DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (48 page)

“More renegade, perhaps,” the abbot answered with a laugh, but his visage quickly sobered. “It pains me to leave Vanguard.”

Prince Midalis, whose own heart was equally tied to this wild and beautiful land, understood. “You are called to serve, and there could be no better choice.”

“We do not know the outcome,” Agronguerre reminded him.

“But we do,” the Prince insisted. “Your Church is not so foolish a body as to ignore the obvious. You will become the next father abbot in a month’s time, and the world will be a brighter place because of it, though Vanguard will suffer without your wisdom.”

“Somehow, I think that Vanguard will survive,” the abbot remarked dryly. It was his turn to give a congratulatory pat on Midalis’ shoulder.

It was true enough. Bruinhelde and the ranger had gone back to Alpinador, and the barbarian leader, though walking with an even more pronounced limp now, had left as a friend of Midalis, their bond forged in battle and in blood-brothering. It seemed obvious to all that the potential for true peace in Vanguard had never been greater. The way was open now for friendships among the people of the two countries, permission granted by respective leaders. A Vanguardsman who saw an Alpinadoran walking the southern roads could invite the man in for a meal and a bed without fear now, and an Alpinadoran who completed a successful hunt could now go south to find trade with the Vanguardsmen. Midalis and Bruinhelde had done all that up on that mountain, in the cave of the spirit shaggoth. They had become as brothers, bonded forever, and by extension, had bonded their kingdoms
together.

Of course, the Prince continued to wonder with more than a little trepidation how his brother would receive these tidings, but it was a fear he easily suppressed. Vanguard was his responsibility—Danube had made that point all too clear by sending no help in their struggles against the demon’s minions—and thus, it was his province to forge such necessary bonds. He still didn’t understand the barbarians and their fierce culture, and didn’t pretend that he did. But he did know, beyond doubt, that his beloved Vanguard was more secure, and that his people would live better lives because of the alliance.

“The world has changed much,” Agronguerre remarked.

“For the better,” Midalis replied.

“Perhaps,” said the man who would be father abbot. “The passage of time will show us the truth. I wonder, though, need it take a war to bring about such change? Are we men creatures of habit, locked into routines and rituals that have long since lost their purpose, that have long since degenerated into worthlessness?”

“That is a proper question for any father abbot to ask,” said Midalis. “That is the question of a visionary, of one not complacent with that which is but who seeks that which can be.”

“I remember well when Father Abbot Markwart burned Master Jojonah at the stake,” Abbot Agronguerre explained. “The man’s one crime was to disagree with that which was, to seek that which he thought could be.”

“You said that he allowed criminals into St.-Mere-Abelle.”

Agronguerre shrugged. “Criminals?” he asked skeptically. “The woman Jilseponie, who has since been declared a hero, who came with Nightbird to rescue the centaur, Bradwarden, one of those who battled and destroyed the demon dactyl.”

“Father Abbot Markwart could not have known that at the time of Master Jojonah’s demise,” Midalis reasoned.

“Could not, or would not?” Abbot Agronguerre replied, and he gave a resigned sigh. “I am not a visionary, I fear; and if they believed that I was, I would not now be considered for the position of father abbot.”

“Then you will show them the truth,” Midalis replied, but Agronguerre gave him a skeptical look, an expression that showed Midalis that the old monk wasn’t certain of what that truth might be.

“You will follow your heart always,” the Prince insisted. “You will do that which is best, not for you, but for your Church and for the world. That is my definition of a man of God, and the very best quality that anyone could ask in a father abbot.”

To those claims, Agronguerre had no response, nor any doubts. He smiled warmly at his friend—this young, but so wise, Prince—and gave the man a hug, then turned for the docks and walked the first steps of the most important journey of all his life.

Chapter 21
 

T
HE MOOD WAS SOMBER THAT
C
ALEMBER AT
S
T
.-M
ERE
-A
BELLE
,
WHERE ALL THE
abbots and masters and many of the immaculate brothers had gathered for their second College of Abbots in recent years. That first College, wherein Markwart had declared Avelyn a heretic and had burned Avelyn’s primary follower, Master Jojonah, at the stake, had been marked by excitement and action, with rousing speeches and grand rhetoric. But this one, though the times seemed more peaceful and the future in many ways more promising, was a quiet yet foreboding event. Two noteworthy absences—that of Abbess Delenia of St. Gwendolyn and that of Master Marcalo De’Unnero—had set the grim tone, especially when De’Unnero’s messenger, a peasant, had arrived with the news of the tragedy at St. Gwendolyn.

Abbot Braumin and Master Viscenti spent their first hours at the great abbey enjoying a reunion with Brother Dellman, and it didn’t take Dellman long to convince them that Abbot Agronguerre was indeed the best choice for the position of father abbot. Dellman spoke mostly of Agronguerre’s easy temperament and of the man’s handling of Bruinhelde and the other Alpinadorans.

“I have spent several months with the abbot,” Dellman finished, “and I am certain that he was no lackey of Markwart. No, when Abbot Je’howith told you that Agronguerre was not pleased with the handling of Master Jojonah, he was speaking truthfully.”

Abbot Braumin looked at Viscenti, who was nodding enthusiastically. “Abbot Agronguerre, then,” he remarked, “and may God grant him the wisdom to lead us through these difficult days.” Abbot Braumin patted Dellman’s shoulder, thanking him for a job well done, and then rose to leave—to confer with Master Francis and then with old Je’howith, who had only arrived an hour earlier, obviously exhausted.

“There is yet another matter we must discuss,” Brother Dellman remarked, his tone grave.

Abbot Braumin turned, studied the man for a moment, then took his seat.

Brother Dellman began this part of his report dramatically, throwing a bright red beret, a powrie’s infamous bloody cap, on the table before his two companions. “It concerns Duke Kalas,” he began.

A
s expected, Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour was quickly nominated and elected father abbot. Abbot Braumin and his followers backed him enthusiastically, as did old Je’howith and Master Francis, along with Bou-raiy and Glendenhook and several others from St.-Mere-Abelle.

Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce of Entel was not pleased, but as Abbess Delenia
was dead, he could rally no real support for his own cause. Delenia’s self-appointed successor, De’Unnero, surprisingly backed Olin in absentia, but that only seemed to hurt the man’s chances even more.

So on a cold morning in God’s Year 827, on the very first vote of the College, Abbot Fuesa Agronguerre of Vanguard became Father Abbot Agronguerre of the Abellican Church, the second most powerful man in all Honce-the-Bear.

He ascended the podium to offer his acceptance speech to moderate applause. Even his most fervent backers had voted for him only because they believed him to be a peacemaker, a fence-mender, someone who could appease both that group rooted in the traditions of the Church as expressed by Father Abbot Markwart and those followers of Avelyn Desbris, determined to reform what they saw as tragic flaws in the Church.

“As you know, I have spent almost all my long life in Vanguard,” Agronguerre said, measuring his words carefully, after he had completed the formal regards to his hosts and a recitation of the virtues of Abbot Olin, his only competition for the position, that went on for nearly five minutes. “Many of you might wonder, then, if that experience—or lack of experience—might prove a detriment to me as I seek to lead the Church that is mostly based outside that isolated region. Put those fears in a hole deep and dark, I pray. Vanguard is not so different a place from St.-Mere-Abelle, and living among the small numbers of people up there has provided me an understanding of the world at large.

“I have served the Prince of Honce-the-Bear for many years now,” Agronguerre went on, “as fine a man as I have ever known. With his guidance, the folk of Vanguard have forged an alliance, a bond of necessity, with the barbarians of Alpinador.” That news brought more than a few surprised expressions and more than a few gasps and groans. The Abellican Church had a long and disastrous history with the Alpinadoran barbarians. Many times, the Church had sent missionaries, had even established minor chapels inside Alpinador; and every one of those excursions had ended disastrously, with missionary monks never heard from again.

“Our ways, our beliefs, our entire lives are very different from those of our northern neighbors,” Agronguerre went on, “and yet we found strength in unity against the minions of Bestesbulzibar, curse his very name; and from that necessary moment of peace, we found more to agree upon than ever we would have believed possible. And so I see our current situation within our own Order. We are faced now with the task of understanding the tragedy of Father Abbot Markwart, his reign and his demise, and with understanding the truth of Mount Aida, and of Avelyn Desbris. How widely opinions differ on this point and on this lost brother, Avelyn! Some would proclaim him saint; others, heretic. But there is a truth out there, my brethren, one that we, as a united Church, must discover and embrace, wherever it leads us.”

He went on for many minutes, recalling his own anger at the fate of Jojonah, speaking of Abbot Braumin and the others who claimed to have witnessed the miracle at the blasted mountain. He spoke of the relationship of Church and
Crown, of the encroachment made on both independent forces in the battle-torn city of Palmaris, and the continuing struggle that Abbot Braumin now faced with Duke Kalas.

And then Agronguerre, after a pause and a most profound sigh, came around to the most pressing issue of all. He asked for a moment of silent prayer for Abbess Delenia, who had been a friend to so many of those in attendance and who had served the Church with honor and distinction for more than three decades.

“It appears that our hour of darkness has not yet passed,” he said quietly. “Upon its discovery by Master Francis, the other masters wisely dispatched one of their own to the south to investigate rumors of the return of the rosy plague. Well, my brethren, those rumors seem well-founded. Master De’Unnero has reported the disaster at St. Gwendolyn, where the plague has devastated the ranks of our brethren, where pitiful refugees have crowded the fields around the abbey, begging for relief that we have no power to give. Let us pray, each of us, that the plague is restricted to that region, that it will not encompass the world as it did in centuries past, and that its presence in our time will be short indeed.”

He finished with a recitation of the entire litany of prayers, where all the gathered brothers joined in, and then opened the floor for comments.

And how they came pouring in, opinions from every quarter concerning how the Church should deal with the rosy plague. Some called for the complete isolation of the Mantis Arm—though Francis was quick to remind them that Davon Dinnishire lay between St.-Mere-Abelle and Palmaris, far from there. Others called for the immediate isolation of every abbey, barring the doors, holding masses outside with presiding monks standing atop gate towers and the like.

On and on it went, with no practical answers, only suggestions wrought of abject terror. Father Abbot Agronguerre listened to them all attentively, hopefully, but all that he came away with was the understanding that this budding crisis was far beyond them, was something that only God could alleviate. The last call of that day, from the Father Abbot at the podium, was for all of them, for every brother in the Abellican Church and the few remaining sisters, to pray for guidance and for relief.

It seemed a meager weapon to the gathering of a Church that had just battled the armies of Bestesbulzibar, to monks who had used mighty gemstone magic to fell giants and powries by the score.

But it was all they had.

“I
was no better a guest than you were a host, Father Abbot,” a blushing Brother Dellman responded after Agronguerre spoke highly of him to Abbot Braumin that evening after vespers.

“You were more than a guest,” the new Father Abbot replied. “In your short time in Vanguard, you became as family to us of St. Belfour.”

Dellman searched for a reply, but merely bowed his head.

“Which is why I have asked you to join me at this time,” Agronguerre went on
to Dellman and particularly to Abbot Braumin.

“Brother Dellman’s integrity and graciousness come as no surprise to me, Father Abbot,” Braumin Herde replied, but there was an edge to his voice, telling Agronguerre that he understood where this was leading.