DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (102 page)

“Allow Master Bou-raiy and me to go and speak with King Danube on this issue of appointing you as bishop,” Braumin begged her. “We will say nothing of your involvement—indeed, it would be better if you do not tell me of your final decision on the matter until and unless it is formally offered you.”

“If that is the case, then why do you need my permission to go to King Danube?” Jilseponie asked.

“Because you are my friend,” Abbot Braumin answered without the slightest hesitation. “And while I do agree with Master Bou-raiy on this issue, and while I do wish to be free to go and preside over the beginnings of the Chapel of Avelyn, I would flatly refuse the offer if I thought that it would, in any way, bring harm to our friendship.”

Jilseponie looked away, staring vacantly, her mind rolling back over the years to her youthful days in Dundalis; to her time in Palmaris when she was Cat-the-Stray, a lost young woman with no memory of the tragedy that had stolen her family, her friends, and her youth. How far she had come! Here she was now speaking of events that would change the lives of perhaps thirty thousand people! Perhaps more! And if she became queen of Honce-the-Bear, she would hold the second voice in the greatest kingdom in all the world. Cat-the-Stray, Jilseponie, guiding the lives of hundreds of thousands.

The mere thought of it made her knees weaken and sent her stomach into flip-flops. And yet, she had to fight past those fears and doubts. She could not deny this opportunity that fate had put before her. No, when she had returned from Dundalis to do battle with the rosy plague, when she had thrown off the nickname of Pony and had become Jilseponie to all the world, she had firmly told herself that she would accept her responsibilities, that she would give of herself to better the world, however she might. This was who she was now, a person in the service of the common folk, a person who had decided that her duty would supersede her personal desires.

Perhaps there was some nefarious plotting behind the scenes at St.-Mere-Abelle—not with Abbot Braumin, though, for Jilseponie knew her friend better than to believe that! But even if that was the case, she could not refuse the invitation, should it come. The people would gain by her accepting and then by honestly telling King Danube that he would be doing the folk of Palmaris a good turn by allowing Braumin to succeed her, should it come to that.

“He has not asked for my hand,” Jilseponie quietly reminded him.

Abbot Braumin smiled widely. “Perhaps then your reign as bishop will be long indeed.”

Jilseponie didn’t return the smile, just narrowed her eyes and looked hard at him. “How long do you plan to remain out of the city?” she asked. “A few months if I go to Ursal? Or forever if I stay here?”

Abbot Braumin laughed. “I would remain in the north if you remained as bishop, ’tis true,” he said. “But only because I would know in my heart that the folk of Palmaris would be better served if I did so. And only because I feel it my calling to oversee the transformation of Avelyn to sainthood.”

Jilseponie couldn’t retain her stern expression against her dear friend, and she shook her head and chuckled helplessly, then bent over and kissed Abbot Braumin on the cheek, hugging him close. “Whatever the good to the world, my own private
world will be emptier without you at my side.”

“Caer Tinella’s not so far,” said Braumin, though both of them understood that Jilseponie was really referring to the distance that would separate them should she decide to marry King Danube. Ursal was a long way from Palmaris.

Jilseponie’s thoughts were whirling when Abbot Braumin left her. She had known of the rumors that King Danube would ask for her hand this year, of course, but hearing it spoken so openly and matter-of-factly had made it so much more tangible, so much more real.

For the first time, Jilseponie honestly sat back and considered how she might answer such a proposal from the King of Honce-the-Bear. Agreeing to become bishop was one thing, and not really a difficult choice. But becoming queen entailed so much more.

She blew a dozen deep breaths as she sat there alone, letting her thoughts spin and spin.

Not one of those breaths even began to steady her.

K
ing Danube Brock Ursal sat, staring at his two guests, thinking it fortunate that Duke Targon Bree Kalas had decided against coming to Palmaris this year. For if the volatile warrior-Duke had come north, then surely he would be at King Danube’s side now. If he was, then surely he would be trembling with rage at the suggestion of these two Abellican monks that King Danube appoint yet another bishop of Palmaris!

“You do not begin to doubt Jilseponie’s ability in this,” Abbot Braumin said rather bluntly. “And, yes, you are right in assuming that the Church is trying to steal a bit of her away from the State. And why should we not? Was it not Jilseponie who found the covenant of Avelyn and brought the word, not to the castle door in Ursal, but to the front gate of St.-Mere-Abelle? Was it not Jilseponie who accompanied Brother Avelyn Desbris, who will likely soon be declared a saint, to Mount Aida to do battle with and destroy the demon dactyl? The Church has desired her voice for many years, my King.” He ended with a great laugh, though he noted that Master Bou-raiy was scowling at him in angry disbelief.

King Danube, after staring at him blankly for a few moments, managed a chuckle of his own. “I am not used to such honesty from your Church, Abbot Braumin,” Danube remarked in a friendly tone.

“Perhaps it was the lack of politics that confused you, my King,” said Braumin, very aware of the fact that Master Bou-raiy was sitting back in his chair more comfortably then, willingly following his lead. They had been speaking for nearly an hour and had found no movement in Danube at all—until now. “For we have come here speaking simple truth,” Braumin went on, “and offering you an opportunity that will favor us both in the end, because it will favor the people of Palmaris.”

“And how long might we expect this … situation of bishop to hold?” the King asked, rolling his hand in the air as a signal for Braumin to continue.

“For as long as Jilseponie desires it,” the abbot of St. Precious replied. “Until, perhaps, she finds her way to another title in a more southern city.”

King Danube sat up very straight in the blink of an eye, and Master Bou-raiy, too, came forward in his seat, both of them obviously stunned by the abbot’s forwardness.

“What do you know of it?” the King demanded.

“Nothing more than the rumors that every man and woman in Palmaris has been whispering for more than two years,” Abbot Braumin said with a chuckle.

“And you have spoken with Jilseponie on this … on these, matters?” the King asked, his voice suddenly shaky.

“He has not!” Fio Bou-raiy interjected, and Braumin had to bite his lip so he wouldn’t laugh at the sincere horror in the master’s voice. Bou-raiy was afraid that Braumin might be stepping too boldly here and might therefore alienate the King. A logical fear, the abbot had to admit, except that he was seeing something else in Danube’s eyes. Yes, he was the king, and a fine and heroic leader, but he was also a man, plain and simple, and Jilseponie had stolen his heart. Thus, King Danube was a man vulnerable.

“If I have spoken with her, then obviously I cannot divulge any of that to you, my King,” Braumin said. “Jilseponie Wyndon is my dearest friend in all the world, and I’ll not betray her.”

King Danube started to stutter a retort to that, but Braumin cut him short.

“But, my King, rest assured, for your own reputation and for the sensibilities of my friend, if I knew that she would refuse your proposal, then I would tell you plainly and privately,” the abbot said.

“Then you know she will not,” King Danube reasoned.

Abbot Braumin shrugged. “I believe that she does not know,” he admitted, “but I can assure you that she holds nothing but fondness and respect for you.”

“And love?” the King asked.

Again Braumin shrugged, but he was smiling warmly, and it seemed as if that answer was good enough for King Danube.

“I will offer her the position of bishop, then,” Danube decided after a few moments of quiet contemplation. He continued with a sly look. “We will see how long she holds the title.”

As soon as they left King Danube, Master Bou-raiy turned sharply on Braumin. “Whatever possessed you to take such a risk?” the master from St.-Mere-Abelle demanded. “One does not become personal with the King of Honce-the-Bear!”

“This is not about politics, Master Bou-raiy,” Abbot Braumin casually replied. “This is about the future of my dearest friend. I’ll not barter her happiness for the sake of your election to succeed Father Abbot Agronguerre. And be warned now that, whatever the outcome, Jilseponie will indeed be a strong voice at the next College of Abbots, and that Abbot Braumin of St. Precious holds a strong voice with Jilseponie.”

That set Bou-raiy back on his heels, for he hadn’t imagined that Braumin would
so turn his own plan back on him!

Braumin stopped walking then and turned to face the stern man directly. “I agree to this, as does Jilseponie, because it is the right thing to do,” he explained. “I desired to see if King Danube would agree for the same reasons, because Jilseponie should know his heart on the matter. And so I took what may be construed as a great chance, but only construed that way if one is viewing the potential gain or loss to the Church.”

“You are an abbot,” Bou-raiy reminded.

“I am a friend first, an abbot second,” Braumin said quietly. He turned and walked away, very conscious that Fio Bou-raiy was not following.

Chapter 9
 

D
E
’U
NNERO KNEW THAT SOMETHING WAS AFOOT AS SOON AS
M
ICKAEL AND
J
OELLUS
entered the common room at Micklin’s Village. All the huntsmen were together with him, a rare occasion since the season had begun to wane and all fifteen were often out setting their trap lines in preparation for their autumn hundred-mile pilgrimage to Tyankin’s Corner, the town that held the market for the huntsmen of the region.

But they were all here this evening, even surly Micklin, though the stars were out and shining and the wind was not too chill—a perfect evening for setting trap lines.

The talk in the common room was light, mostly concerning the impending journey and the expected takes on the fur piles—and on the amount of booze, food, and women that take might buy. De’Unnero hardly listened, for he hardly cared, and soon enough he started for the door, thinking to get a good night’s sleep.

“Where’re ye going, Bertram?” came Micklin’s voice behind him before he neared the door.

De’Unnero paused to consider that unexpected call, yet another confirmation to him that something was out of the ordinary this evening—for Micklin rarely noticed him, unless the burly man had some chore needing to be done. And Micklin never, ever, used De’Unnero’s assumed name, at least not in any way that was not derisive.

“I hope to complete the second woodpile tomorrow,” De’Unnero explained, turning. He saw that every man in the room was staring at him, and that several were grinning. “The day may yet be warm, and I hope to be done before the sun is high in the sky.”

“I’m thinkin’ that ye won’t be working much tomorrow,” Mickael put in from the side of the room, and he ended with a snort and a chuckle.

“Sleepin’, most o’ the day,” another man, Jedidie, agreed. “Pukin’ after that!”

That brought a roar and a nod from Micklin. Another of the men moved toward De’Unnero, pulling a silver cup out from behind him with one hand and an ornate, decorated bottle out with the other.

De’Unnero caught on immediately; the huntsmen hadn’t made too big a deal about his efforts to secure their village against the band of rogues. He had received a few pats on the back, to be sure, and many offers of splitting gol’bears once the furs were sold, but now it seemed obvious to him that the men wanted to more deeply show their appreciation. And why not? De’Unnero’s efforts had saved them more than half a season’s catch, several horses, and most of their precious belongings.
De’Unnero’s amazing defense of Micklin’s Village had likely saved a couple of them, at least, their very lives, for if the thieves had been about when the first of the hunters had returned …

But the former monk didn’t want the accolades or the cheers and most assuredly did not want the potent drink. He didn’t want any reminders of that defense of Micklin’s Village, what he still considered a horrible failure on his part for letting loose the deadly weretiger.

They were all cheering then, calling out the name Bertram Dale with enthusiasm, and the man before him thumbed the cork out of the bottle, the forceful popping alone telling De’Unnero that it was elvish boggle, a rare and extraordinarily priced drink. Grinning wide enough to show all six of his teeth, the man half filled the silver cup, handing it over.

“For savin’ me the trouble o’ killing the fools meself,” said Micklin, holding his own cup up in toast, and every other cup in the room went up except for one.

Marcalo De’Unnero stood staring at the pale, bubbling boggle, sniffing the delicate bouquet and coming to terms with the fact that he owed these men their moment of celebration. He considered the boggle—boggle!—and reminded himself that his drink alone was worth a small pouch of gol’bears, perhaps a large pouch in regions where boggle was more rare.