Authors: R.A. Salvatore
“Then why has he run off?” asked Braumin.
“I will support your nomination if he does not return with some plausible reason why he should reassume the leadership of the abbey, as Father Abbot Markwart had determined,” Je’howith said resolutely. Brother Braumin, after a moment, nodded his concession.
From Je’howith’s posture, though, Braumin soon came to realize that there would be a price for that support. “What do you want?” the young monk asked bluntly.
“Two things,” Je’howith replied. “First, we will treat the memory of Father Abbot Markwart gently.”
Braumin’s expression was one of sheer incredulity, fast transforming into disgust.
“He was a great man,” Je’howith insisted.
“Who culminated his life’s work with murder,” Braumin retorted quietly, not wanting to draw anyone else into this particular phase of the discussion.
Je’howith shook his head. “You cannot understand,” he replied. “I’ll not argue concerning the final actions of Dalebert Markwart, but you cannot judge the whole of his life on an errant turn—”
“A wrong choice,” Braumin interjected.
Je’howith nodded, apparently conceding the point—but only for now, Braumin understood.
“By either definition, an errant turn in his life’s work,” Je’howith said. “And we would be in grave error to judge all he accomplished based on the failings of his last days.”
It was more than just “his last days,” Braumin knew, and the whole manner in which Je’howith was framing the discussion left a sour taste in the idealistic young monk’s mouth. “A man might lose sainthood over a single indiscretion,” he reminded him.
“I am not asking you to beatify Dalebert Markwart,” Je’howith replied.
“Then what?”
“Let us honor his memory as we have his predecessors’,” Je’howith explained, “as we have for every father abbot, save the few who led the Church far astray.”
“As did Markwart.”
Je’howith shook his head. “He was a man thrust into a difficult situation, a position complicated by war and by the actions of those two men you so dearly cherish. You may argue that he chose wrongly, but his reign as father abbot was not one marked by controversy and terror. Indeed, under the guidance of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart, the Church attained great heights of power. Had there ever been such a cache of gemstones granted in the most recent stone showers?”
“Avelyn’s work,” Braumin dryly put in; but Je’howith hardly seemed to notice, so caught up was he in his mounting tirade.
“Under his leadership, we achieved the position of bishop of Palmaris. Though that did not end well, the mere fact that King Danube allowed such a maneuver speaks volumes for the Father Abbot’s diplomacy and influence.”
Braumin started to shake his head, but merely sighed instead. He did not want to allow any mercy into the discussions of the wretch Markwart; he wanted the Father Abbot condemned throughout history as the downfallen sinner that he had become. But there were practical considerations here. Je’howith might well prove an unconquerable obstacle to any tributes, canonization or otherwise, that Braumin and his companions tried to formalize for Avelyn or Jojonah. Braumin held no love for Je’howith—he considered the man a kindred spirit to Markwart—but he understood that Je’howith stood at a crossroads now, that the man could either become a dangerous enemy or, if Braumin managed to handle him properly, an
inconsequential onlooker.
“And you should consider the emotions of the populace,” Je’howith went on. “They are nervous and hardly certain of whether good or evil triumphed in Chasewind Manor that fateful day.”
“Markwart had fallen long before that battle,” Braumin Herde stated flatly.
Je’howith nodded, his grin wry. “Perhaps, and perhaps the common folk will believe that. But do understand, my young friend, that Markwart was no enemy to the people of Palmaris.”
“De’Unnero …” Braumin Herde started to argue.
“Was not Bishop Francis,” Je’howith replied. “Yes, they hated De’Unnero, and they curse his name still, though I believe the man was misunderstood.”
Braumin Herde nearly choked.
“But they were not so badly disposed toward Francis.”
“Who speaks ill of Markwart,” Braumin put in.
“Not so,” Je’howith replied, “not publicly. No, Brother Braumin, the folk of Palmaris are nervous. They know the outcome of the battle at Chasewind Manor, but they do not know what that means. They hear the edicts of King Danube, proclaiming victory for all the folk, but they take in those words but tentatively, recognizing the truth of the rivalry between the two great men, Danube and Father Abbot Markwart.”
Braumin Herde shook his head as if to dismiss the notion, but Je’howith stared at him hard and paused there, allowing him time to let the words sink in. The old abbot had a significant point here, Braumin had to admit. When Pony had tried to assassinate Markwart the first time—and had, by all appearances, succeeded—there had been open weeping in the streets of Palmaris. Markwart had done well in his last days to win over the folk, had come to the city under flags of honor, with glorious trumpets blaring. He had reconciled, through Francis, with the merchants by compensating them for De’Unnero’s confiscation of their magical gemstones. He had taken on King Danube privately; the peasants knew little of that skirmish. Perhaps old Je’howith was indeed speaking wisely, the young monk had to concede. Perhaps treating Markwart’s memory with a bit of mercy would serve them all well in the coming days.
“What is your second demand?” Braumin asked.
Je’howith paused, a telling hesitation to perceptive Braumin. “There is a vacancy within the Church, obviously,” the old man began solemnly.
Braumin nodded for him to continue. Of course he knew what Je’howith might be hinting at, but he wasn’t about to make this any easier on the old wretch.
“Master Engress is dead,” Je’howith went on, “and while Father Abbot Markwart might have desired to see young Master Francis as his heir, it is obvious that such a thing cannot come to pass now. Never would so young and inexperienced a man be accepted as father abbot. Many do not even truly accept him as a master.”
“He would have been eligible for the title this coming spring,” Braumin replied. “His tenth year.”
“And you?” Je’howith asked, his tone offering to Braumin a trade-off of support. “A year ahead of Francis and not yet even a master. Have you enough years, Brother Braumin, to be elected as an abbot of an abbey as prominent and important as St. Precious?”
Braumin knew that Je’howith’s words of opposition against him and Francis would sound reasonable to any gathering of abbots and masters. If Je’howith was to claim that Markwart, delusional and ill, erred in promoting Francis prematurely, then how might Braumin and Francis, both attempting to discredit Markwart on just those grounds, make the opposite case? Despite that, Braumin remained steadfast and would not follow Je’howith to that which he apparently desired. “No,” he said simply. “You are asking me to support you in a bid for the title of father abbot, but that I cannot do.”
Je’howith’s eyes narrowed and his lips became very thin.
“Even Master Francis will not back you,” Braumin said bluntly. “And as he was deeply connected to the Father Abbot, as were you, his abandonment of your cause will ring loudly in the ears of the other electors.”
Braumin did not blink, matching the angry man’s stare. “It will not be you, Abbot Je’howith,” he said. “Never were you prepared for such a position, and your allegiance to the King in a time such as this—when the lines between Church and Crown have been so blurred, when the people have so turned against your former ally, Markwart—is not a desirable trait.”
For a long while, Je’howith seemed to Braumin to be composing a retort, perhaps even a tirade, but then there came a call that King Danube was in the building, and the news seemed to calm the old abbot dramatically. Braumin understood the change, for Je’howith had been put under great pressure by King Danube to put the Abellican house in order, a demand the King would not debate.
“Who then?” Je’howith asked sharply. “The woman?”
Braumin shrugged and wound up shaking his head. “If Jilseponie would accept the nomination …”
Je’howith began resolutely shaking his head.
“As your Father Abbot desired, by the interpretation of Master Francis,” Braumin pointedly added. “Then I, and Francis and many others, would back her with all our hearts.”
“I am not so sure that Brother Francis’ heart remains strong on this issue,” Je’howith said slyly.
“We could rally enough support without him,” Braumin insisted; though in truth, he didn’t believe his declaration. He knew that Francis was indeed leaning against Pony’s nomination now, and that without Francis—or even with him—selling the idea of a mother abbess at all, let alone someone not even formally affiliated with the Church, would be no easy task!
“And you would tear the Abellican Church apart,” Je’howith insisted.
“And better our Church of Avelyn might be for that!” Braumin snapped back. “But no, fear not, for Jilseponie has declined the offer. She will not be the next
leader of the Abellican Church.”
“Who then?” Je’howith asked. “Does young Braumin reach so high?”
Indeed, Braumin had been considering that very thing, though while his closest friends, Castinagis and Viscenti, had thought it a wonderful notion, even Brother Francis had hesitated. Francis had been very blunt with Braumin, telling him that he was too young and far too inexperienced to be accepted by the other leaders, and far too naive to handle the realities of the politics that would accompany such a position.
If Je’howith had given him any hint of softening, though, Braumin might have continued to consider the try.
“You are not nearly ready,” Je’howith said, and Braumin recognized that the man was speaking sincerely. “Perhaps if you backed me and I was elected, I would consider taking you as my protégé.”
“No,” Braumin returned without hesitation. “It will not be you, Abbot Je’howith.”
Je’howith started to say something, but paused and sighed. “There is Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce in Entel.”
Braumin bristled visibly, shaking his head.
“He will be a strong candidate,” Je’howith replied.
“His ways are more attuned to those of Behren than those of Honce-the-Bear,” Braumin pointed out; and it was true enough, and everyone in the Church knew it. Entel was Honce-the-Bear’s southernmost major city, on the coast in the northern foothills of the Belt-and-Buckle, a mountain range that separated the kingdom from Behren. Entel’s sister city was, in fact, Jacintha, Behren’s seat of power, located on the coast in the southern foothills of that same range, a short boat ride from Entel.
“Even so, if we, who have witnessed the drama of the last weeks, do not present a unified front, Abbot Olin will likely win the day,” Je’howith replied.
“But you—as I—do not think him a wise choice.”
Je’howith shrugged.
“There are many masters of St.-Mere-Abelle qualified in experience and in temperament,” Braumin suggested. He saw that Je’howith was obviously not enamored of the idea. “Fio Bou-raiy and Machuso.”
“Bou-raiy is not ready, and is too angry; and Machuso spends his days, every day, with peasants,” Je’howith said. “Better another—Agronguerre of St. Belfour, perhaps.”
Braumin had no answer; he hardly knew the abbot of that northernmost Honce-the-Bear abbey, St. Belfour in the wilds of the kingdom’s Vanguard region.
“Yes, Abbot Agronguerre would be a fine choice,” Je’howith said.
Braumin started to ask why, but he stopped short, recalling an image from the previous year’s College of Abbots, the only time he had ever seen Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour. The man had been sitting right beside Je’howith, chatting easily, as if the two were old friends.
Only then did Brother Braumin appreciate that Je’howith had led him to this point purposefully. Je’howith hadn’t held serious thoughts of becoming the next father abbot. Of course not, for his ties to the King were too great and many of the other abbots, involved in continual power struggles with regional dukes or barons, would outright oppose his ascent.
“There are other masters at St.-Mere-Abelle—” Braumin started.
“Who will not even attempt to gain the post if Brother Braumin and his friends, the very monks who witnessed the demise of Markwart, were to throw in their votes for an abbot of a different abbey,” Je’howith interrupted.
Brother Braumin chuckled at the absurdity of it all and admitted to himself that Francis had been correct in assessing that he, Braumin, was not yet ready for the politics of the position of father abbot.
“Go and ask Master Francis, if you wish,” Je’howith offered, “or any of your other friends who might know of Abbot Agronguerre. His reputation for fairness and gentility is without reproach. True, he is not a forceful man, not a firebrand, as was the younger Markwart, but perhaps the Church is in more need of stability now, of healing.”
Braumin nodded as Je’howith played it out, as he came to understand the man’s interest in Agronguerre. For Agronguerre would undoubtedly support Je’howith, would protect the abbot of St. Honce’s interests in the coming years. Agronguerre was abbot of St. Belfour, after all, in wild Vanguard, which was ruled by Prince Midalis, Danube Brock Ursal’s younger brother; and Braumin knew enough of that situation to recall that it was a tight bond in the northland, a friendly camaraderie between Church and Crown.
“He is a good man of sterling reputation,” Je’howith insisted, “and he is not a young man, not much younger than myself. Understand that I am asking you for our mutual benefit. Even without your backing, or that of Brother Francis, I could throw the College into turmoil by announcing my intent to try for the office. Perhaps I would not command the votes to win, but surely I could persuade many away from you—or whomever it is that you choose to back—enough so that either Abbot Olin or the Abbot Agronguerre would gain the position in any case.”
“Then why do you speak to me of it?” Braumin asked.
“Because I fear that Olin will take the post, and will try to strengthen the ties between the Abellican Church and the pagan yatol priests of Behren,” Je’howith replied.