DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (53 page)

But he knew better, knew the truth. And Duke Timian Tetrafel of the Wilderlands, a nobleman of the court of King Danube Brock Ursal, a man who had planned to engrave his name in the histories of his people and upon some of the greatest natural monuments in all the world, crumpled into the grass and wept.

Tetrafel met two other soldiers of his band that day, men as frightened as he. There was no talk of returning to try to save any of the others; there was little talk at all.

They just ran on and on, to the east, to lands where the dead did not rise out of peat bogs.

More than three weeks later, the three came back into the somewhat civilized lands of Wester-Honce, and a week after that, riding in the back of a farmer’s sleigh, Duke Tetrafel arrived home in Ursal. The very next day, Duke Kalas returned to the city, vowing never to go back to wretched Palmaris.

A week later, King Danube’s son was born to Constance Pemblebury.

Chapter 24
 

“Y
OU HATE EVERYTHING
,
AND EVERYONE
,” S
OVEREIGN
S
ISTER
T
REISA INSISTED
, coming forward and poking her accusing finger De’Unnero’s way. Outside the abbey, spring had passed its midpoint, and the number of pitiful, plague-ridden, desperate folk had swelled once more, adding to the sovereign sister’s foul mood. She was the one remaining sovereign sister at the abbey, and thus had become the spokeswoman for all fifteen of the sisters still alive at St. Gwendolyn.

The man, the self-appointed abbot of the devastated abbey, glanced around, his smile wry, reminding Treisa that she was not among friends here in his office. Several brothers of St. Gwendolyn, converts to De’Unnero’s definition of the Abellican faith, desperate men seeking answers, lined the room.

Treisa backed off a step and followed the abbot’s gaze about the room, staring incredulously at the faces of men she had once considered her brothers. What a different abbey she had found when she had hastily returned after hearing of the demise of her friend and mentor Abbess Delenia and several others! What a different place was St. Gwendolyn, with Marcalo De’Unnero as abbot! That had been De’Unnero’s first tactic, she understood, separating the remaining brothers from the remaining sisters of St. Gwendolyn. He had installed a patriarchal, male-dominated order here in the one abbey that had been established to see to the religious ambitions of those few women who managed to earn, through bribery of rich fathers or through sheer, undeniable goodness, a place in the Church.

“You claim that the followers of Avelyn brought the plague to us,” she said, quietly but not meekly.

“Plausible,” the abbot replied calmly.

“Unproven,” Sovereign Sister Treisa retorted.

“Plausible,” De’Unnero repeated. “And if we are to believe that the plague is a punishment from God, as we know it must be, then the proof lies before you.”

Treisa stared at him curiously, not catching the link.

“With the murder of Father Abbot Markwart, the Abellican Church has shifted its purpose and its direction,” De’Unnero explained; and it was clear to Treisa that he was preaching to his followers more than explaining to her. “Rumors from the College of Abbots hint that the process to canonize Avelyn Desbris will begin this very year. Canonization? The man murdered Master Siherton of St.-Mere-Abelle—I was there and remember well! The man stole a huge treasure of sacred gemstones and ran across the world as an impostor brother, ignoring law and commands to cease and return. Canonization? Saint Avelyn?”

“Is not the process one of investigation?” Treisa asked, but De’Unnero scoffed at her before she finished.

“It is political,” he argued, “a way to placate the masses who have become very afraid—a way to fabricate a hero, that those who seek personal gain might raise that hero’s name in their own honor.” He paused and eyed Treisa suspiciously. “Such was the canonization of St. Gwendolyn.”

The woman gagged and nearly choked on that proclamation! Many in the Church throughout the last centuries had secretly questioned the ascension of Gwendolyn to sainthood, some claiming that impurities had been overlooked, others arguing that the woman, a healer and then a warrior of the third century, should have been dismissed simply because she had not recognized her place as a member of the fair sex. But rarely, if ever, had anyone within the Church so publicly denounced Gwendolyn or any other saint!

Treisa looked around for support against the blasphemer, but she found her brothers of St. Gwendolyn, men she had served beside piously for years, standing firm with the monster from St.-Mere-Abelle.

“How can you claim to be of the faith and yet doubt?” De’Unnero asked dramatically, storming about the room and waving his arms. “Witness the trials that have befallen the world, the suffering, the death! We are the guardians of the word of God, the guides to holiness. If the world is fallen to ruin, then we of the Abellican Church cannot diminish our part in it. No, we must accept the blame, and use it as guidance to right our straying road.”

“Is that not what the new abbot of St. Precious claims to do?” Treisa dared to remark.

De’Unnero laughed. “Do you not understand, sovereign sister?” he asked. “It was the error of Avelyn that began all this. The theft and the murder.”

Several of the St. Gwendolyn brothers shook their fists and cheered their agreement. This place was becoming dangerous, Treisa realized, and from more than the plague!

De’Unnero went on and on, railing against Avelyn and Jojonah, against Braumin Herde and the traitor Francis, and against anything or anyone not in agreement with his philosophy. He ended, standing right before the incredulous Treisa, his eyes wild; and she shrank back, fearing that he would strike her.

“Go to your room, sister,” he said quietly, “or go wherever your heart leads you. I am the abbot of St. Gwendolyn now. I will give you a short while to adjust to that reality. But I warn you, here and now and in front of all these witnesses, if you cross me, I will demote you. I will push you back within the Order, until you find yourself performing tasks with the first-year sisters. Discipline alone will get us through these dark times, and I’ll not have that compromised by Sovereign Sister Treisa.”

He turned and waved at her to leave.

And she did, after letting her gaze linger about the room to the gathered brothers—to the followers, it seemed, of Marcalo De’Unnero.

A
s De’Unnero expected, Treisa gave him no trouble over the next couple of weeks.
The abbot went about his days in the humid air solidifying his grasp on those eager young brothers seeking answers to a world gone crazy. He continued his tirades against his enemies, including Fio Bou-raiy in the customary mix, and each of his increasingly excited speeches was met with increasingly excited applause.

But De’Unnero knew that it could not go on forever, knew that his position of abbot had not been, and would not likely be, sanctioned. Thus, he wasn’t surprised at all one muggy morning when one of the brothers hustled into his office to announce that Masters Glendenhook and Machuso of St.-Mere-Abelle had arrived, along with a contingent of twenty brothers, several immaculates among them.

“Shall I bring them?” the brother asked.

De’Unnero started to nod, but then changed his mind. “Not here,” he explained. “I will meet them in the courtyard.

“And brother,” he added as the younger monk turned to go, “let the word go throughout the abbey, that all may bear witness to this.”

“Yes, my abbot,” the young monk said, and he ran out of the room.

De’Unnero lingered there for a long while. He wanted to make sure that he gave his followers ample time to get out there to watch this event, as Glendenhook and the others from St.-Mere-Abelle no doubt tried to exert their will over that of the brethren of St. Gwendolyn. Yes, this would be a critical moment for him, De’Unnero knew: the moment when he learned the truth of the courage and loyalty of his followers.

He came out into the courtyard, not in the decorated robes of an abbot, but in his normal, weathered brown robes, hood thrown back. There stood Glendenhook and Machuso, flanked by the other brothers of their abbey, all scowling and trying to appear intimidating.

Marcalo De’Unnero was rarely intimidated. With a nod to his many watching followers, he strode across the courtyard to stand before the two visiting masters.

“If you had better announced your intentions, I could have better prepared the abbey,” De’Unnero remarked casually, almost flippantly.

“Perhaps we would be better served in your private offices,” Master Machuso said softly.

“Why so, Master Machuso?” De’Unnero loudly replied.

“We have come on official business of the Abellican Church,” Master Glendenhook said firmly, “sent by Father Abbot Agronguerre himself.”

“Ah, yes,” De’Unnero replied, walking about, glancing up at his friends and followers lining the courtyard wall. “And how fares the new Father Abbot? I trust that my
in absentia
vote was counted.”

“Recorded and noted,” Master Machuso assured him.

“And still Abbot Agronguerre counted more votes than did Abbot Olin?” De’Unnero asked, again loudly; and his words made Glendenhook glance about suspiciously, for he understood that De’Unnero’s announcing that he had voted for Olin would bolster his popularity among the brethren of St. Gwendolyn, who had many ties to Olin’s Entel abbey.

“Indeed,” Master Glendenhook added dryly. “Agronguerre of St. Belfour was well supported by many different factions within the Church. Thus, he is the rightful father abbot, whose word initiates canon law. Now, good Master De’Unnero, may we retire to a more private setting and conclude our business efficiently?”

“I doubt that your business and my own are the same,” De’Unnero replied.

“My business concerns you,” Glendenhook insisted.

“Then speak it plainly!” De’Unnero demanded angrily.

Glendenhook stared at him long and hard.

“You have come to inform me that I am recalled to St.-Mere-Abelle,” De’Unnero stated, and several of the gathered St. Gwendolyn brothers gasped.

Glendenhook continued to glower.

“And what of my appointment as abbot?” De’Unnero went on. “Sanctioned, or not? Not, I would guess, else how might I be recalled?”

“You were never
appointed
as abbot of St. Gwendolyn!” Master Glendenhook shouted.

“What say you, brethren?” De’Unnero was calling out before the visiting master even finished the declaration.

“Abbot De’Unnero!” one young brother cried; and then others joined in, howling their approval for this man they had accepted as their leader.

Master Machuso came forward and took De’Unnero by the elbow—or at least tried to, for the fiery master yanked away from him.

“Do not do this,” Machuso warned. “We are sent with the strictest of orders and backed by all of the power of St.-Mere-Abelle.”

De’Unnero laughed at him.

“Master De’Unnero is not your abbot!” Master Glendenhook called loudly, addressing all the gathering. “He is needed in St.-Mere-Abelle, in the court of the new, of
your
new, Father Abbot.”

“While we twist,” cried one young brother.

“A new abbot will be appointed presently,” Glendenhook assured the man, amid the murmuring of discontent. “You have not been forgotten, nor is your plight of minor concern.”

“Of no concern at all, then?” De’Unnero was quick to quip.

Glendenhook just looked at him and sighed profoundly.

The crowd about them began jostling then, some brothers coming down from the parapets, others hanging back but shaking their fists. Glendenhook looked back, to see his escorts from St.-Mere-Abelle shifting nervously and glancing all about—until they saw him. He gave a nod and produced a gemstone; and all of his brethren—except for Machuso, who started praying—did likewise.

“You are a bigger fool than even I believed, if you allow this to continue,” Glendenhook said quietly to De’Unnero. “Did you think that Father Abbot Agronguerre would not anticipate this from you?”

“Fio Bou-raiy, you mean,” De’Unnero said coldly; and he was not laughing, not smiling at all. He held up his hand, and those brothers who had begun to approach
stopped in their tracks. The tense pose held for a long while, Glendenhook and De’Unnero staring, staring, neither blinking.

“Do not do this, I beg,” came Machuso’s soothing old voice.

De’Unnero broke into a chuckle, a sinister, superior, and threatening sound. “You have come for St. Gwendolyn,” he said, “and so she is yours. You have come for Marcalo De’Unnero, but he, I fear, is not yours. No, Master Glendenhook. I see the road before me, the path where I might preach the true word of God, rather than the petty and self-serving proclamations issuing forth from St.-Mere-Abelle. My path,” he said loudly, moving out and reaching with his voice for his many followers, “our path,” he corrected, “is not within the shelter of a secluded abbey, oblivious even of the cries of those dying of the rosy plague right outside our doorway. No, our path is the open road, that our words might reach the ears of the needy peasants, that they might find again the course of righteousness!”