DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (67 page)

“A situation more likely if we come out of those holes,” said Abbot Braumin, “or allow others in.”

“Are you not hearing me?” the Duke cried. “The rosy plague has entered my house.”

Abbot Braumin stared long and hard at the man, trying to be sympathetic but also holding fast to his pragmatism. “You should not have come here,” he said. “And you, Brother Talumus, should not have let him in.”

“He had an army with him,” Talumus protested. “They said that—”

“That we would tear down your doors,” Tetrafel finished for him. “And so we would have done just that. Thrown St. Precious open wide for the masses to come in.” He walked over to the room’s one window and tore the curtain aside. “Can you not see them down there, Abbot Braumin?” he asked. “Can you not hear their misery?”

“Every groan,” replied Braumin, in all seriousness and with not a hint of sarcasm in his words.

“They are afraid,” said Tetrafel, calming a bit. “Those who are not afflicted fear that they soon will be, and those who are … they have nothing to lose.”

Braumin nodded.

“There are fights all around the city,” the Duke went on. “Those few ships that do come in cannot find anyone to help unload their cargoes. The farmers who come in with crops find themselves assaulted almost as soon as they pass through the city gates, the mobs of miserable, helpless victims fighting for food they can no longer afford to buy.”

Abbot Braumin listened carefully, understanding then the fears that had brought Tetrafel so forcefully, and so unexpectedly, to St. Precious. The plague continued to intensify in Palmaris, ravaging the city; and Tetrafel was afraid, and rightly so, that the city could explode into rioting and mayhem. Braumin had heard rumors that the city guardsmen were not overfond of their new ruler, and no doubt Tetrafel was having trouble controlling them. Thus Duke Tetrafel, coming into St. Precious with such fire and self-righteousness, was in fact guided by simple desperation. The city had to be put in line or suffer even worse, and Tetrafel was afraid that he could not rely on the soldiers to carry out his orders.

“All that you say is already known to me,” Braumin said, after Tetrafel finished his long rant.

“Well, what then do you intend to do about it?” the Duke asked.

Braumin put on a puzzled expression. “I?” he asked.

“Are you not the abbot of St. Precious?”

“Indeed, and as such, I am not the magistrate in control of Palmaris’ streets,” Braumin replied. “That is your jurisdiction, Duke Tetrafel, and so I suggest that you put your soldiers to work quickly. As for me and my brethren, we will continue our course, offering masses from the walls.”

“And hiding behind the walls,” Tetrafel muttered sarcastically.

Braumin let the remark pass. “We are the guardians of the spirit, not of the body,” the abbot went on. “We have no power over the rosy plague; and the best that we can do is lend comfort—from a safe distance, yes—to those afflicted. To ease their passage from this life.”

Tetrafel stuttered over several intended replies, and wound up throwing his hands up in disgust. “The healers of the world!” he cried, storming out of the room.

Abbot Braumin motioned for Talumus to close the door behind the departing Duke. “I am sorry, abbot,” Talumus explained. “I would not have allowed him admittance, but I feared that his soldiers would take down the gates.”

Braumin was nodding and patting the air comfortingly. “Find Viscenti and Castinagis,” he instructed. “Work with them to triple the watches at the front gates. If Duke Tetrafel returns, deny him admittance.”

“And his soldiers?”

“Keep them out,” Abbot Braumin said grimly, “by whatever means necessary. By lightning stroke and fireball, by crossbow quarrel and hot oil. Keep them out. St. Precious is not to be violated again, at any cost.”

Talumus stood as if struck for a long while, staring wide-eyed at Braumin—and Braumin knew that it was as much his tone as his words that had so caught the young man off guard. But this was not the time for squeamishness, Braumin knew, not the time for weakening convictions. Their duty in a time of the rosy plague was simply to survive, to hold the secrets and teaching of their faith secure for the world when the darkness at last lifted.

Still, he saw them now, with the curtain torn away from his window: the miserable
wretches huddled and shivering, though the day was warm.

For kindhearted Abbot Braumin Herde, the sight nearly broke him.

T
he young monk came out of St.-Mere-Abelle solemnly, the walk of the dead. He carried a large pack, stuffed with food and other supplies, but the parting gift of the Abellican brothers to this poor, frightened, plague-infested young man hardly seemed to suffice.

As he had been ordered, he crossed the tussie-mussie bed; and as soon as he did, the other plague victims knew that he, too, had become one of them. They came to him and crowded about, as much to see what he had in his pack as to offer their sympathy.

That craven desperation only made the poor young monk even more upset, and he pushed people away and cried out.

And then one peasant woman with half her face torn away approached him, and her smile was too genuine and too comforting for the monk to mistrust her. She took his hand in her own, patted it and kissed it gently, then led him through the gathering.

He saw a fellow brother then, though he hardly recognized Master Francis, with his beard and long, dirty hair. Francis recognized him, however, and he patted the young brother on the shoulder. “I will come to you this very night,” he promised, and he showed the young brother a soul stone. “Perhaps together we can banish the plague from your body.”

Glad that his frightened brother was calmed somewhat by the pledge, Francis patted him again on the shoulder and nodded to Merry Cowsenfed, who led the monk away.

Francis had other matters to attend at that time, but when he glanced back toward the abbey, he saw a vision he could not resist, a one-armed monk dressed in a robe of flowers, standing just inside the alcove before St.-Mere-Abelle’s great gates, on the safe side of the tussie-mussie bed.

“Begone, beggar,” Fio Bou-raiy said when Francis came over to face him across the flower bed.

“How far the mighty have fallen, then,” Francis replied, and a flicker of recognition crossed Master Bou-raiy’s face at the sound of that familiar voice. Bou-raiy moved closer to the tussie-mussie bed and peered intently at the hunched figure across the way, wearing still the robes of an Abellican monk, though they, too, like Francis, had weathered the winter and spring badly.

“Still alive?” Bou-raiy asked with a snicker.

“That, or I am the specter of death come to warn you of the consequences of your cowardice,” Francis replied sarcastically.

“I would have thought that the plague had taken you by now,” Bou-raiy went on, seemingly unperturbed by Francis’ unyielding sarcasm. “Any little rings about your body, Master Francis?”

“None,” Francis answered defiantly. “But if the plague does find me, then I
know it to be God’s will.”

“A fool’s consequence, more likely,” Bou-raiy interrupted.

Francis paused, then nodded, conceding the point. “I have saved one already,” he replied. “My life for the reward of another’s life.”

“The life of an Abellican master for the life of a lowly peasant,” Bou-raiy retorted, obviously unimpressed.

“Perhaps I will save even more,” Francis went on, and he held up the soul stone.

“You are ahead of the odds already,” Bou-raiy replied. “One in twenty, brother, and one in seven will poison you.”

“I have treated scores,” Francis stated.

“And saved only one?”

“Too many are far too advanced in the plague when they arrive,” Francis tried to explain, though he wondered why he even bothered trying to reach this stubborn brother.

“And what of Brother Gellis?” Master Bou-raiy asked, motioning in the direction where the newest addition to the plague camp had gone. “First signs. Can Francis the hero save him?”

Francis shrugged calmly.

“And what of the other three monks who have left St.-Mere-Abelle?” Bou-raiy asked slyly, for he knew well enough their fate.

Francis had no answer. Indeed, three other plague-afflicted brothers had come out of the barricaded abbey, and all three had died within two weeks. Francis had tried to save them, had worked with them, joining their spirits within the magic of the hematite, but to no avail.

“It would seem that you have survived longer than the old poems predict,” Master Bou-raiy conceded, “but also have you failed to heal as many as the old poems predict. Perhaps you are not going at this task with all your heart, brother.”

Francis just glared at him.

“Father Abbot Agronguerre would allow you to return to us,” Bou-raiy then said, taking Francis by complete surprise. “Of course, you would have to spend a week within the gatehouse, secluded, and that even after several brothers had probed your spirit with soul stones. But if you remain plague free, then you will be back in the fold, brother, back to your position of master, and none will judge your indiscretions.”

Now Francis stared at the man incredulously, wondering why Bou-raiy would even relay such an invitation. Surely Bou-raiy would be happier if Francis dropped dead of the plague there and then!

But when he thought more carefully about it all, Francis understood the master’s seeming enthusiasm about his possible return, and suspected that Bou-raiy might even have suggested the invitation to Father Abbot Agronguerre. Because if Francis gave up his mission and walked back into St.-Mere-Abelle, he would be bolstering the Church canon concerning the plague, would be admitting that this enemy was far beyond the power of the monks and their gemstones even to
be faced.

Hadn’t the former Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart used those same tactics against his enemies? Against Jojonah and his followers? Hadn’t Markwart, in fact, offered that same sweet honey—forgiveness, even redemption, back in the Abellican fold—to hold Francis to his side after Francis had inadvertently killed Grady Chilichunk on the road from Palmaris?

“Do you see that woman?” Francis asked, pointing across the field to a woman walking with a limp and a stooped back and carrying two pails for water. “Her name is Merry Cowsenfed,” Francis explained. “She came from Falidean town, far to the south, by way of St. Gwendolyn. She, too, is scarred with the rings of the rosy plague, but Abbess Delenia went to her and healed her.”

“And Abbess Delenia is now dead,” Bou-raiy reminded him. “And St. Gwendolyn is a mere shell, being run by but a handful of minor sisters.”

“But they tried,” Francis explained emphatically. “And because Abbess Delenia had the heart to try, Merry Cowsenfed is alive. Now, you will argue that her life is not worth that of a single Abellican, let alone an abbess, but look at her! Watch her every move! The woman, this peasant that you would so easily disclaim and allow to die, is beatified by her every action. A hundred years hence, there may well be a new saint, Saint Merry, who would have died unnoticed had not Abbess Delenia tried. You cannot place value upon people because of their temporary station in life, brother. That is your error, the arrogance that allows you to justify your decision to hide behind thick stone walls.”

Master Fio Bou-raiy stared long and hard at Merry Cowsenfed as she made her slow, deliberate way across the field. Then he turned back to Francis; and for a moment, just a split second, Francis thought that he had gotten through to the stubborn man. But then Bou-raiy snorted and waved his hand, and whirled about, his flower-sewn robes flying wide.

Francis just put his head down and walked back out to his people. As he had promised, he went to the newest addition to the plague camp, the exiled young Brother Gellis, that very night, and together, they fiercely battled the rosy plague within the monk.

For only the second time in the few months Francis had been outside, he believed that he was making strong progress against the disease, but then, one morning, Gellis awoke with a scream, his body racked by fever.

He died that same afternoon.

Francis walked with the bearers as they carried his emaciated body to the pyre for burning. He noted that his fellow monks were watching that procession from St.-Mere-Abelle’s wall, prominent among them Fio Bou-raiy, with his flowered robe and his grim expression.

He and Francis locked stares from across the distance for just a moment, but it was not a harmonious joining of mind and spirit.

Chapter 32
 

I
T FELT SO GOOD TO HAVE THE WIND ON HER FACE AGAIN—NOT THE LIMITED
breeze that whistled through Castle Ursal’s windows, but the wide and strong wind, blowing across the fields, bending trees and grass, carrying the scents of the summertime flowers.

Constance Pemblebury urged her horse on even faster, a full gallop, despite the cries of protest from Danube and Kalas behind her. She needed this moment, this brief, too brief escape from the grim realities of the rosy plague. King Danube had arranged it, had cleared a wide path to the gardens, lining them with vigilant Allheart knights so that he and his two friends could at last enjoy a morning outside the castle, out of sight and sound of any of the miserable plague victims. Danube had hoped that Merwick and Torrence would accompany them as well—he had even rigged a seat to put behind Constance’s saddle for Torrence—but Constance, though more than ready to take this chance for herself, would in no way allow her children out of the relative safety of the castle.