Authors: R.A. Salvatore
And Olin would not look so kindly on Je’howith and his close ties to the King of Honce-the-Bear, Braumin thought.
“So allow the memory of Father Abbot Markwart its peace,” Je’howith said, “as it should have, given the man’s decades of honorable service to the Church.”
Braumin’s lack of retort was all the confirmation Je’howith seemed to need.
“And support me as I support Agronguerre,” the old abbot went on. “And when he dies, if you have proven yourself in the position of abbot of St. Precious—an appointment I will support—and if I am still alive, then I give you my word now
that I will back your own ascent to that highest level, Brother Braumin.”
“I will learn what I can of Abbot Agronguerre,” Brother Braumin agreed, “and if he is all you say, then I agree to your choice.” He nodded and bowed slightly, then turned to go and join his friends.
“One thing you should know as well, Brother Braumin,” Je’howith remarked, turning the younger monk back around. “At last year’s College of Abbots, Abbot Agronguerre did not agree with Father Abbot Markwart’s damning decree against Master Jojonah. He even expressed his concerns to me that we might be too quick to condemn Brother Avelyn, given that we did not know the extent of the man’s actions in league with, or against, the demon dactyl.”
Braumin nodded again and began to consider that the meeting with Je’howith had gone much better than he could have ever hoped possible.
P
ony saw the final exchange between Braumin and Je’howith, the latter surely no friend of hers! She had heard nothing of their discourse, though, and so she watched Brother Braumin closely as he turned and started away, noting the apparently satisfied spring in his stride, a gait that only increased when he spotted Pony and headed straight for her.
“Jousting with the enemy?” she asked.
“Trying to smooth the trail,” Braumin replied. “For surely it is filled with deep ruts since Jilseponie will not heed our call.”
Pony laughed at the man’s unrelenting pressure. They simply could not hold any conversation without Brother Braumin pushing at her to ally formally and openly with the Church, with the new Abellican Church that he and his companions had determined to bring into being. “If you believe that the road would become smoother and easier if I accepted your invitation to bid to become mother abbess, then you are a fool, Brother Braumin,” she replied.
“You have the deathbed blessing of a father abbot.”
“A fallen father abbot,” Pony reminded, “a man I brought to that deathbed.”
“One who found a moment of clarity and repentance in his last moments of life,” Braumin came back. “And that moment will be honored within a Church that espouses penitence.”
Pony chuckled again at the brother’s unrelenting idealism. Could he not see the fallacy of his own prediction, that the College of Abbots would become so enmeshed in attempts at personal gain that Markwart’s last statement, and Francis’ interpretation of it, would be viewed with skepticism or even dismissed outright?
But they had already been through this argument a dozen times at least, and Pony had no heart for it again. Nor the time, for a moment later, Duke Bretherford entered the room and announced the arrival of King Danube Brock Ursal.
Danube swept into the room, Constance and Kalas flanking him and a line of Allheart knights in shining armor behind them.
“My time is limited, for the tides will soon be favorable,” he said, motioning at the large oval table set for the gathering. As one, the monks and the nobles—and
Pony, who still wasn’t sure exactly how she fit in or where she was supposed to sit—headed for their seats, then waited patiently and deferentially as King Danube took his own.
“Grace us with the blessing,” the King bade Abbot Je’howith, a slight against Braumin, Talumus, and particularly Francis that was not lost on Pony.
Je’howith gladly complied, calling for God’s blessings in these troubled times, for His guidance that His Church might put itself into proper order to erase the errors of the past year.
Pony listened carefully and marveled at how well the old man avoided specific judgments in his prayer, at how he gave no indication of who it was he thought had made those vague mistakes. Yes, Je’howith was a crafty one, she reminded herself. She—and, to her thinking, Braumin and the others would do well to follow her lead—didn’t trust him in the least.
“What are your plans?” King Danube asked immediately after the prayer was ended. He looked to Braumin as he spoke, but his bluntness had obviously caught the monk by surprise, and Braumin quickly turned to Francis for support.
“We will convene a College of Abbots as soon as it can be arranged, obviously,” Abbot Je’howith interjected, “perhaps in St. Precious rather than St.-Mere-Abelle. Yes, that might prove wise in these troubled times.”
The other monks around the table didn’t seem to agree at all. “The College is always held at St.-Mere-Abelle,” Brother Viscenti pointed out rather sharply.
“But, perhaps—” Je’howith started.
“We have not discussed the location,” Brother Braumin put in, “and now is not the time to announce any such change as you propose.”
Brother Viscenti started to respond again, as did Brother Francis, while Brother Talumus and some of his St. Precious entourage began talking excitedly about the possibilities of such an honor. But then suddenly King Danube slammed his fist on the table and leaped up from his seat.
“I have warned you!” he began. “All of you, to put your house in order. Can you not see the fear on the faces of the people you pretend to serve? Can you not understand that your foolish bickering will rip this kingdom apart, spiritually at least? Well, I shall have none of it!”
“Brother Braumin and I have come to agreement concerning the next father abbot,” announced Je’howith, obviously uncomfortable at the startling outburst and likely regretting his suggestion of a change of location for the College.
King Danube settled back into his seat, staring at Braumin for confirmation, as were many surprised Abellican monks.
“We have come to … an understanding,” Braumin began. “My choice, and Father Abbot Markwart’s—repentant Father Abbot Markwart’s—choice to lead our Church sits beside me,” he explained, patting Pony’s shoulder. “But, alas, Jilseponie will not heed our call at this time, and so Abbot Je’howith and I have found some common ground.”
“And will the rest of us be enlightened concerning that ground?” a scowling
Master Francis put in.
“Of course,” Brother Braumin replied. “We made no decisions—such are not ours to make—but merely discussed the matter and tried to find some agreement, a proposal shaped between us that I might bring to my colleagues and Abbot Je’howith to his.”
Francis nodded, indicating that Braumin should go on.
“We must speak privately about this,” Braumin answered and turned to the King. “But the College of Abbots will succeed in its task of appointment, and of the correct appointment for the times. I assure you, your Majesty.”
“As we have come to agree on the new abbot of St. Precious,” Je’howith added, surprising everyone. “Master Francis, with great generosity and foresight, has abdicated the post, and plans to nominate …” He paused and motioned to Francis.
“I had th-thought that Brother Braumin,” Francis stuttered, obviously caught off his guard. “Once he has been formally proclaimed as master …”
“Yes,” they heard Brother Talumus say with enthusiasm.
“Immaculate Brother Braumin will become interim abbot of St. Precious within the week,” Abbot Je’howith insisted, “and we will formalize that appointment as soon as we have heard any assenting or dissenting arguments.”
King Danube looked at Braumin, and the monk shrugged. “If asked to serve, I would not refuse,” he said.
Danube nodded, apparently satisfied with that. He paused then and put his chin in his hand, his gaze drifting off to nowhere in particular. All the rest of the people around the table likewise quieted in deference to the King, and Pony understood then that Danube was in control here and that the brothers of the Abellican Church would do well to disturb him not at all. The less King Danube needed to turn his gaze toward the Church, the better the Church would survive.
Danube remained apparently distant for a long while—Pony got the distinct feeling that the man was testing the patience of those around him, waiting to see if anyone would dare to speak. Finally, he sat up straight and stared at Pony.
“And is your decision—or shall I call it your compromise?—Brother Braumin, that it will be a man or a woman who heads the Abellican Church?” Danube asked.
Pony, embarrassed as she was, didn’t turn away but met Danube’s stare.
“Unless Abbess Delenia of St. Gwendolyn makes a bid for the position of mother abbess, it will be a man,” Braumin answered.
“And Abbess Delenia would have no chance of assuming leadership of the Church, even should she so desire it,” a bristling Abbot Je’howith was quick to add.
The man’s tone made Pony glance his way, trying unsuccessfully to determine whether he was upset because of the mere suggestion that a woman might head the Church or because King Danube had asked the question of Brother Braumin instead of him.
“So you have refused the offer, then,” Danube said to her as she turned back to him. “The Abellican Church hands you one of the most powerful positions in all the world, and you turn it down?”
“Brother Braumin and others offered to
sponsor
me as a candidate for mother abbess,” Pony corrected, “but many others within the Church would have rejected such a proposal. It is a fight I choose not to wage, and the leadership of the Church is a position I do not feel that I have earned.”
“Well said,” said Je’howith, but Danube cut him short with an upraised hand.
“You underestimate your charisma, Jilseponie,” the King went on, “and your accomplishments and potential accomplishments. I doubt not at all that the Abellican Church would fare well under your guidance.”
Pony nodded her thanks for the somewhat surprising compliment.
“But perhaps Je’howith’s and the others’ loss might become my gain,” the King went on. “Since you have chosen to reject the offer of the Church, I ask again if I might somehow persuade you to accept the barony of Palmaris.”
Pony looked down and sighed. Everybody wanted her in his court. She understood the attention—she was a hero among the common folk now, and those common folk had been doing more than a little grumbling about the King, and especially about the Church, of late—but she could not believe how much faith these leaders were willing to place in her. “What would I know of ruling a city, my King?”
Danube burst out into laughter—too much so, it seemed to Pony and to several others who, she noticed, were glancing nervously around, particularly Duke Kalas and Constance Pemblebury, who were both scowling.
And when she thought about it, Pony wasn’t surprised. Kalas, after all, had hinted at some amorous feelings for her, and Constance was the King’s favorite. Had Danube’s exaggerated laughter just put Pony into the middle of some intrigue with those two?
She sighed and looked away, back at Brother Braumin, who was staring at her nervously.
Pony gave in and started laughing as well.
“So you agree that your statement was absurd?” Danube was quick to ask. “What would Jilseponie know of leadership indeed!”
“No, your Majesty,” Pony replied. “I laugh because I cannot believe …” She stopped and just shook her head helplessly. “I am not suited to be baroness, or for any other rank you wish to bestow upon me,” she said, “as I am not suited to be mother abbess of a Church whose policies and intricacies I hardly understand.”
“Nonsense,” Danube declared, but Pony was shaking her head even as he barked out the word. “Nobility runs in your blood,” the King went on, “if not in your lineage, and your ascent to the court of Honce-the-Bear would prove most beneficial.”
Still she shook her head.
The King stared at her long and hard then, another uncomfortable moment, and then he gave a helpless sigh. “I see that I shall not convince you—no, Jilseponie Wyndon, you are one of extraordinary character and determination.”
“Stubborn,” Brother Braumin dared to interject, breaking the tension.
Again the King laughed. “But in a manner suited to heroes,” he said. “A pity that
you’ll not change your mind, and truly a loss for both of us, eh, Abbot Je’howith?”
“Indeed,” the old abbot said unconvincingly.
Pony continued to alternate her gaze between the King and his two secular advisers, and neither of them stopped staring at her for one moment.
“Palmaris will be in firm and fine control,” the King went on, addressing the whole of the gathering again. “Duke Kalas will stay on as ruler, for as long as he feels necessary. Also, because of the continuing hostilities outside of Palmaris’ wall with the powries, goblins, and even reports of giant bands roaming the region, he will keep half the Allheart knights. That should suffice to allow the folk of Palmaris some peace of mind.”
Pony glanced at Francis and Braumin and the other young monks, their distress showing her that they understood well the meaning of the King’s decision. Danube didn’t fear any goblins or powries or giants, for Palmaris’ garrison had proven itself time and again in the war against them. No, when the King spoke of potential enemies, he was subtly referring to those enemies Duke Kalas might face from within, particularly from St. Precious. The Allheart knights would make Chasewind Manor a veritable fortress and would strengthen Duke Kalas’ influence tremendously.
At first, Pony, too, was more than a little distressed by the news. Privately, at least, she found herself siding with Brother Braumin; she did believe in the man and his cause. That admission nearly made her speak up then, announcing that she had changed her mind and that she would accept an offer to join the Church, not for the position of mother abbess but as an adviser to Brother Braumin in his new position of abbot of St. Precious. Almost—but even as she considered the action, Pony thought of Elbryan and her lost child, thought of the futility of it all, the waste of effort to battle enemies that seemed to her, at that moment, eternal.