarese’s face, knocking the man to the ground.
With a frustrated growl, the master turned about and stalked away. “Idiot!” he muttered, and he motioned for another of his students, a first-year brother who showed some promise, to go against Tellarese.
The two squared off and exchanged a couple of halfhearted punches, more to measure each other than to attempt any real offense, while the other ten brothers at the training exercise tightened their circle around the combatants, keeping them close together.
When Tellarese’s arm came down yet again and the first-year brother scored a slight slap across his face, De’Unnero stormed back in and tossed the first-year brother aside, taking his place.
“I th-thought to counter,” Tellarese stuttered.
“You offered him the punch in the hope that you might then find an opening in his defenses?”
“Yes.”
De’Unnero snorted incredulously. “You would trade your opponent a clear shot at your face? For what? What better counter might you find than that?”
“I only thought—”
“You did not think!” the frustrated De’Unnero yelled. Once, he had been the Bishop of Palmaris, a great man with a great responsibility, one that he had performed to perfection. Had Markwart defeated Elbryan and Jilseponie on that fateful day in Chasewind Manor, then he, De’Unnero, would have been in line to become the next father abbot. Once, he had hunted Nightbird, the famed ranger, perhaps the greatest warrior in all the world. He had faced off against the man squarely and fairly, and, to his thinking, had bested him.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 27