“It would be foolish to expose ourselves in such a manner as to dedicate a new chapel,” Master Glendenhook replied. “But the canonization of Brother Avelyn must go forward. A full investigation.”
Abbot Braumin heard Talumus and Viscenti and others about him give a cheer, but he just stared at Glendenhook curiously.
“The people need a hero at this dark time, would you not agree, Abbot Braumin?” Glendenhook remarked. “Perhaps Brother Avelyn will withstand the scrutiny of the process and become that hero.”
It didn’t make much sense to Braumin at that time. He knew that Glendenhook was tied closely to Master Bou-raiy, certainly no friend to the memory of Avelyn Desbris. At the College of Abbots, when Markwart had condemned Master Jojonah for following Avelyn, Bou-raiy had been a huge supporter of Jojonah’s execution.
“Let Avelyn’s name be put forward and let all the world rejoice,” Master Glendenhook added, and he seemed sincere.
But when he looked at Glendenhook’s smile, Abbot Braumin couldn’t help but question that sincerity.
Something just didn’t seem right.
Chapter 29
The Second Gift
“ABBOT HINGAS DESIRES AUDIENCE, MY LIEGE,” THE CASTLE GUARDSMAN REPORTED to King Danube.
Duke Kalas, sitting at the side of the room, snorted derisively. He had no love for Hingas, the interim abbot of St. Honce, whom he thought a complete fool. Kalas didn’t care much for any member of the Abellican Church, of course, but in the case of Abbot Hingas, several others of King Danube’s court, Constance among them, had to agree with him.
“He has come to complain about the broken windows again, no doubt,” said Constance Pemblebury, who had her back to the others, sitting modestly and feeding Torrence, her second son, who was now six months old. Merwick moved excitedly about her chair, setting up little wooden blocks, then kicking them all over the room.
“Or to talk about the weight of a soul,” Kalas remarked, “of how it is lighter than the very air about us and so it floats, floats, to heaven.” His voice rose an octave as he spoke the words, sarcastic and derisive.
“Your Majesty?” the poor sentry asked.
King Danube rolled his eyes.
“No!” Kalas yelled at the sentry. “Out with him! Out! Send him back to St. Honce and tell him to suffer the rocks and the taunts. Tell them all to suffer, for the good of the world, and when they have finally appointed an abbot, a real abbot, let him come and beg audience with the King.”
The fiery Duke’s tirade didn’t surprise the others, of course, but the intensity of it this time certainly made Danube and Constance look at each other with concern.
“Better off is Je’howith,” Constance remarked dryly, and even diplomatic King Danube couldn’t deny a chuckle at that.
“In the grave and at peace from Duke Kalas,” Danube said.
“Did you wish to speak with the idiot?” Kalas asked, clutching his heart as if their words had wounded him.
“Likely you did me a favor,” King Danube replied, pulling himself from his chair and walking over to the window.
Below him lay Ursal, quiet, awaiting winter. Every family had at least one victim now, so it was reported; and many houses lay dark and still, full of death, with no one to go in and retrieve the bodies.
Such was King Danube’s beloved capital that late autumn of God’s Year 829. It should have been among the happiest times of Danube’s life. The demon and its minions had been shattered; the Church, always a nagging rival to the Throne, had been pushed into disarray; and his dear Constance had given him two sons: sons whom he was beginning to think of as heirs to his throne—though, of course, he’d have to speak with his brother at length about that possibility.
Yet, here he was, buttoned up within the prison that Castle Ursal had become, a fortress against the misery of the plague, though that most insidious of enemies had found its way even into these fortified halls, forcing the expulsion of two servants and a guard.
So far, though, none of his closest friends had been afflicted; and for that, King Danube mumbled a little prayer of thanks as he stood solemnly at the high window, looking out over his wounded kingdom.
Not much of a blessing, perhaps, but in this dark day, any light at all seemed a good thing.
The snow held off in the northland until after the turn of winter, but when it did come to Dundalis, it did so in fury, with drifts covering the entire sides of houses and burying the fences of the corrals.
Soon after, and still before the turn of God’s Year 830, the weather calmed enough for Pony to attempt venturing out. And truly, she needed the time alone, at the grove and Elbryan’s cairn, her great retreat from the events of the world.
She saddled Greystone and walked out of Dundalis, up the north slope and along the rim of the vale filled with caribou moss and pines, for the edges of the dale were windblown and nearly clear, while the dell itself was deep in snow. She found the trails within the forest easier going than she had anticipated, though the snow was often halfway up Greystone’s legs, and on several occasions, Pony had to dismount and lead the horse along.
She had left early in the morning, and a good thing it was, for it was nearing noon when she at last came to the sheltered grove. The rolling hills and sharp ravines nearby were too deep and too slick, so Pony had dismounted again and tethered the horse in a windblown clearing, walking in the last quarter mile.
Two sets of hoofprints, running the length of the last field and right into the grove, alerted her that she was not alone. At first, she thought that it might be Bradwarden and Symphony—for who else would be out here on such a day—but then she saw a third track, the boots of a rider, beside the line of hoofprints.
Shadowing the forest line for cover, Pony did a complete circuit of the grove. She spied a lone rider in the distance, sitting quietly along the tree line, bundled under mounds of furs.
Now she fell into her hematite, using its depths to release her spirit from her corporeal body. She went out to the rider first, and determined on her way that he had a companion, who was within the grove—her grove!—and the mere thought of that made her angry.
The rider was a man of about Pony’s age, rugged but handsome, with a dark, two-week beard and sparkling, alert eyes. Something about him seemed familiar to Pony, but she could not place it.
Not wanting to linger for fear of being discovered, she turned her spirit and swept into the grove, passing insubstantially among the trees.
She found the other man standing before the twin cairns—grave markers that had been recently cleared of snow. He was a giant of a man, with long, somewhat thinning, flaxen hair, eyes the color of a clear northern sky, and a sword strapped diagonally across his back.
And what a sword—the largest Pony had ever seen! A sword that could cleave through any blocking shield, through any blocking tree, and cut the opponent in half!
The man started, glancing about, suddenly on the alert; and Pony realized that he had somehow sensed her presence. In the span of a single thought, she was back in her body, blinking her eyes, orienting herself to the physical world about her.
She paused, waiting a few moments, and when no call came from the grove and when the giant man didn’t emerge, she picked a path that would keep her out of sight of the waiting rider, and slipped across the field, one hand on Defender, the other in her gemstone pouch, rolling both graphite and lodestone between her fingers.
She moved stealthily, perfectly quiet, from shadow to shadow, as Elbryan had taught her. Still, before she was within ten paces of the man, he called out, “You should not be sneaking up on me so, good woman. It makes me edgy.”
He turned slowly, a wry smile showing on his bearded face. His hands remained at his side, making no movement toward that incredible sword.
“A bit far out of town in such a season as this, are you not?” the man asked.
“What do you know of it?”
“I know that Dundalis is the closest town, and a hard morning’s ma
rch in this deep snow,” the man answered. “And I know that Weedy Meadow is another twenty miles from that.”
Pony cocked her head, staring at him curiously. How could he know so much, without her being aware of any such man in the area? And what of Bradwarden? The centaur knew, or claimed to know, of everything that moved in the forest. And yet, Pony had not heard from Bradwarden in many days, and even that had been no more than the piping song carried on a favorable evening breeze.
“What are you doing here?” Pony asked firmly, watching the man closely. If he went for that sword, she intended to lay him low with a lightning stroke.
The big man shrugged. “Paying my respects,” he said.
“To whom?” Pony’s words came out unintentionally sharp. Who was this man to presume that he could walk unannounced to Elbryan’s grave?
“To fellow rangers,” the Alpinadoran replied, and Pony’s jaw dropped.
“To Nightbird, and to Mather before him,” the ranger went on. “Word reached me of his demise, and so I owed him this visit, though the road was long and difficult.”
“Who are you?”
“I was thinking of asking you the same thing.”
“Who are you to stand uninvited and unannounced before my husband’s grave?” Pony replied, clarifying much.
The big man nodded and smiled. “Jilseponie Wyndon, then,” he said. “Pony to her friends. Companion of Nightbird to the end.” He bowed respectfully. “I am Andacanavar of Alpinador, elven-trained, as was your husband. The full story of the tragedy in Palmaris came to me by the way of Brother Holan Dellman of the Abellican Church, who now serves at St. Belfour in Vanguard.”
Pony was shaking her head, hardly able to believe the man, but the mention of Brother Dellman, her friend, put her at ease. Too much so, she realized a moment later, when she heard a voice behind her.
“And I am Liam O’Blythe,” it said, and Pony spun to see the man who’d been on horseback near her—near enough to have jumped her before she could use her gemstones or draw her sword, and how foolish that made her feel.
But this man, too, bowed politely, respectfully, and made no move against her.
“We did not know that you were again in this area,” Andacanavar went on, “else we would have sought you out.”
“Though we plan on making as little contact with the folk of this region, or any other region outside Vanguard, as possible,” Liam said.
Pony looked at him curiously, and then at his huge companion. “You would find that the folk of the Timberlands are not so quick to judge based on heritage,” she said.
“Not that,” Andacanavar explained. “We have heard news of the rosy plague.”
“True words,” Pony said.
“And thus we do not wish to bring it with us back to Vanguard or to Alpinador,” Liam said. “But enough of my intrusion,” he went on, and Pony realized that the ranger behind her had given him a signal to be gone. He left with another bow, moving gracefully, with a warrior’s balanced gait, and Pony turned back to regard the ranger.
They talked easily, like old friends, for more than two hours. Pony did most of the talking, answering Andacanavar’s many questions about Elbryan. The ranger wanted every detail of every story, wanted to hear Pony imitate her lover’s laugh and describe his wry grin to the dimple. Andacanavar listened to her with obvious amusement, smiling and laughing often.
How quickly the afternoon passed, and Pony realized that she would have to be on her way if she hoped to make Dundalis before dark.
“The signs are telling me that tomorrow will be another fine day,” the ranger said to her. “Will you come back to this place, then, and speak with me again?”
Pony looked at him, seeming unsure.
“I will tell you more about the elves, and more about that which helped to form your Nightbird into the man you loved,” Andacanavar promised.
“Then I will return,” Pony said with a smile.
That night, in her bed in the small room above Fellowship Way, Pony was visited by dreams of Elbryan more vivid than any she had known since his death. Unlike some of her previous dreams of her husband—reenactments of that final battle mostly, and horrible things—these were pleasant, warm memories that made Pony awaken with a smile.
She was up early, working quickly through her chores at the tavern, then promising Belster she would return by dark and rushing out. She found Andacanavar and his friend at the grove again; and again, the smaller man left them. Untrue to his promise, though, Andacanavar bade Pony again to do the talking, to tell him even more of Nightbird.
And she complied eagerly, pouring out her heart, telling about her separation from Elbryan and all those years apart, when he was with the elves, and she in Palmaris and later in the King’s army. She told of their journey to the Barbacan to do battle with the demon dactyl—Andacanavar liked that part most of all!—and of their work against the minions of the demon upon their return south. She told of the journey to St.-Mere-Abelle to rescue Bradwarden, and then she told the Alpinadoran ranger, in solemn tones, tears streaking her cheeks, of the final battle against Markwart, when Elbryan gave his life to save her and to rid the world of Bestesbulzibar.
When the sun began its swift descent, Pony realized that she had to go.
“Tomorrow?” Andacanavar asked her.
“That you can tell me again of the Touel’alfar?” Pony asked sarcastically, for the ranger had spent the entire day asking question after question.
“I will,” the ranger promised. “I will tell you of the many tests a ranger in training must master. A marvelous race are the Touel’alfar. Adaptable and—”
Pony laughed aloud. “That is not a word I would use to describe them,” she said.
“But they are!” Andacanavar protested. “Why, they had to concoct an entirely different fighting style for me, to accommodate my size and strength.”
“Different than bi’nelle dasada?” Pony asked, and that set the big man back on his heels.
“What would you know of that?” he asked.
Pony glanced to the side, to see the ranger’s companion returning to the grove.
“I know the sword dance,” Pony whispered. “I know it well.”
Andacanavar looked at her, his face showing both surprise and concern. “What would you know of it, then?” he asked.
“Nightbird—Elbryan—taught it to me,” she explained. “The sword dance. All of it. We fought together in movements perfectly complementary.”
That raised Andacanavar’s bushy eyebrows, and he nodded and said, “hmm,” repeatedly.
“Lady Dasslerond was not pleased,” Pony admitted, then she laughed. “Not at all!”
“I say this not in jest, my friend, but I suspect that the lady considered quieting you in the most extreme manner possible,” the ranger replied.
“I doubt you not at all,” Pony replied in all seriousness. “I suspect that Belli’mar Juraviel intervened on my behalf, and that, because of him, the lady trusts that I will keep well the elven secret.”
“No small faith!” said Andacanavar. “Are you the new ranger of the Timberlands?” he asked jokingly.
But Pony’s face remained serious. “Belli’mar explained that such a thing would not be possible, that I was too old to be considered for the training,” she said.
“But they let you live and keep well their secret, and that is no small thing!” Andacanavar said with a great laugh, and Pony joined him.
“Then that weapon strapped at your hip is for more than show?” the ranger asked a moment later, a wry look crossing his face. “Liam fancies himself a bit of a swordsman,” he said. “You think you might show me?”
Pony considered the challenge for a moment. She thought that she should refuse, remembering her promise to Belli’mar Juraviel to keep the sword dance private and secret. And yet, this was a ranger bidding her on, one who knew the dance, obviously.
“What is it?” Andacanavar’s companion asked, seeing the questioning expres
sions as he walked up to the pair, dropping a wild turkey he had shot beside him.
“Right here?” Pony asked Andacanavar. “It is crowded with trees.”
“Does not the dance take the entire battlefield into consideration?” the ranger asked.
“What battlefield?” asked the smaller man.
“Your battlefield,” Andacanavar replied, standing up and brushing the snow from his doeskin breeches. “Yours and hers. Our new friend has told me some interesting things about her background, and I would like to test her here and now.”
“Then the battlefield is your own,” the other man protested.
Andacanavar gave a laugh. “My fighting style is too disparate from that which she claims for me to take any measure. Come then, Liam, draw your sword and dirk and let the woman have her way with you.”
The man looked at Pony curiously, to see her brushing the snow off her breeches and then drawing a truly beautiful, slender sword.
He nodded. “Be gentle,” he said to Pony.
“Never in all my life,” she replied, and she turned sideways, on guard, her left foot back, her right leg before her. She rocked over her knee, finding her balance.
“And if I unintentionally hurt her, will you chop me down, Andacanavar?” the smaller man asked.
The ranger gave a chuckle—and he meant it, for just from Pony’s stance, Andacanavar understood that his companion’s fears were not likely to come to fruition.
“I will try not to cut you, and expect the same,” the man said. “First blood, if it comes to that, first advantage if not.”
Pony didn’t bother to answer, just rocked back and forth, feeling her balance, remembering her many training sessions with Elbryan, working the dance naked in the morning light, remembering the many fights she had won beside her lover, their movements too harmonious, too synchronous, for any enemy to stand against them.
She felt bi’nelle dasada flowing through her again, for the first time since that awful day, but instead of bringing back all the bad memories and fears and sense of loss, it felt to Pony as if she were with her lover again. It felt wonderful!
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 47