DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (38 page)

“Whatever you may think of it, whatever I may think of it, the people of the kingdom, and many of those within the Church, have decided in Braumin Herde’s favor,” Francis remarked.

“And how does Master Francis view the exploits of Avelyn Desbris, and Master Jojonah after him?” De’Unnero asked, a sly edge creeping into his voice. “And how does Master Francis view the supposed miracle at Aida?”

“Your test of me is irrelevant and foolish,” Francis answered.

“Yet I would know the answer,” De’Unnero was quick to reply.

“I have heard two sides of the story of Avelyn Desbris, and there is some truth in both versions, I would guess,” Francis said noncommittally. “As for Master Jojonah, I do not agree that he deserved his fate.”

“You did not speak in his favor,” De’Unnero remarked.

“I was only an immaculate brother then,” Francis reminded, “with no voice in the College of Abbots. But you are right in your accusation nonetheless, and my silence is something I will have to live with for the rest of my years.”

“Have you, too, lost the belly for the fight?” De’Unnero asked.

Francis didn’t justify that nonsense with an answer.

“And what of the miracle, then,” De’Unnero pressed. “Does Francis believe that the ghost of Avelyn returned to slay goblins?”

“Your sarcastic tone reveals that you have not been to Aida,” Francis answered. “I have. I have seen the grave, the mummified arm, and I have felt …” He paused and closed his eyes.

“What, Master Francis?” De’Unnero pressed, his words sounding more like a sneer than a question. “What did you feel at Mount Aida? The presence of angels? God himself come down to bless you as you groveled before a fallen heretic?”

“I went there with complete skepticism,” Francis shot back. “I went there hoping to find Avelyn Desbris alive, that I could drag him back to Father Abbot Markwart heavily chained! But I cannot deny that there was an aura about that grave site, a sense of peace and calm.”

De’Unnero waved his hand dismissively. “Next you will be nominating Brother Avelyn for sainthood,” he scoffed.

“Abbot Braumin will beat me to that, I would guess,” Francis said in all seriousness. De’Unnero nearly spat with disgust.

“Oh, wondrous time!” the fierce monk said with absolute sarcasm. “To live in the age of miracles! What joy I have found!”

Francis paused for a long time, staring at the man, nodding. “I came to you simply to explain what I have observed,” he said at length, “to warn you that the Church as you knew it no longer exists. To bid you to temper your fires, for in this Church such actions as your wounding Brother Tellarese will not be looked upon with favor. This is not Markwart’s time, nor are kingdom and Church under siege by the minions of the demon dactyl. Take heed, or do not. I felt obligated, for all that we went through side by side, to tell you these things, at least, but I’ll take no responsibility for your decisions.”

De’Unnero was about to dismiss him, but Francis didn’t wait, just turned and stormed away.

Despite De’Unnero’s flippant attitude, the words of Master Francis resonated deeply within the troubled man. He could scoff and spit and respond with sarcasm, but the simple truth of Francis’ observations cut deeply.

He went to bed with those thoughts in mind and found little sleep—and certainly nothing restful—for his tossing and turning was filled with dreams of his slashing his way through lines of praying brothers with his tiger’s paws. Terrible dreams, with the blood of young brothers splattering him, covering him, while he yelled at them, telling them that they were wrong, that they were weak, and that their weakness would be the end of the Abellican Church. And when they wouldn’t listen, when they turned away from his ranting to continue their idiotic prayers, De’Unnero slashed them and tore them and felt their hot blood all over his neck and face.

He awakened, covered in sweat, and on the floor, wrapped in his bedsheets, long before the dawn. Immediately he looked at his hands—and nearly fainted with relief to find that they were still hands and not feline paws. Then, his relief
lasting only a split second, De’Unnero started patting himself and rubbing his neck and face, feeling for blood.

“Just a dream,” he told himself, for he felt only sweat. He climbed back into his bed and started straightening the blankets, but before he had settled down, he realized that he would find no further sleep this night.

He went to the abbey’s east wall instead, overlooking All Saints Bay, and there watched the sunrise, the slanting rays turning the dark Mirianic waters a shimmering red.

He had thought that he was coming home when he had left Palmaris and the fools at St. Precious, but now he understood the painful truth. He hadn’t changed—at least, he didn’t believe that he had—but St.-Mere-Abelle surely had. This was not his home any longer, he knew, and he wasn’t even certain if this was truly still his Church or his Order. Marcalo De’Unnero had not been overly fond of Father Abbot Markwart. Certainly he hadn’t been the man’s willing lackey, as had Francis. No, he had argued with Markwart at many turns, and had followed his own course on occasion, to the frustration of the tyrannic Father Abbot. But at least with Markwart, the Church had known stability and a direct code of conduct. In his last days, Markwart had brought purpose to the Church, had aspired to bring the Abellican Order to new and greater heights of power—thus the appointment of a bishop in Palmaris, a move to take power for the Church from the King unknown in Honce-the-Bear in several centuries. Thus Markwart’s decree that only members of the Church could possess the sacred gemstones.

Yes, for all the differences he might have had with Father Abbot Markwart, De’Unnero agreed in principle with the man’s policies. But what might he, and his Church, find now with Markwart gone, with no clear-cut and powerful leader to take his place? Even worse, how strong would the idiot Braumin Herde and his followers become, using the image of Jojonah burning at the stake to bolster their position among the more softhearted brothers, and proclaiming a “miracle” at Mount Aida?

De’Unnero didn’t like the prospects, and honestly, given his inability to deal with Master Bou-raiy, didn’t see any way in which he could turn the tide.

He leaned on the wall, staring at the sparkling red waters of All Saints Bay, and wondered how far his beloved Church would fall.

The approach of footsteps some time later brought him from his contemplations, and he turned, and sighed, to see Francis and Bou-raiy marching his way.

“Brother Tellarese will be some time in healing,” Bou-raiy announced.

“It was but a minor wound,” De’Unnero replied, turning away from him.

“Or would have been, had it not been inflicted by cat’s claws,” said Bou-raiy. “It is full of pus and required Machuso to work on the man with a soul stone for half the night.”

“That is why we have soul stones,” De’Unnero dryly answered, never taking his gaze from the bay. To his surprise, Bou-raiy came up right beside him, leaning on the wall.

“We have heard rumors of trouble in the south,” he said, his voice grim; but still De’Unnero did not look his way. “Rumors of the rosy plague.”

Even the reference to that most dreaded disease didn’t stir De’Unnero. “Someone cries plague every few years,” he replied.

“I have seen signs of it,” Francis interjected.

“Signs that you compare with pictures in an old book?” came De’Unnero’s sarcastic response.

“The other masters and I have decided that we must send someone to investigate these claims,” Bou-raiy explained.

Now De’Unnero did look at the man, his eyes narrow and threatening. “All the other masters?” he asked. “Where, then, was I?”

“We could not find you this morning,” Bou-raiy answered, not backing away from that threatening glare.

De’Unnero turned it upon Francis. “Leave us,” he instructed.

Francis made no move to go.

“Pray, leave us, Brother Francis,” De’Unnero more politely requested, and Francis gave one concerned look to Bou-raiy, then walked off a bit.

“And you have decided that I should be the one to go and investigate,” De’Unnero said quietly.

“Perhaps it would be better if you were to leave the abbey for a while, yes,” Bou-raiy answered.

“I am not bound by your edicts,” said De’Unnero, standing straight and, though he was not a tall man, thoroughly imposing.

“It is a request backed by every master at St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“Francis?” De’Unnero asked, loudly enough so that the man could hear.

“Yes,” Bou-raiy answered.

That brought a chuckle from De’Unnero. He couldn’t believe how quickly Bou-raiy had acted, seizing upon the injury of Brother Tellarese to turn against him. He should have seen it coming, he realized. His climb to power had left many sour faces in its wake.

“I can get the immaculate brothers also to agree with the request,” Bou-raiy said.

“Now I am to take my orders from immaculate brothers?” De’Unnero was quick to answer. “Or from troublesome and jealous masters who fear, perhaps, that I will shake their comfortable world?”

Bou-raiy looked at him curiously.

“Yes, Master Fio Bou-raiy has carved out a comfortable niche for himself in the absence of Markwart and others,” De’Unnero went on. “Master Fio Bou-raiy fears that I will come in and upset his coveted position.”

“We have already had this argument,” Bou-raiy said dryly, obviously seeing where this was heading.

“And we will have it again, and many times, I suspect,” said De’Unnero. “But not now. I was just thinking that perhaps it would be better if I left St.-Mere-Abelle
for a while, and if the masters wish that course to be to the south, then so be it.”

“A wise decision.”

“But I will be back for the College of Abbots, of course, a loud voice indeed,” De’Unnero promised. Then more quietly, so that Francis could not hear, he added, “And I will watch the course of the nominating carefully, I assure you, and if Agronguerre of Belfour is to win, then I will back him as vehemently as Bou-raiy, and I will become indispensable to the man, as I was to Father Abbot Markwart.”

“Abbot Agronguerre is no warrior,” Bou-raiy remarked.

“Every father abbot is a warrior,” De’Unnero corrected, “or will be, as soon as he learns of the undercurrents among those he should most be able to trust. Oh, he will be glad of my assistance, do not doubt, and he is not a young man.”

“Do you really believe that you could ever win the favor of enough in our Order to win a nomination as father abbot?” Bou-raiy said incredulously.

“I believe that I could prevent Bou-raiy from achieving the position,” De’Unnero stated bluntly, and to his delight, his adversary’s lips grew very thin.

“A fight for another day,” De’Unnero went on. He looked past Bou-raiy, drawing Francis’ attention. “You have an itinerary planned for me, no doubt?” he asked.

“Presently,” a startled Francis answered.

“Soon,” said De’Unnero. “I wish to be out of here before midday.”

And he walked away, considering again this Church he had returned to find, this hollow shell, in his estimation, of what Markwart might have achieved. Yes, he would willingly go to the south, but not on any search for the plague. He would go to St. Gwendolyn, perhaps, or all the way to Entel, if time allowed, and seek out allies among the more forceful brethren of the southern abbeys. How would Abbot Olin react upon hearing that the ascension of Agronguerre to father abbot was all but assured?

Olin and De’Unnero got on well together, and he knew that Olin would not likely be pleased with the events occurring in the Church, as the man had been glad that Jojonah was put to the stake. And he knew from the previous College of Abbots that Olin—and Abbess Delenia, as well—were no friends to Bou-raiy.

Yes, De’Unnero mused, on the road he could stir up some trouble; and in his estimation, any chaos he might bring to this present incarnation of the Church—this pitiful Order that tried to find a hero in Avelyn Desbris, a heretic and murderer, and in Jojonah, who had admitted treason against St.-Mere-Abelle—could only facilitate positive changes.

Marcalo De’Unnero had been a political animal for most of his adult life, and he understood the implications of his path. And he knew, if Bou-raiy and Francis and the others did not, that Braumin Herde and his ill-advised friends could well split the Abellican Church apart. De’Unnero would wage that battle earnestly and eagerly, and if he had to burn St.-Mere-Abelle itself down to the ground, then he would do so in the confidence that he would rise atop the ashes.

He made one stop before receiving his itinerary from Francis, a visit to one of the lower libraries, where he slipped one of the few copies of a very special ocean
chart into the folds of his robes.

His steps out of St.-Mere-Abelle were even more eager than the hopeful ones that had led him back to the place a few days before.

F
rom the wall of St.-Mere-Abelle, Master Bou-raiy watched the man go. His own thoughts concerning the Church that morning were not so different from those of this man he considered an enemy. Logically, it seemed to Bou-raiy as if the appointment of Agronguerre—an event that seemed more and more likely to him—should signal the beginning of the healing process. Agronguerre was known for just the kind of gentleness and compassion that would be needed within the wounded Church; and Bou-raiy’s remark to the surprised De’Unnero that the ascension of Agronguerre might be exactly what the Church needed at this time was not made in jest, nor for any subtle political reasons.

It seemed obvious and logical, and Bou-raiy was certain that enough abbots and masters would see it that way to elect the man easily.

But when he looked deeper than the seemingly obvious logic, Fio Bou-raiy couldn’t help thinking that this great living body that was the Abellican Church was now like some giant crouching predator, motionless in the brush, hushed and ready to spring.

And again—his thoughts ironically along the same lines as those of his avowed enemy De’Unnero—Fio Bou-raiy wasn’t sure at all that he wanted to head off that predator’s spring.

Chapter 17