DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (61 page)

“I know the tale, brother,” Francis finished, opening his eyes to stare solemnly at Bou-raiy, “and I know, too, that ‘Mortalis’ was considered a work of great introspection when Calvin presented it to the brothers of St. Honce in the time of plague.”

“The time of contemplation,” Master Bou-raiy corrected.

“It was only when Calvin went out among the people, reciting his dark works, that the Church took exception,” Francis remarked.

“Because some things should not be spoken openly,” said Bou-raiy.

Francis gave another helpless chuckle.

“Brother, you must admit that we are the caretakers of the souls of Corona,” Father Abbot Agronguerre put in.

“While the bodies rot,” Francis said sarcastically.

Master Bou-raiy started to jump in, but the Father Abbot held him back with
an upraised hand. “We do what we can,” Agronguerre admitted. It was obvious to Francis that the man was agonizing over the dark happenings in the world about him. “Calvin of Bri’Onnaire was condemned not for his words but for rousing the common folk against the Church, for preying upon their fears of mortality. That is the challenge before us: to hold the faith of the populace.”

A smile grew upon Master Francis’ face as he considered those words—and the irony behind them. “There is a woman out there among them,” he said, “one-eyed and horribly scarred on her face and neck, with the rings of plague scars all over her arms. They say she tends the sick tirelessly; I have heard that many of the victims have called out for her beatification on their deathbeds.”

“I have heard of the woman, and expect that she will be investigated when the time for such tasks arrives,” Father Abbot Agronguerre replied.

“Even your canonization of Brother Avelyn has been put off.” Bou-raiy had to add.

Francis didn’t even bother to spout the retort that came immediately to his lips: that he would hardly consider himself a supporter of Avelyn Desbris, let alone a sponsor for the wayward brother’s canonization!

“It is also whispered that this peasant woman is no friend of the Abellican Church,” Francis went on. “According to her, we have deserted her and all the other victims of the rosy plague. And there is the other rumor that says it was an Abellican brother who wounded her face outside St. Gwendolyn, a brother with a hand that resembled a cat’s paw. Would you wager a guess about his identity?”

He ended with heavy sarcasm, but it was lost on the other two, neither of whom were overfond of Marcalo De’Unnero. De’Unnero and his Brothers Repentant, by all reports, were laying waste to southern Honce-the-Bear, inciting riots, even murdering some unfortunates who did not fit their particular description of a proper Abellican. Even more disconcerting to all the leaders at St.-Mere-Abelle was that when Father Abbot Agronguerre had sent a messenger by ship to Entel to warn Abbot Olin about the Brothers Repentant and to offer Olin the full backing of the Church if he chose to confront them openly, Agronguerre had received a reply that seemed to condone Brother Truth more than condemn him. The other abbey in Entel, the much smaller St. Rontlemore, had been faithful to the spirit of Agronguerre’s warning, but Olin of Bondabruce had seemed ambivalent at best.

“We cannot end their suffering,” Fio Bou-raiy stated flatly, moving to stand right before Francis, “and all that we might accomplish in trying would be to destroy the last bastions of security against the rosy plague. In this time, God alone will choose who is to live and who is to die. Our duty, brother, is to ensure that those who die do not do so without hope; to ensure that those unfortunate victims understand the truth of what awaits them beyond this life; for in that hope, they can come to accept their mortality.”

“ ‘So tell me not of eternal soul that flees my coil through worm-bit hole,’ ” Francis replied.

“Master Francis,” said Agronguerre, having heard enough. He, too, walked over,
pushing past Bou-raiy. “I warn you in all sincerity and in all generosity, as your father abbot and as your friend, to guard well your words. Master Bou-raiy speaks realistically of our role against the rosy plague. We are the caretakers of souls more than of bodies.”

“And the caretakers of hope, perhaps?” Francis asked.

“Yes.”

“And when do we stop asking the question of what the populace might believe and begin asking the question of what we, honestly, believe?” Francis asked.

The two brothers looked at him curiously.

“I know when, and so do you,” Francis went on. “It will happen to each of us in turn, as we contract the plague, perhaps, or come to sense, whatever the cause, that our personal end is near. Only then will we, each of us, honestly confront that greatest of mysteries. Only then will we hear the words of Calvin of Bri’Onnaire, or like words.”

“You seem to be confronting them right now,” Master Bou-raiy observed.

“Because I look out at them,” said Francis, turning back to the small window, “and I wonder at my place in all this. I wonder at the morality of hiding behind our walls and flower beds. We, the possessors of the sacred stones—of hematite, the soul stone of healing. There lies an incongruity, brother, of which I cannot make sense.”

Father Abbot Agronguerre patted Francis’ shoulder comfortingly, but Fio Bou-raiy’s face screwed up with a jumble of emotions, disgust mostly, and he turned away with a snort.

P
ony, Roger, and Dainsey arrived in Caer Tinella amid a mélange of late-spring scents, with mountain laurel and other flowers blooming bright and thick. A cruel irony, Pony thought, for in Palmaris, in all the cities of Honce-the-Bear to the south, the plague grew thicker by the day, the vibrancy of life dulling under the dark pall, the springtime scents overcome by the smell of rot.

All three had been invited by Abbot Braumin to stay within St. Precious, and Pony most of all had understood the generosity of that gesture. St. Precious was a veritable fortress now, and not even the new baron of Palmaris, an arrogant duke named Tetrafel, had been allowed entrance when he had gone to speak with Abbot Braumin. But Braumin did not forget his friends.

Pony believed that Roger and Dainsey would accept the offer—certainly Dainsey had shown great excitement when Braumin had called it out to them through the newly constructed portcullis backing St. Precious’ main gate. And, in fact, Pony had hoped that her friends would accept: that they, at least, would become insulated, somewhat, against the darkness. For her, it was never a question. Something within her recoiled against the thought; she could not run and hide in the abbey while so many suffered and died.

And yet, there was nothing she could do to help them, she had come to painfully realize over the few months she had spent in Palmaris. First Colleen and
then a succession of others had died in her arms; and so many times Pony knew that she had barely escaped her encounters with the plague with her health intact. After one devastating defeat after another, she wanted only to go back home, to Dundalis.

She felt a combination of pleasant surprise and trepidation when Roger and Dainsey had opted to go north, though only as far as Caer Tinella, rather than retreating into the abbey.

They found that the plague had not come strong into Caer Tinella, though one man had contracted it and had died out in the forest somewhere, for he’d understood his responsibility to the community when the rosy spots appeared and had walked away into the wilderness to die alone.

Colleen’s house was still deserted, and so Roger and Dainsey, with the blessing of Janine of the Lake and the other town leaders, claimed it as their own.

“You are certain you will not come to Dundalis with me?” Pony asked them soon after they had settled into the place, with Pony getting restless for the road home.

“Dainsey has friends here and so do I,” Roger answered, and he wrapped Pony in a great hug. “This was my home, and I feel the need to be home, as do you.”

She pushed him back to arm’s length and looked him over. “But promise that you will return and visit me and Bradwarden,” she said.

Roger smiled. “We’ll both go north,” he answered, “perhaps before the end of the season, and in the fall, surely, if not before!”

They shared another hug and Pony kissed him on the cheek. That very night, under the cover of darkness, she rode out of Caer Tinella on Greystone, with Symphony trotting along beside them.

She made Dundalis in five days, on Greystone, for Symphony had run off into the forest to rejoin his herd. His departure reminded Pony of how extraordinary the stallion’s arrival beside her on the road south had been. What had brought him to her? How could a horse so perfectly understand the needs of a human being?

Perhaps it had something to do with the turquoise gemstone Avelyn had put into the horse’s breast as a gift to both Elbryan and Symphony, she mused, or perhaps there had been something special and extraordinary about Symphony even before that. Whatever the case, Pony knew well that had it not been for the stallion, she and Colleen and likely Greystone, as well, would have died on the road between Caer Tinella and Palmaris in the snowstorm.

Word had reached Dundalis of the rosy plague, Pony discovered as soon as she rode in, for she found herself assaulted by anxious questions from every corner, a group of men rushing out to meet her.

“Yes,” she told them all. “The plague is thick in Palmaris.”

They all backed away from her at that answer, and Pony merely shrugged and rode to Fellowship Way and Belster O’Comely. Other than the growing fear of the plague, Pony found that things had not changed much in Dundalis. She found Belster busily wiping the bar, and how his smile widened when he saw her!

He rushed around the edge of the bar and wrapped her in a great hug and bade her to tell him of all her adventures.

His smile disappeared, of course, when Pony told him of Colleen, but he managed another smile at the thought of Roger and Dainsey together, for Belster loved both of them dearly.

“I thought ye dead, girl,” the innkeeper admitted, “when the season turned and ye did not return.” He shook his head, a tear growing in his eye. “I feared the weather or the plague.”

“Fear the plague,” Pony admitted, “for it grows thicker with each passing day, and none of us, even up here in the Timberlands, is safe from it. And once it has you …” Now it was Pony’s turn to shake her head helplessly. “I could do nothing for Colleen but hold her while she died.”

Belster reached back over the bar and brought out a bottle of his strongest liquor, and poured Pony a large shot. The woman didn’t normally drink anything stronger than wine, but she took the glass and swallowed its contents in one gulp.

It was going to be a long and difficult time.

Pony went out to the grove that night, to be with Elbryan, to wonder if he would be there for her when death called to her. After her encounters with the rosy plague, Pony was feeling quite vulnerable, and she honestly doubted that she’d find her way through this plague alive.

Those grim thoughts held her fast through most of the quiet night, until a familiar song drifted on the evening breeze: the harmony of Bradwarden.

So familiar with the forest about Dundalis, so at home out here on a warm night, Pony found her way toward the centaur easily enough—until the music abruptly stopped.

“Bradwarden?” she called, for she knew she was close to him.

She waited a few moments but received no answer. She reached into her pouch and sifted through the gemstones Braumin had given her, finding a multifaceted, perfectly cut diamond. She called out the centaur’s name again and brought up a tremendous light, filling all the area.

“Ow!” came a yell from the brush to the side. “Well, there’s a good one for me eyes, now ain’t it?” Bradwarden added.

Pony focused on the voice, and finally managed to sort out the silhouette of the centaur’s human torso lurking in the shadows.

Pony smiled and decreased the light, and started to move toward Bradwarden. But so too did the centaur move, one step away for every one Pony took toward him, and she sensed immediately that there was something terribly wrong here.

“What is it?” she asked, and she stopped, turning to get a better angle to see her friend.

“Twenty strides away, that’s the rule,” Bradwarden remarked, “centaur strides and not yer little baby human steps.”

Pony considered the words for just a moment, her face screwed up in confusion, but then she got it. “The plague,” she said evenly.

“Thick in the south, I’m hearin’,” Bradwarden confirmed.

Pony nodded. “Palmaris is in turmoil,” she explained. “So is Ursal, by all reports.”

“Dark days,” the centaur remarked. “Can’t be runnin’ to Aida to blow up this enemy.”

Pony increased the diamond’s light again subtly, trying to get a better view, concerned suddenly that her friend might not be well.

“The plague’s not found me,” Bradwarden explained, catching on.

“I do not know that it can affect a centaur,” Pony said.

“Oh, but it can!” Bradwarden replied. “Nearly wiped away me folk time before last, and so we found the rule: twenty strides and not a step closer.”

“From anyone who has the plague,” Pony finished.

“To anyone at all,” the centaur corrected firmly, “except the horse, o’ course. Horses can’t catch the damned thing and can’t give it to others.”

“But if someone is not afflicted—” Pony started to say.

“How’re ye to know?” the centaur demanded. “Ye can’t know, ye know. Ye might have it, or ye might not. Ye’ll not know for sure until ye sicken or ye don’t.”