DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (185 page)

Markwart heard, or at least felt, the other spirit's sigh as clearly as if it had come from De'Unnero's body.

I am no fool, Father Abbot, and I survive through observation. No powrie killed Abbot Dobrinion. The man who brought the bodies of Connor Bildeborough and Brother Youseff back to Palmaris spouted Connor's wild claims that the Church had murdered Dobrinion. Wild claims?
he scoffed, and laughed wickedly.
Wild, perhaps, to those who have not watched Father Abbot Markwart closely over the last few months.

You tread on dangerous ground,
Markwart's spirit warned.
I can destroy you as easily as I promoted you.

A claim I do not doubt,
De'Unnero answered sincerely.
And I do not desire your enmity, Father Abbot. Never that. I speak of such dark business with respect and approval.

Markwart paused to digest the words.

Markwart could not honestly disagree —Marcalo De'Unnero was perhaps the most competent and dangerous man he had ever known. De'Unnero was in his mid-thirties now, but carried himself with the ease and strength of a twenty-year-old, a combination of experience and power very rare in the world.

But I say this again not to criticize,
De'Unnero's spirit quickly added,
only to remind you and to ask you to ask more of me.

The other stopped short, caught by the blunt words.

I'll have the truth, or I shall indeed destroy you,
Markwart imparted, the simple tone of his thoughts making the words a promise, not a threat. He wanted to see if De'Unnero would threaten to expose the murderer of Abbot Dobrinion and Connor Bildeborough. If he did, then Markwart would break the connection and start the process of eliminating this problem. But De'Unnero wasn't playing that game, not at all.

I am not your enemy, Father Abbot, but your subject,
the spirit explained.
A loyal subject. I did venture out on the road south of Palmaris in the form of a great cat.

No greater than the one you took,
De'Unnero countered.
Less, I would say, since Abbot Dobrinion was one of our own, and his murder could turn the whole Church against you. Bildeborough's demise is not a matter for the Abellican Church.

Only for the King,
Markwart came back sarcastically, but De'Unnero's spirit seemed to shrug that away as inconsequential. In truth, Markwart agreed with the man's assessment, fearing the power of the Church far more than that of the state.

The killing was clean,
De'Unnero insisted.
There is nothing to connect the death of Baron Bildeborough with me, and certainly not with you.

A bit more than coincidence, some will whisper,
Markwart replied,
especially now that there are no Bildeborough heirs to take up the barony.

And some are already whispering,
De'Unnero countered,
and were whispering before Bildeborough's demise. But lacking clear, undeniable evidence, who would dare accuse the father Abbot of the Abellican Church? No, we should focus on the gains of our actions, not dwell on the risks.

The gain is yet to be determined,
Markwart answered.
We know not upon whom the King will confer the barony. Likely, given the whispers, Danube Brock Ursal will choose one who does not look favorably on the Church, to ensure the continuation of his own power in Palmaris.

I do not agree,
De'Unnero dared to argue.
Was it not this same King who willingly gave his elite soldiers to Abbot Je'howith for the College of Abbots?

Over the protest of his secular advisers, no doubt,
Markwart put in.
Je'howith has long battled for the King's ear at Ursal.

A battle he must now win,
De'Unnero continued flatly,
for now, with the absence of state power in Palmaris, it might be time for the Church to heighten its role in governing the masses.

Again Markwart's spirit was set back a bit.

It is not without precedent,
De'Unnero insisted.
Palmaris has no baron, and few with credentials to hold such a title would desire to leave Ursal for the less luxurious existence in Palmaris, especially considering the whispers of conspiracies and the potential danger.

Markwart could not believe the man's nerve! De'Unnero was trying to make gains from every possible pitfall, turning the suspicions about Church involvement in the deaths into a positive thing!

Go to Je'howith as you have come to me,
De'Unnero begged.
Let us force the King into an alliance that will expand Church power.

That will expand your power,
Markwart corrected.

And I serve you, father Abbot.
De'Unnero was answering before Markwart ever finished the thought.
The King will not choose to go against us now, not when the easier course is to let us help him through this chaotic aftermath of war.

It made sense, Markwart had to admit.
I will go to Je'howith this very night,
he agreed, but then his tone changed.
You are to take no decisive actions on any matter without my permission,
he warned.
The times are too dangerous, and our positions too tentative for me to trust the judgment of one as inexperienced as Marcalo De'Unnero.

But concerning Baron Bildeborough,
De'Unnero responded,
am I to assume that you approve?

Markwart broke the connection immediately, his spirit flying from that place. He came back into his body in a few minutes, wearing a wide smile. He should have gone to bed then, for such a long use of the soul stone was terribly draining, but strangely, the Father Abbot felt rejuvenated, hungry for more information.

Instead, he sent his spirit west and south to the one city in all Honce-the-Bear that was larger than Palmaris.

St. Honce in Ursal was the second largest Abellican abbey, smaller only than St.-Mere-Abelle. It was joined to the palace of the King by a long, narrow hall known as the bridge. The abbot of St. Honce traditionally served as spiritual adviser to the King and his court. Markwart knew the place well. Here, he had been anointed as Father Abbot of the Order by Abbot Sherman, who had been succeeded by Abbot Dellahunt, who had been succeeded by Je'howith. The ceremony had been formalized by King Danube Cole Ursal, the father of the present king. Markwart had little trouble finding the private rooms of the abbot.

Je'howith's response to the spiritual intrusion, once he had gathered up his soul stone and gone out of body, was absolute delight.
What wonders such quick communication might bring to the world!
his spirit exclaimed.
Think of the gains to warfare if captains could so communicate with their field commanders! Think of-
—

Enough,
Markwart's spirit interrupted, knowing the man's hopes to be nothing more than illusions. None but he could so powerfully spirit-walk —no abbot, no master, and surely no secular soldier!
I have a task for you. You have heard of the death of Baron Bildeborough, and that he was without heir?

Word reached us just this day,
Je'howith replied somberly.
Truth, father Abbot, I have barely found a moment's rest. I only returned to Ursal this week, and now
—

Then you know of the vacancy in Palmaris,
Markwart interrupted, having no time for Je'howith's blabbering.

A problem that King Danube considers wearily,
Je'howith answered.
The poor man is near to breaking, I fear, though the war is finally won. He has faced so many problems these last few months, after years of peace.

Then let us lessen his troubles,
Markwart offered.
Convince him to give the barony to Abbot De'Unnero and let the Church handle the troubles of Palmaris.

The abbot's surprise was evident in the posture of his spirit form.
King Danube does not even know this Marcalo De'Unnero. Nor do I, if the truth be told, except we met once at the College of Abbots.

Take my word as recommendation of his character and his ability to rule Palmaris,
Markwart instructed.
And understand that even in the combined position of baron and abbot, called bishop in past days, Marcalo De'Unnero will answer to me
—
and to you, if you do not fail me in this.

That last thought was too much bait to be ignored.

You do remember that the Church once ruled beside the King,
Markwart went on. Je'howith's spirit was nodding and smiling.
Convince the King.

Perhaps I could go and meet Abbot De'Unnero through the soul stone, much as you
— Je'howith began, but Markwart cut him short.

You could not attain this level of clarity,
the Father Abbot explained honestly —and angrily—for he did not believe that Je'howith could perform this level of magic.
This is my magic, and mine alone. It is not to be discussed, nor initiated, by you, though I may come to you often in the future.

The humility and submission that came back from Je'howith satisfied the Father Abbot, and so he soared back across the miles to St.-Mere-Abelle. There, despite his tremendous expenditure of magical energy, he was still restless. He paced for more than an hour, trying to gain perspective on the new routes of power that suddenly seemed open to him. Just that morning, Markwart had thought his reputation in Church history settled, the only possibility of elevating it being the retrieval of the stolen gemstones. But now the issue of the stones seemed almost trivial. De'Unnero's claim that the Church had once played a more active role in governing was true enough: a king of Honce-the-Bear, in ages long past, had actually been anointed as Father Abbot of the Abellican Order. But for hundreds of years, the balance of power in the kingdom had held relatively stable between Church and state: separate, but powerful, entities. The king saw to the secular activities of his subjects, managed the standing army, and handled disputes with the neighboring kingdoms of Behren and Alpinador, but claimed little lordship over the powers of the Church. In many reaches of the kingdom, particularly the smaller villages, the Church was far more influential than the distant King, whose full name many of the subjects did not even know.

But now, because of Markwart's wise and prudent actions in Palmaris, the elimination of Connor Bildeborough and Abbot Dobrinion, and because of the subsequent death of the Baron, the balance of power in the kingdom might be shifted in favor of the Church. Danube Brock Ursal was weary, by Je'howith's own words. If Je'howith managed to wrest Palmaris from him ...

Obviously, neither Markwart nor Je'howith had many years left to live — they were both in their seventies. Suddenly the Father Abbot wasn't satisfied with that place he had secured in Church history. Suddenly his ambition went far higher —and so had Je'howith's, he believed. Together they could use men like De'Unnero to change the world.

Father Abbot Markwart was immensely pleased by such a prospect.

Not far from the quarters of the Father Abbot, Brother Francis Dellacourt stood in his candlelit room, staring at his reflection in a mirror. The dark shadows about him seemed a fitting frame to the beleaguered man.

For most of his life, Francis had placed himself on a secret pedestal, above the average man —above any man. He never consciously told himself that he was the chosen of God, but he had believed it, as if all the world were merely a dream played out for his personal benefit. Francis had believed himself without sin, the perfect reflection of the perfect God.

But then he had killed Grady Chilichunk on the road from Palmaris.

It had been an accident, Francis knew, for his blow to Grady's head was only supposed to stun the man and prevent him from continuing his disrespect for the Father Abbot. But Grady had not awoken the next day, and the image of dirt falling on Grady's lifeless, bloated face as Francis had buried him had haunted the monk ever since, and had kicked the secret pedestal out from beneath his feet.

All the events of the world had swirled about Francis since that fateful day. He had watched Father Abbot Markwart order the torture and execution of Master Jojonah, and while he had never actually cared for Jojonah, Francis could hardly believe the punishment fitting.

But Francis had gone along with it, had served the Father Abbot slavishly, for the leader of the Abellican Order had placed no blame on Francis, had insisted that Francis had acted appropriately and that the fate of Grady —and the fate of Grady's parents—had been caused by their own sacrilege. Thus Francis had become even more devoted to Markwart, had come to believe that his only chance of reclaiming his pedestal was to follow in the shadow of the great leader.

And then Markwart had ordered Jojonah dragged from the hall at the College of Abbots. The soldiers pulling the master had taken him right by Francis, and Francis had looked into Jojonah's doomed eyes.

And the doomed master, who had learned the truth about Grady's death and who understood that Francis had been responsible, had forgiven Francis.

Now the young monk could only stare at the dark shadows surrounding his mortal form like stains on his eternal soul, and battle futilely with the confusing jumble of remorse and guilt that swirled in his thoughts.

His pedestal was gone, his innocence lost.

Another man was awake in St.-Mere-Abelle at that late hour, washing the dishes, a task that he should have completed much earlier that evening. But other duties —the planning of his next, and boldest, scouting mission—had delayed Roger Lockless that night. Roger had come to this place after witnessing the murder of Baron Bildeborough on the road south of Palmaris. He had run to St.-Mere-Abelle in the hopes of finding Elbryan and Pony; and in the town of St.-Mere-Abelle, some three miles inland from the great abbey, he had witnessed yet another murder, the execution of a man named Jojonah.