Master Jojonah started for the crank, but Pony, steadier now and with a grim determination set upon her face, held him back. She took out the malachite once more and fell into its magic, and though she was weary and emotionally battered, she brought up a wall of rage and channeled it into the stone. With hardly an effort, it seemed, the portcullis slid up into the ceiling holes.
Elbryan went right to the great doors, lifting the locking bar and pulling one open. He moved to put the bar aside, but again Pony, still in the throes of the levitational magic, intervened.
"Hold the bar above the locking latch," she instructed. "Quickly."
They could hear the terrific strain in her voice, so Bradwarden ushered Jojonah out the open door, while Juraviel went behind Pony and gently eased her along, as well. As she passed the open door and Elbryan, Pony put her other hand, holding the magnetite, against the outside of the metallic door and fell into that magic as well.
The portcullis shifted dangerously over Elbryan's head, but Jojonah, understanding what the clever woman meant to do, was at Pony's side, easing the magnetite from her hand and strengthening the magnetic pull, through the door and onto the metal locking bar. Pony fell fully into the malachite once more, steadying the portcullis as Elbryan, too, came outside.
The ranger pulled the door closed, and Jojonah released his magnetic magic, then gave a satisfied sigh as the locking bar fell into place across the latches of the two doors. Then Pony gradually let go of her magic, easing the portcullis down, making it look as if these doors had not been breached.
She turned about and blinked in the glare, as did the others, the morning sun low in the sky before her, cutting shafts of light through the thick fog lifting from All Saints Bay. The tide was not in, but it was on the way, and so they set off immediately and at a swift pace, back down the beach and along the trail to their horses.
Snarling with rage, and despite the pretests of the two dozen brothers rushing about him, the Father Abbot was the first to crash through the doors to the dungeon area on the lower level.
There was the battered Francis, the hood still tight about his head, struggling to stand, being helped by one of the other guards Elbryan had overpowered. Farther along the corridor, just inside the doors of their cells, lay the destroyed bodies of the Chilichunks, Pettibwa's still thrashing at the floor as the demon spirit struggled to the end.
Markwart was not surprised, of course, since he had seen the intruder, the woman kneeling over Pettibwa, on his escort of the demons, but the other monks could not have expected this grisly scene. Some cried and fell away, others fell to their knees in prayer.
"Our enemies brought demons against us," Markwart cried, waving a hand at the plump woman's body. "Well fought, Brother Francis!"
With some help from another young brother, Francis finally escaped the hood and his bonds. He started to explain that he had done little fighting, but stopped in the face of Markwart's glare. Francis wasn't certain what was going on here, hadn't seen the Chilichunks' animated corpses, and wasn't sure exactly who had destroyed the demons. He had a fair idea, though, and that notion sent many things careening through his thoughts.
Elbryan grew ill at ease, even frightened, as he watched Pony make her way along the trails. Her grunts were not of weariness, though she surely must have been exhausted after her magical feats, but of anger, a primal rage. The ranger stayed close to her, put his hand on her whenever the trail allowed, but she hardly looked at him, just continually blinked away any hint of tears, her jaw set firmly, her gaze locked ahead.
At the horses, Pony methodically retrieved the rest of her gemstones.
Jojonah offered to use healing hematite on Bradwarden, if the woman would loan him one, but the centaur brushed away that idea before Pony could begin to answer. "I'm just needing a bit o' food," he insisted, and truly, he did look healthy enough, though quite a bit skinnier than the last time the others had seen him. He patted his arm, the red elven armband securely in place. "Good gift ye gave to me," he said to Elbryan with a wink.
"Our road will be long and fast," the ranger warned, but Bradwarden only patted his less than ample belly and laughed. "I'm running all the faster for me lack o' belly," he said cheerily.
"Then let us go," said the ranger. "At once. Before the monks come out of their abbey to search for us. And let us deliver Master Jojonah to St. Precious on time."
"Ride Greystone," Pony bade the monk, handing him the reins.
Jojonah accepted them without protest, for it made sense that the lighter woman, and not he, should climb on the back of the centaur.
But Pony caught them all by surprise, turning not for Bradwarden, but back toward St.-Mere-Abelle, running full out, gemstones in hand.
Elbryan caught up to her twenty yards away and had to tackle her to stop her progress. Now she was indeed crying, shoulders bobbing with sobs, but she fought against him furiously, trying to get free, trying to get back to the abbey to exact some revenge.
"You cannot defeat them," the ranger said to her, holding her tightly. "They are too many and too strong. Not now."
Pony continued to fight, even unintentionally clawed Elbryan's face.
"You cannot dishonor Avelyn like this," Elbryan said to her, and that gave her pause. Gasping, tears streaming down her face, she looked at him skeptically.
"He gave you the stones to keep them safe," Elbryan explained. "Yet if you go back to the abbey now, you will be defeated and the gemstones will fall into the hands of our—of Avelyn's—enemies. They will be taken by the same one who brought such turmoil and pain to the Chilichunks. Would you give him that?"
All strength seemed to fall away from the woman then, and she slumped into her lover's arms, burying her face in his chest. He led her gently back to the others and put her in place atop Bradwarden, with Juraviel behind her to keep her steady.
"Give me the sunstone," he bade her, and when she did, he took it to Jojonah, explaining that they should put up some blocking magic to defeat any magical attempts to find them. Jojonah assured him that such a feat would be easy enough, so the ranger went to Symphony and took the lead as the group thundered away at full gallop, putting St.-Mere-Abelle far, far behind them before the sun climbed high in the eastern sky.
"Find them!" the Father Abbot fumed. "Search every passage and every room. All doors barred and guarded! Now! Now!"
The other monks scrambled, some heading back the way they had come to alert the rest of the library.
When the reports filtered back to Markwart that the back dock doors had apparently not been opened, the search within the library intensified, and by mid-morning nearly every corner of the great structure had been scoured. The outraged Markwart set up a central reporting area in the abbey's huge chapel, surrounded by the masters, each in command of a number of searching monks.
"They had to come in, and depart, through the dock doors," one of the masters reasoned, a sentiment backed by many. His scouting leader had just returned to him to report that no other door in the abbey showed any sign of entry.
"But the doors were closed and barred, an impossible feat from outside the abbey," another master reasoned.
"Unless they used magic," someone offered.
"Or unless someone within the abbey was there to meet them, to open the doors for them, to close the doors behind them," Markwart reasoned, and that thought drew an uncomfortable shift from every man in the room.
Soon after, when it was obvious that the enemies were indeed long gone from the abbey, Markwart ordered half the monks out in searching parties and another two dozen out magically, using quartz and hematite.
He knew the futility, though, for the Father Abbot was finally getting a true appreciation of the cunning and power of his real enemies. With that hopelessness came a pit of rage deeper than Markwart had ever known, one that he honestly believed would overwhelm him forever.
He found relief later that afternoon, though, when he interviewed Francis and the
two monks who had been on guard near the cells, when he learned more about these intruders who had come to St.-Mere-Abelle, including one who was no stranger to the place.
Perhaps he wouldn't need the centaur and the Chilichunks after all. Perhaps he could shift the blame, even of the original theft of the gemstones by Avelyn, by theorizing about a larger conspiracy within the Order. Now, he understood. Now, he had a scapegoat.
And Je'howith would be bringing a contingent of Allheart soldiers.
Markwart stood in his private quarters that night, staring out the window. "We shall see," he said, a hint of a grin spreading on his face. "We shall see."
"You're not even to ask for the stones?" Pony said, standing on the streets of Palmaris with Elbryan and Master Jojonah. The group had landed earlier that morning north of the city, traveling across the great river on Captain Al'u'met's Saudi Jacintha, which, fortunately, had still been docked in Amvoy. Al'u'met had agreed to Jojonah's request for help without question and without payment, and with a promise that not a word of the impromptu ferry would be spoken to anyone.
Juraviel and Bradwarden were still in the north, while Elbryan, Pony, and Jojonah entered Palmaris, the monk to return to St. Precious, the other two to check on old friends.
"The sacred gems were given into fine care," Jojonah replied with a sincere smile. "My Church owes you much, but I fear that you will get no just rewards from the likes of Father Abbot Markwart."
"And you?" Elbryan asked.
"I go to deal with one less cunning, but equally wicked," Jojonah explained. "Pity all the monks of St. Precious, to have lost Abbot Dobrinion to Abbot De'Unnero."
They parted then as friends, with Jojonah retiring to the abbey and the other two moving along the streets of the city, trying to find some information. Pure luck brought them in the path of Belster O'Comely soon after, the man howling with glee to see them both alive.
"What information about Roger?" the ranger asked.
"He went south with the Baron," Belster explained. "To the King, so I've heard."
That bit of news pleased them immensely and filled them with hope, for word of the Baron's demise had not yet reached the common folk of Palmaris.
With Belster in tow, and Pony leading, they went next to Fellowship Way, the tavern that had been Pony's home for those difficult years after the first sacking of Dundalis. Profound pain assaulted Pony as she looked upon the place, and she could not stay, pleading with Elbryan to get her out of the city, back to the northland where they both belonged.
The ranger agreed, but first turned to Belster. "Go into the Way," he bade the innkeeper. "You have been looking to remain in Palmaris, so you told me. They will need help in there to keep the business open and running smoothly. I can think of none better suited for the job than you."
Before the innkeeper denied the request, he paused long enough to study the ranger and to follow Elbryan's gaze to Pony.
Then he understood.
"The finest tavern in all of Palmaris, so I've been told," he said.
"It was," Pony added grimly.
"And so it shall be again!" Belster said enthusiastically. He patted Elbryan on the shoulder, gave Pony a great hug, then started for the tavern, a noticeable spring in his step.
Pony watched him, even managed a smile, then looked up to Elbryan. "I love you," she said quietly.
The ranger returned her smile and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Come," he said, "we have friends waiting for us on the road to Caer Tinella."
Epilogue
The morning was brisk, despite the brilliant sunlight streaming in from the east. The breeze was not stiff, but Pony felt it keenly across every inch of her bare skin as she danced bi'nelle dasada among the falling many-colored leaves. She was not with Elbryan this morning, nor had she been for many days, preferring to dance alone now, for a time, as she used these moments of deep meditation as an escape from her grief and her guilt.
She saw Pettibwa and Graevis, even Grady, as she twirled about the piles of leaves. She remembered those days of her youth, faced them squarely and used them to put the events that had come after into a proper context. For, despite the very heavy burden of guilt, Pony rationally understood that she had done nothing wrong, that she had taken no road which, given the option once more, she would not now take.
And so she danced, every morning, and she cried, and when the grief finally began to lift and her common sense began to take the edge from her guilt, she was left with only...
Rage.
The leader of the Abellican Church was her enemy, had started a war from which Pony had no intention of running. Avelyn had given her the gemstones, and through that act of faith she felt well-armed.
She pivoted and turned in perfect balance, throwing a pile of leaves high with her fast-stepping feet. The meditation was deep and strong, a similar sensation as when she fell deep within the embrace of the gemstones. She was getting stronger.
She did not mean to maneuver around that wall of rage; she meant to smash right through it.
Winter came early that year, and by mid-Calember the ponds north of Caer Tinella already showed the shine of ice, and mornings were often greeted by a thin white coating of snow.
Farther to the south, the clouds hung heavy over All Saints Bay, the winter gales beginning to threaten. The water loomed darker, with the whitecaps rolling in against the cliffs contrasting starkly. Only two of the thirty abbots convening for the College at St.-Mere-Abelle—Olin of St. Bondabruce of Entel, and Abbess Delenia of St. Gwendolyn—had come by sea, and they both planned to stay as Markwart's guests throughout the winter, for few ships would brave such perilous waters at that time of year.
Despite the gathering of so many Church dignitaries, and reports that the war was all but over, the mood at the abbey was somber, as gloomy as the season. Many of the abbots had been personal friends of Abbot Dobrinion. Also, there was the general feeling, spurred by many whispers, that this College would prove eventful, even pivotal, to the future of the Church. Father Abbot Markwart's appointment of Marcalo De'Unnero to head St. Precious, and the recent news that a ninth-year brother had been promoted to Immaculate, were not matters without debate or opposition.
And everyone knew that other "guests" would be hovering about the College, a contingent of soldiers from Ursal, men of the fierce Allheart Brigade, by all accounts, on loan from the King to Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce. Such an accompanying force was certainly not without precedent in the Church, but it almost always signaled that some serious trouble was afoot.
Tradition dictated that the College would convene after vespers on the fifteenth day of the month, with all the participants, abbots and masters, spending the whole of the day quietly in reflection, preparing themselves mentally for the coming trials. Master Jojonah took this duty particularly to heart, closing himself in the small room afforded him, kneeling by his bed in prayer in the hopes that he would find some divine guidance. He had been quiet and impassive in his months under De'Unnero at St. Precious, taking no action to anger the new abbot or to even hint of the subversion that was in his heart. Of course, he had been scolded for leaving De'Unnero on the road, but after one brutal confrontation, nothing more had been said of the matter—to Jojonah, at least.
Now was his chance, he knew, perhaps his last chance, but could he find the courage to speak out openly against Markwart? He had heard little concerning the agenda of the College, but he strongly suspected—especially considering the companions the abbot of St. Honce had brought—that Markwart would use this opportunity to get a formal brand against Avelyn.
Markwart apparently had allies in this matter, powerful allies, but still, Jojonah knew what course his conscience dictated should Markwart's declaration against Avelyn come to pass.
But what if it did not?
Jojonah's midday meal was delivered outside his door, with only a single signaling knock, as he had instructed. He went to retrieve the food, and was surpri
sed indeed when he opened the door to see Francis standing in the hall, holding his tray.
"So the rumors are true," Jojonah said distastefully. "Congratulations, immaculate brother. How unexpected." Jojonah took the tray, but held the door with his free hand, as if he meant to close it in Francis' face.
"I heard you," Francis said quietly.
Jojonah cocked his head, not understanding.
"In the dungeons," Francis remarked.
"Truly brother, I know not of what you speak," Jojonah said politely, falling back a step. He started to close the door, but Francis slipped into the room quickly.
"Shut the door," Francis said quietly.
Jojonah's first instinct was to lash out verbally at the upstart young man, but he could not ignore Francis' claim, and so he gently closed the door and moved to his bed, placing the tray on the small table.
"I know that it was you who betrayed us to the raiders," Francis said bluntly. "I have not yet determined who opened the wharf doors for you—and then closed them behind you—for I have witnesses as to the whereabouts of Brother Braumin Herde."
"Perhaps it was God who let them in," Jojonah said dryly.
Francis turned on him and didn't seem to much appreciate the wit.
"Who let you in, you mean," he stated firmly. "I heard you before I lost consciousness, and I assure you that I recognize your voice."
The smile left Jojonah's face, replaced by a determined stare.
"Perhaps you should have let the man kill me," Francis stated.
"Then I would be just like you," Jojonah quietly replied. "And that I fear worse than any punishment, worse than death itself."
"How could you know?" Francis demanded, trembling with rage and advancing a step, as if he meant to strike out at Jojonah.
The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series Page 62