DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (139 page)

“Forgive me,” Brother Francis humbly said.

“Forgive?” Markwart echoed incredulously. “Forgive your perceptiveness? Your wariness? We are at war, my young fool. Have you not yet realized that?”

“Of course, Father Abbot,” Francis said, bowing his head. “The powries and goblins—”

“Forget them!” Markwart interrupted. “And forget the giants, and the dactyl demon, as well. This war has become much more dangerous than any matter concerning mere monsters.”

Brother Francis lifted his head and stared long and hard at Markwart.

“This is a war for the heart of the Abellican Church,” Markwart went on. “I have explained this over and over to you, and yet you still do not understand. This is a war between traditions which have stood for millennia, and usurpous ideas, petty contemporary beliefs concerning the nature of good and the nature of evil.”

“Are those not timeless concepts?” a very confused Brother Francis dared to ask.

“Of course,” Markwart replied with a disarming chuckle. “But some, Master Jojonah among them, seem to believe they can redefine the terms to fit their own perceptions.”

“And what of Abbot Dobrinion?”

“You tell me of Abbot Dobrinion,” Markwart instructed.

Brother Francis paused, contemplating the implications. He wasn’t quite sure how the Father Abbot viewed Dobrinion, or anyone else, for that matter. Back at St.-Mere-Abelle, Markwart had argued often with Master De’Unnero, and often violently, and yet, despite their differences, it was no secret that De’Unnero was the Father Abbot’s closest adviser, next to Francis himself.

“Brother Avelyn the heretic used to analyze every question,” Father Abbot Markwart remarked. “He could not simply speak what was in his heart, and that, I fear, was his undoing.”

“Abbot Dobrinion will fight us,” Brother Francis blurted. “I do not trust him, and think him more akin to Master Jojonah’s definitions of good and evil than to yours… ours.”

“Strong words,” Markwart said slyly.

Brother Francis paled.

“But not wholly untrue,” Markwart went on, and Francis breathed easier. “Abbot Dobrinion has ever been an idealist, even when those ideals fly in the face of pragmatism. I thought that his craving for the sainthood of Brother Allabarnet would allow me to keep him in line, but apparently he is possessed of greater weakness than I believed.”

“He will fight us,” Brother Francis said more firmly.

“Even as we speak, Abbot Dobrinion petitions for the release of the Chilichunks,” Markwart explained. “He will go to the Baron of Palmaris, likely to the King himself, and of course, to the other abbots.”

“Have we a right to hold them?” Brother Francis dared to ask.

“Is the Abellican Order more important than the fate of three people?” came the curt response.

“Yes, Father Abbot,” Brother Francis replied, bowing his head once more. When Markwart put it that simple way, it was easy for Francis to put aside his private feelings about the treatment of the prisoners. Indeed the stakes were high here, too high for him to let foolish compassion get in the way.

“And what, then, shall we do?” the Father Abbot asked, though it was obvious to Brother Francis that the old man had already made up his mind.

Again Brother Francis hesitated, thinking through the problem. “An Abbot College,” he began, referring to the gathering of all the Church hierarchy, a process necessary if the Father Abbot meant to remove Abbot Dobrinion.

“There will indeed be such a gathering,” Markwart replied. “But it will not convene until mid-Calember.”

Brother Francis considered the words. Calember was the eleventh month, still more than four months away. “Then we must leave St. Precious at once,” he reasoned at length, guessing, correctly, that the Father Abbot was fast running out of patience with him. “We must take our prisoners to St.-Mere-Abelle, where Abbot Dobrinion shall have no say in their treatment.”

“Well spoken,” Markwart congratulated. “Indeed, we must be gone from St. Precious tomorrow, the centaur and the Chilichunks in tow. See to the arrangements, and plot our paths.”

“A straight run,” Brother Francis assured him.

“And make it public, very much so, that we are leaving,” the Father Abbot went on. “And see to it that Connor Bildeborough is taken, as well, for that is news which will spread wide.”

Brother Francis wore a doubting expression. “That may invite trouble from the crown,” he warned.

“And if so, we will release him,” Markwart replied. “Until that happens, the gossip may reach the ears of the woman we seek.”

“But she may not care about Bildeborough,” Brother Francis reasoned. “Their union was short, and unpleasant, so it is said.”

“But she will come for the Chilichunks,” Markwart explained. “And for that ugly half-horse creature. The arrest of Master Bildeborough will only serve to publicize our other prisoners.”

Brother Francis considered the reasoning for a moment, then nodded. “And what of Abbot Dobrinion?” he asked.

“A smaller thorn than you would believe,” Markwart replied quickly, and it seemed to Francis that the man already had a plan in mind for the venerable abbot of St. Precious.

Connor Bildeborough paced the small room—a rented flat in the lower section of Palmaris. Though the man was of noble blood, he preferred the excitement of the docks and the rougher taverns. The only adventure he found at his uncle’s palace was the occasional fox hunt, and those he considered foolish, an ego-proppingexercise that did not even qualify, in his mind, as sport. No, Connor, quick with his wits and quick with his sword, preferred a good fight in a tavern, or a brush with would-be muggers in a dark alleyway.

To that end, he had been spending a considerable amount of time in the fields north of Palmaris, trying to earn a warrior’s reputation in skirmishes with the many monsters to be found up there. His uncle had presented him with a magnificent gift at the outset of the war, a slender sword of unmatched craftsmanship. Its blade gleamed of some silvery metal that could not be identified, and inset along its golden basket pommel were several tiny magical magnetites so the weapon could be used beautifully for parrying, practically attracting an opponent’s blade. Its name was Defender, and where his uncle had ever found such a blade, Connor could not know. The rumors about the sword were many, and impossible to confirm. Most agreed it had been forged in the smithies of the first King of Honce-the-Bear—some said by a cunning powrie who had deserted its kindred on the Weathered Isles. Other tales claimed that the mysterious Touel’alfar had helped in its creation, and still others claimed that both races had played a role, along with the best human weaponsmiths of the day.

Whatever the truth of the blade’s origins, Connor understood that he now possessed a most extraordinary weapon. With Defender in hand, just a week before he had led a contingent of Kingsmen against a horde of powerful giants, and though the results had been somewhat disastrous—as can be expected in a fight with giants—Connor had done quite well, could even claim two kills by his sword. What glories he had found in the north!

Now, though, in this room with his good friend Abbot Dobrinion, Connor understood that he should be keeping his attention a bit closer to home.

“It is about Jill,” the abbot insisted. “Father Abbot Markwart believes she is in possession of the gemstone cache which was stolen from St.-Mere-Abelle.”

Jill.The name hit Connor hard, tugged at his memories and at his heart. He had courted her for months, wonderful months, only to have their marriage disintegrate in a matter of hours. When Jill had refused him his marital rights of consummation, Connor could have demanded her death.

But of course he could not have done that, for he had indeed loved the spirited, though troubled, woman. He had settled for the judgment that she should be indentured to the King’s army, and how his heart had broken when his Jilly left Palmaris.

“I had heard that she was far, far away,” the young nobleman said somberly. “In Pireth Tulme, or Pireth Danard, serving in the Coastpoint Guards.”

“So she may be,” Abbot Dobrinion conceded. “Who can tell? The Father Abbot is searching for her, and believes she was in the north, back in Dundalis, and even farther, accompanied by Avelyn of St.-Mere-Abelle, who stole the sacred gemstones.”

“Do you know this man?” Connor asked suddenly, again wondering about this first monk who had visited Pettibwa Chilichunk.

“Never met him,” Abbot Dobrinion replied.

“A description, then?” Connor pressed.

“A large man, big of bone and, they believe, big of belly, as well,” the abbot replied. “So said Master Jojonah.”

Connor nodded, digesting the information. The monk who had visited with Pettibwa was indeed large, of bone and of belly. Could it be that Jill had come back through Palmaris in this man’s company? Could Jilly, his Jilly, have been so close, without him ever knowing it?

“The woman is in trouble, Connor, very great trouble,” Abbot Dobrinion remarked gravely. “And if you know anything concerning her, where she might be, or if she is indeed in possession of the stones, the Father Abbot will seek you out. And his techniques of interrogation are not pleasant.”

“How could I know anything about Jill?” Connor replied incredulously. “The last time I saw her was at her trial, when she was sent away to join the King’s army.” His statement was true enough—the last time he had seen Jill was on the occasion of their annulment, and her indenture—but of late Connor had traveled out of Palmaris often, to the north to do battle, to make a name for himself in what many agreed were the waning days of the war. He had heard tales of a rogue band operating farther to the north, near the towns of Caer Tinella and Landsdown, using tactics and magic to wreak havoc with the monsters. Might Jill and the monk Avelyn, with their stolen gemstones, be the source of that magic?

Of course, Connor meant to keep his suspicions private, even from Abbot Dobrinion.

“The Father Abbot means to find her,” Dobrinion said.

“If Jill has made more trouble for herself, then there is little I can do to rectify the situation,” Connor replied.

“But by the simple fact that you were once wed to the woman, you are involved,” Dobrinion warned.

“Ridiculous,” said Connor, but even as he spoke the word, the door to the room burst open and four monks, Youseff and Dandelion, Brother Francis, and the Father Abbot himself, entered.

Dandelion went right for Connor; the man moved to draw his slender sword, only to find it lifting of its own accord from its scabbard. Connor grabbed at the handle, but when he caught it by the pommel, he found his arm pulled up high, and in a moment he was standing on his tiptoes, and for all his strength and all his weight, he could not bring the sword back down to a defensive posture.

Dandelion hit him a short, sharp blow, then yanked his hand from the sword hilt and wrapped him in a tight hug. The sword drifted away, weightless, and Connor couldn’t comprehend it until he noticed that the fourth monk, Brother Francis, was using a green-ringed gemstone.

“Do not resist, Master Connor Bildeborough,” the Father Abbot instructed. “We wish to speak with you, that is all, on a matter of tremendous importance, a matter concerning the security of your uncle’s holdings.”

Connor instinctively tried to break free of the hold, but found his efforts futile, for Dandelion was too strong and too skilled to allow him any openings. Besides, the other young monk, Youseff, was standing at the ready, a small and heavy club in hand.

“My uncle will hear of this,” Connor warned Markwart.

“Your uncle will agree with my decision,” the Father Abbot replied confidently. He gave a nod to his two lackeys and they dragged Connor away.

“You tread on dangerous ground,” Abbot Dobrinion warned. “Baron Rochefort Bildeborough’s influence is not to be taken lightly.”

“I assure you that one of us is indeed treading on dangerous ground,” the Father Abbot calmly replied.

“You knew that we were looking for Connor Bildeborough,” Brother Francis accused, walking over to take the sword from midair. “Yet you came out to warn him?”

“I came out to find him,” the abbot corrected. “To tell him that he must come in and speak with you, that any information he might have—and he has none, I can assure you—might prove important to winning the war.”

Father Abbot Markwart chuckled snidely throughout Dobrinion’s halfhearted protest. “Words are often such pretty things,” he remarked when Dobrinion was finished. “We use them to speak the truth of facts, yet to hide the truth of intent.”

“You doubt me?” Dobrinion asked.

“You have made your position concerning this matter quite clear to me,” Markwart replied. “I know why you came looking for Connor Bildeborough. I know what you wished to accomplish, and know, too, that your goals and my own are not in accord.”

Abbot Dobrinion huffed in reply and strode defiantly past the pair. “The Baron must be informed,” he explained, moving to the door.

Brother Francis grabbed him roughly by the arm, and he spun, glaring in disbelief at the young man’s brazen action.

Francis returned that look with a murderous stare, and for a moment Dobrinion thought the brother would lash out at him. A motion from Father Abbot Markwart ended the tension of the moment, though, and Francis let go of the abbot with his hand, if not with his glare.

“The manner of the telling is all important,” Markwart said to Dobrinion. “Do explain to the Baron that his nephew is not charged with any crime or sin, and had merely volunteered to answer our questions on this important matter.”

Abbot Dobrinion stormed away.

“His report to the Baron will not be flattering,” Brother Francis remarked as Youseff and Dandelion dragged Connor away.

“As he will,” the Father Abbot conceded.

“Baron Bildeborough could prove a difficult adversary,” Brother Francis pressed.