DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (203 page)

"And then they'll be as miserable as ye make yerself," Dainsey argued, "and with nothin' they can do about it."

Pony looked at her long and hard, then stared at Belster.

"I have some friends," the innkeeper explained, "and they have many more friends. Perhaps we might arrange a meeting or two and voice our concerns."

Pony nodded. She was hoping for a bit more fire from her two closest companions in Palmaris, but she realized she would have to be satisfied with that.

She went back to her own room to rest before the evening crowd began to gather.

Dainsey's words followed her to her bed. The woman's attitude might be more pragmatic than pessimistic, Pony had to admit, and that thought distressed her greatly. She wanted to fight De'Unnero, wanted to expose the Church for the evil institution it had become, but she could not deny the danger to herself and to any who allied themselves with her. Suppose she did raise the common folk, had them shaking their fists in the air defiantly and marching boldly against the abbey and the manor house . . .

That stirring image was erased when she envisioned the trained, well-equipped army that would confront them, an army reinforced by magical gemstones —and St. Precious, no doubt, had a fair supply of those.

How many thousands would die in the streets before the first morning of the insurrection was at its end?

Pony slumped in her bed, overwhelmed, and she reminded herself she had to move slowly. Whatever happened, she decided, she would find a way to do battle against wicked De'Unnero.

Brother Francis knelt on the floor in the corner of his room, facing the wall. His face was in his hands, a sign of humble submission to God —one not often used in the modern-day Abellican Church. But now the brother felt every gesture was important, as if somehow giving himself fully to his prayers would bring an end to the confusion that tore at him.

Of late, Francis had almost managed to forget the death of Grady Chilichunk. Francis believed his helping Braumin Herde and the others escape from St.-Mere-Abelle somehow made up for that —at least in part. Now, though, the image of Grady, lying lifeless in the grave Francis had dug, was haunting him. He remembered Grady. He saw again blasted Mount Aida, Avelyn's arm protruding from the ground. And most vivid of all, he couldn't stop seeing Father Abbot Markwart sitting cross-legged beside a pentagram—a pentagram!—candles burning at every point and a wicked book,
The Incantations Sorcerous,
lying
open
on the floor beside him.

But as horrifying as that image was, Francis tried to hold on to it —both to try to make sense of it and to block the more frightening image of Grady, dead in the hole.

But Grady's lifeless face would not go away.

Francis's shoulders shuddered as he sobbed —more from the fear he was losing his mind than from guilt. Everything seemed wrong, upside down. Another image—Jojonah's torso bursting open from the heat of the pyre— flitted through his mind. The memories mixed together into a great jumble of agony.

Soon the image of Markwart sitting cross-legged drifted to one side and the other three to another: Avelyn and his friends against the Father Abbot. Francis now saw there could be no peace, no reconciliation, between the two.

He sighed, then froze. He'd heard a slight rustle behind him. He held still concentrating, listening intently, terrified, for he knew who had entered.

A long moment passed. Francis suddenly feared he would be brutally slain.

"You are not at your appointed duties," came Markwart's voice, calm and pleasant.

Francis dared to turn and lift his face from his hands to regard the man.

"Your duties?" Markwart reminded.

"I ..." Francis started, but he surrendered at once, unable even to remember where he was supposed to be.

"You are troubled obviously," Markwart remarked, walking into the room and closing the door. He sat on Francis' bed and stared at Francis, his face a mask of peace.

"I ... I only felt the need to pray, Father Abbot," Francis lied, pulling himself up from the floor.

Markwart, calm and serene, continued to stare at him, hardly blinking —too much at peace. The hairs on the back of Francis' neck stood up. "My duties are covered by others," Francis assured the Father Abbot and started for the door. "But I will return to them at once."

"Be calm, brother," said Markwart, reaching out to grab his arm as he passed. Francis instinctively started to jerk away, but Markwart's grip was like iron and held him fast.

"Be calm," the Father Abbot said again. "Of course you are fearful, as am I, as should be any good Abellican in these troubling times." Markwart smiled and guided Francis to the bed, forcing him to sit down. "Troubling, yes," Markwart went on. He stood up, moving between Francis and the door. "But with a promise not seen by our Order in centuries."

"You speak of Palmaris," Francis said, trying to remain calm though he wanted to run out of the room screaming —maybe all the way to the sea wall, maybe over the sea wall!

"Palmaris is but an experiment," Markwart replied, "a beginning. I was just conversing with Abbot Je'howith ..." His tone was leading, as was his gesture —his arm pointing toward the hallways and especially to his room.

Francis thought he had not changed his expression, but he saw from Markwart's eyes that he had betrayed himself. "I did not mean to enter your chambers unbidden," Francis admitted, lowering his gaze. "I knew that you were there, and yet you did not answer my call. I feared for you."

"Your concern is touching, my young friend, my protege," Markwart said. Francis looked up at him curiously.

"Ah, you fear De'Unnero has replaced you as my closest adviser," Markwart said.

Francis knew the Father Abbot was diverting the conversation, knew that the words were ridiculous. Still, he found that he could not ignore them, and he hung on the Father Abbot's every word as Markwart continued.

"De'Unnero —Bishop De'Unnero—is a useful tool," Markwart admitted. "And with his energy and dominating spirit, he is the right man for the experiment in Palmaris. But he is limited by ambition, for all of his goals are personal. You and I think differently, my friend. We see the larger picture of the world and the greater glories in store for our Church."

"It was I who told Brother Braumin and the others to leave," Francis blurted out.

"I know," Markwart replied.

"I only feared ..." Francis began.

"I know," Markwart said again with conviction.

"Another execution would have left a foul taste with many in the Order," Francis tried to explain.

"Brother Francis included," said Markwart, stopping the younger monk cold. Francis slumped, unable to deny the charge.

"And with Father Abbot Markwart as well," the old man said, taking a seat next to Francis. "I do not enjoy that which fate has thrust upon me."

Francis looked up suddenly, surprised.

"Because of the times, the awakening of the demon, the great war, and now the opportunity that has been laid before us, I am forced to explore everything about our Order, the very meaning of the Church. Even the dark side, my young friend," he added, shivering. "I have brought minor demons into my chambers to learn from them, to be certain that Bestesbulzibar is truly banished."

"I —I saw the book," Francis admitted.

"The book Jojonah meant to use for ill," Markwart went on, seemingly unconcerned that Francis had seen him. "Yes, a most wicked tome, and happy I will be on the day that I can once more relegate it to the darkest corner of our lowest library. Better for all if I just destroyed it outright."

"Then why not?"

"You know the precepts of our Order," Markwart reminded him. "All but a single copy of a book may be destroyed, but it is our duty, as protectors of knowledge, to keep one copy. Fear not, for soon enough the wicked tome will be back in its place, to remain unused for centuries to come."

"I do not understand, Father Abbot," Francis dared to say. "Why must you keep it? What might you possibly learn?"

"More than you would believe," Markwart replied with a great sigh. "I have come to suspect that the awakening demon was no accident of fate, but an event brought about by one within St.-Mere-Abelle. Jojonah, possibly with Avelyn, tampered with this tome secretly. He —or they—may have gone places, perhaps accidentally, where they should not have ventured, and may have awakened a creature better left dormant."

The words hit Francis hard, left him gasping. The dactyl demon awakened by the actions of a monk in St.-Mere-Abelle?

"It is possible that Avelyn and Jojonah were not as evil as I believed," Markwart went on. "It is possible that they began with good intentions —as we earlier discussed, the basis of humanism is good intent—but that they were corrupted, or at the very least, horribly fooled, by that which they encountered.

"No matter," the Father Abbot added, patting Francis on the leg and standing. "Whatever the cause, they are responsible for their actions, and both met an appropriate end. Do not misunderstand me. I may feel compassion for our lost brothers, but I do not grieve over their deaths, nor do I forgive their foolish pride."

"And what of Brother Braumin and the others?"

Markwart snorted. "All the kingdom is ours to take," he said. "I care nothing for them. They are lost lambs, wandering until they meet a hungry wolf. Perhaps I will be that wolf, perhaps Bishop De'Unnero, or, more likely, perhaps another unrelated to the Church. I care not. My eyes are toward Palmaris. And so should be yours, Brother Francis. I expect that I will be journeying there, and you will accompany me." He went to the door, but before he left he threw out one last tantalizing tidbit. "My entourage will be small, including but one master, and that man will be you." Markwart left.

Francis spent a long time sitting on the bed, trying to digest all he had heard. He replayed Markwart's words, seeing them as an explanation for the evil tome and the pentagram. Those horrid images swirled about him, but now the one of Markwart did not seem so troubling. It struck Francis that the Father Abbot was incredibly brave and stoic, accepting these burdens for the greater good of the Church, and, thus, of all the world. Yes, this battle was a wretched thing —and put in that context, Francis found it much easier to forgive himself for Grady. The fight was a necessary one, and when theologians and historians looked back at this pivotal time, they would recognize that, for all the painful personal tragedies, the world emerged a better and holier place.

Francis found his perspective again.

"Master Francis?" he asked aloud, hardly daring to speak it openly.

Father Abbot Markwart was pleased with himself when he returned to his room. The truth of real power, he understood, was not a measure of destruction, but of control.

And how easy it had been for him to play on Francis' weakness. On the guilt and the fears, on the flickering speck of compassion and the desperate ambition.

So easy.

The night air was crisp, the sky bore only a few dark clouds, soaring high on the wind. A million stars were sparkling despite the brightness of the full moon rising in the east. It was a night sky suitable for the Halo, Juraviel thought, but alas, that colorful belt was not to be seen.

The elf was farther south now, in the region where dells, clustered thick with trees, were scattered among cultivated fields, divided from one another by drystone walls. He made his way among the shadows, running and dancing, for though he felt he must hurry, he could not resist the pleasure of a leaping twirl that brought him to the side of his intended path. And even though he often saw candles burning in the window of a newly reclaimed farmhouse, Juraviel did sing a quiet, haunting melody that reminded him of Andur'Blough Inninness.

So caught up was he that many moments passed before he noticed other voices singing, their harmony wafting through the quiet air.

The song did not put the elf on his guard, but it did calm him and sent him running straight. He realized his instincts, his sense of star song, had guided him true. His heart soared, for he dearly wanted to see his brethren again. He found them gathered in a grove of oak and scattered pines. Smiles broadened on a dozen elven faces. The presence of some of the Touel'alfar —like Tallareyish Issinshine, who, despite his great age, loved to wander out of the elven valley—didn't surprise Juraviel. But the appearance of one elf in particular stunned him. At first he hardly noticed her, for she wore the hood of her cloak up, only her sparkling eyes showing.

"You have been missed, Belli'mar Juraviel," she said. Her voice —that special voice, powerful and melodic all at once, even by elven standards— halted the dancing Juraviel.

"My lady," he said breathlessly, surprised, even stunned, to discover that Lady Dasslerond herself had come forth from the valley. Juraviel rushed to her and fell to his knees, accepting her hand and kissing it gently.

"The song of Caer'alfar is diminished without your voice," Lady Dasslerond replied, one of the highest compliments one elf could pay to another.

"Forgive me, lady, but I do not understand," Juraviel said. "You have come forth, and yet I know that you are needed in Andur'Blough Inninness. The dactyl's scar..."

"Remains," Lady Dasslerond replied. "Deep is the mark of Bestesbulzibar upon our valley, I fear; and so the rot has begun, a rot that may force us from our homes, from the world itself. But that is a matter for decades, perhaps centuries, to come, and now I fear that there may be more pressing needs."

"The war went well. Take heart that Nightbird is back in his place —or shall be soon," Juraviel told her. "The land will know peace once more, though it came at a great cost."

"No," Lady Dasslerond replied. "Not yet, I fear. Ever in the history of humans, it has been the aftermath of war that brings the most unrest. Their hierarchies and institutions are shaken. Inevitably, one will arise to claim leadership, and often it is one undeserving."

"You have heard of the death of the baron of Palmaris?" Tallareyish remarked, "and of Abbot Dobrinion, who led the Church in Palmaris?"

Juraviel nodded. "Word came to us before Nightbird went north to the Timberlands," he explained.

"Both were good, and safe, as humans go," Lady Dasslerond explained. "Palmaris is an important site for us, since it is the primary city and garrison between our home and the more populated human lands."

Juraviel knew Palmaris was an important city to the elves, and yet they could not go into the place openly. Few humans knew of them —in fact, because of Juraviel's efforts in the war beside Nightbird, the number of humans who could honestly claim they had seen an elf had probably at least doubled over the last few months. But the doings of the humans were of concern to the elves, and Lady Dasslerond had sent elves into Palmaris every so often over the last decades.

"We are not pleased by the rumors coming out of the city," Tallareyish remarked. "There is a fight within the Church, one in which we —you—have inadvertently played a role."

"Not so inadvertent," Juraviel replied. He was surprised by the somewhat accusatory looks coming his way and he held up his hands. "Was it not Lady Dasslerond herself who instructed me to go to Mount Aida?" he asked. "And did not Lady Dasslerond herself come out of Caer'alfar to my aid when Bestesbulzibar descended upon me and the human refugees?"

"You speak truly," Lady Dasslerond agreed. "And it was Tuntun, not Juraviel, who fulfilled our rightful place on the journey to Mount Aida."

"You even brought the demon to our home," Juraviel replied. "And I do not disagree with your choice," he quickly added, seeing her scowl. "Indeed, were it not for that choice, I would have been destroyed north of our valley."

"And that is where it should have ended," Lady Dasslerond explained, "in Andur'Blough Inninness for us, and in Mount Aida for Tuntun. Our part in this conflict was played out when the demon dactyl was destroyed."

The weight of her words hit Juraviel. Indeed, it had seemed that the elves were done with the conflict, until Nightbird and Pony had arrived on the mountain slopes above the elven valley. An enchantment forbade their entrance, so Juraviel had gone to them. Then, with Lady Dasslerond's reluctant blessing, Juraviel had departed with the pair to take up the fight against the scattered remnants of the demon dactyl's army.

"Had you ordered me to stay in Andur'Blough Inninness, I would have offered no complaint," Juraviel said softly to the lady of the valley. "I have only followed that course which seemed truest to me."

"All the way to St.-Mere-Abelle?" Tallareyish remarked, his tone not complimentary.

That was it, Juraviel recognized: the breaking point of elven tolerance. Lady Dasslerond had sent him with Nightbird and Pony to watch the progress of the war against the goblins, giants, and powries, but he had followed the ranger and interfered in the heart of the affairs of humans.

Juraviel lowered his gaze to the ground before the great elven lady. "My journey to St.-Mere-Abelle was to rescue Bradwarden the centaur, who has been an elven friend for many, many years," he said humbly.

"We know," Lady Dasslerond replied.

A long moment passed, and then all the elves around him began talking at once, whispering the name of the centaur. Juraviel heard the word "justified" spoken several times, and at last found the courage to look up into his lady's eyes.

Lady Dasslerond studied him intently for a few moments, then nodded slowly. "I cannot, in good conscience, dispute your decision," she admitted, "for you did not understand fully the implications of involving yourself in such matters. What news of Bradwarden, then?"

"He is in the north with Nightbird," Juraviel replied. Before he could elaborate, one of the elves in the branches of a nearby tree signaled that someone was closing on their position, and in a moment all the elves disappeared into the underbrush.

A short while later, the light of a torch could be seen, winding through the trees, and then Juraviel smiled as two humans, one of whom he recognized, walked into view.

"You know that one," Lady Dasslerond stated, indicating Roger. As she spoke, several of the other elves began to sing softly, their voices blending with the normal sounds of the forest night. Using their star song, they wove a sound wall, a magical barrier through which elven voices would not carry, that they might continue their conversation without fear that the approaching humans would hear.

"Roger Billingsbury," Juraviel confirmed, "though more commonly known as Roger Lockless —a title he has well earned."

Dasslerond's nod showed that she, too, had learned the truth of Roger Lockless. "And the other?" she asked. "Is he known to you?"

Juraviel studied the man closely, trying to recall if he had seen him on those few occasions when he and his two companions had passed monks on their way to St.-Mere-Abelle. "No," he replied. "I do not believe that I have ever seen him."

"His name is Braumin Herde," Dasslerond explained, "a disciple of Brother Avelyn."

"Disciple?" Juraviel echoed skeptically.

"There are five of them with Roger," the lady explained, "all brothers of the Abellican Order and all dedicated to your old companion Avelyn. Roger is leading them north to find Nightbird, for they are now outlaws of the Church, men without a home."

Juraviel's expression showed his doubts. "Or are they brothers justice," he asked, "wearing the guise of friends that they might find Jilseponie and the gemstones Avelyn took from St.-Mere-Abelle?"

"They are sincere," Lady Dasslerond assured him. "We have watched them carefully these last days, hearing their every conversation."

"And do they know of you?"

"Roger alone," the lady said. "He has told the others about us, but they do not believe him." She glanced at Juraviel, then looked back at the two approaching men. "Perhaps it is time we were formally introduced." She moved boldly out into the torchlit path of the two men. How Braumin Herde's eyes widened at the sight of Dasslerond, and how Roger's eyes and smile widened when Belli'mar Juraviel stepped up beside the lady of Andur'Blough Inninness!

"Juraviel!" Roger exclaimed, coming forward to greet his friend. "It has been far too long." Roger's excitement waned when he glanced at his companion and saw Braumin Herde backing up, trembling with every step, his face white in the torchlight.

"Calm, Brother Braumin!" Lady Dasslerond commanded, and in her voice was a quality of command beyond anything the monk had ever encountered —even beyond the power of Markwart's stern tone at recent abbey gatherings. He stopped short.

"Did not Roger Lockless tell you of us?" Lady Dasslerond asked bluntly. "Did he not tell you that you would likely find the man you seek in the company of Belli'mar Juraviel of the Touel'alfar?"

"I —I had thought—" Braumin stuttered.

"We are exactly as Roger Lockless described," Lady Dasslerond went on.

"Lockless?" Braumin echoed, looking at his friend.

"A title more than a name," Roger replied.

"This we know because even as he was telling you of us, we were in the trees above you, listening," Lady Dasslerond went on. "So be surprised that his tales ring so true, but let that surprise pass quickly, for we have much to discuss."

Brother Braumin took a deep breath and composed himself as much as possible.

Roger looked questioningly at Juraviel, caught off guard. He started forward tentatively once more, but his friend, wary of Lady Dasslerond's temper, held him at bay.

"Take us back to your encampment to meet your companions," Lady Dasslerond ordered. "I do not wish to answer the same questions twice."

The reception at the camp was predictable, the four other monks obviously shocked to find Roger's outlandish tales were true. Brother Castinagis did a fair job of restraining himself, as did Dellman; but Mullahy sat down in the dirt, staring mutely, and Viscenti fell all over himself with excitement, tripping several times —once nearly pitching headlong into the fire.

"Belli'mar Juraviel brings good word," Lady Dasslerond began when at last the monks calmed. "For Nightbird is not so far ahead, though his road, like our own, heads north. We will find him in Dundalis, in the Timberlands."

"And the centaur," Roger remarked. "You will be amazed at how powerful he is, if his wounds have fully healed."

"They have," Juraviel assured him, smiling at Braumin and Dellman, both of whom had met Bradwarden before.

"And Pony," Roger remarked, obviously enchanted by the mere mention of the name. "Jilseponie Ault," he explained, "Brother Avelyn's dearest friend and principal student."

Juraviel said nothing, but observant Lady Dasslerond caught the look that momentarily came over the elf's face and recognized that he had some information contrary to Roger's claim.

"She is the one with your gemstones," Roger went on, and the startling admission caught Lady Dasslerond's attention and forced her to focus on the five monks, carefully measuring their reactions. She saw no hint of any underlying intentions, and since she usually found it easy to read the hearts of humans, she took comfort in that.

"Perhaps if we form a Church of our own, Jilseponie Ault will see fit to return the stones," Brother Castinagis remarked.

Roger laughed at the thought. "If you form a Church of your own, one based on the life of Avelyn Desbris, you should beg Pony to serve as your Mother Abbess," he said.

"A request that she would no doubt find most flattering," Lady Dasslerond said. "But let us consider the road before us and not the meetings we may find at the end of that road."

"That road seems less dark indeed, now that we have found such allies," Braumin Herde said with a low bow.

"Traveling companions," Lady Dasslerond corrected sternly. "Do not misunderstand our relationship," the lady of Andur'Blough Inninness continued, her voice sharp and clear. "Our road follows the same path as your own, it would seem, for the present, thus it is to our mutual benefit to travel side by side. We can serve as your eyes in the forest, and you can gather information from any humans we might meet along the way. But convenience does not necessarily constitute an alliance. However, if we happen upon a mutual foe —goblin or powrie or giant—my kin and I will destroy it, and thus, in that limited situation, you may consider us as allies."