Authors: R.A. Salvatore
He ended with a lighthearted expression, but Jilseponie’s stare did not soften. “You did not answer my question,” she said.
King Danube took a long and deep breath, sighing away his exasperation at being put on the spot. “You ride Greystone,” he said. “Can there be any doubt that you and the horse have formed a very special and magical bond?”
Jilseponie looked down at her mount and his golden mane.
“Have you ever known a finer, a greater, horse than Symphony?” King Danube asked her.
Jilseponie looked at him incredulously. “No, of course not,” she said.
“And yet you are content—more than content!—with Greystone,” said the clever King. “Correct?”
That brought another smile to Jilseponie’s fair face, and Danube’s heart leaped when he saw the glow there.
“Greystone is the swifter,” Danube said suddenly, whirling his mount the other way. “But he is too old for another run!” And with that, the King and his young stallion thundered back toward the distant Chasewind Manor. “You will not win the race this time!” came his trailing call.
Jilseponie could not argue the truth of his words, for Greystone was indeed breathing heavily. He could not pace the younger stallion again—not in a fair race.
So Jilseponie decided not to make it fair. The field was not straight but bent subtly to the right around a growth of trees.
Into those trees went Jilseponie and her horse, a run they knew well, one full of fallen trees that had to be jumped, but one much shorter than the course King Danube had taken.
Danube’s surprise was complete, then, when he rounded the last bend only to
find Jilseponie and Greystone ahead of him, running easily and with victory well in hand.
King Danube laughed aloud at the sight and felt warm watching the beautiful woman, her thick blond hair shimmering in the sunlight. He hadn’t exactly lied when he had mentioned the similarities of their emotional states concerning dead past lovers, but he knew, though he wouldn’t openly admit it, that there was one very profound difference. Danube Brock Ursal had loved Vivian, the woman he had made his queen when he was a young man, but he had not loved her the way he now loved Jilseponie. Everything about this woman—her beauty, her graceful movements, her courage and cunning, her words, even her thoughts—called out to his heart, made him feel young and vibrant, made him want to race a horse across a sun-speckled field or sail his ship around the known world. Everything about Jilseponie invaded his every waking moment and his every dream. No, he had loved Vivian but not like this, not with this intensity and hopeless passion. Could he be satisfied considering that Jilseponie had just admitted—and truthfully, he knew—that she could never love another as she had loved Elbryan? Would half her affections be enough for him?
They would have to be, Danube admitted to himself, for in looking at Jilseponie Wyndon, at this woman who had stolen his heart and soul, King Danube Brock Ursal knew that he had no choice. In looking at her, in listening to her every word and every sound, King Danube had to believe that half her affections were half more than he deserved.
“S
he resists,” Fio Bou-raiy remarked as he sat with Abbot Braumin atop the high gate tower of St. Precious. Master Viscenti had been with them, but Bou-raiy had sent him away on an errand—an errand, Braumin realized, that had been fabricated so that he and Bou-raiy could be alone.
“She resists because she has known the truest love,” Braumin replied, worried that Bou-raiy was somehow judging Jilseponie. “She has known the love of Elbryan, and little, I fear, can measure up to that.”
“He is the King of Honce-the-Bear,” came Bou-raiy’s expected response. “He is the most powerful man in all the world.”
“Even the King of Honce-the-Bear cannot shine brightly beside the one known as Nightbird,” said Braumin. “Even the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order—”
“Beware your tongue,” Fio Bou-raiy sharply interrupted; but he calmed quickly, his sharp features softening. “I know and admire your love and respect for this man, brother, yet there is no reason to step into the realm of sacrilege. You do him little justice by so elevating him above the realm of mortals. If the true exploits are not enough …”
“They are,” Braumin assured the older master, though he was trying hard not to reveal his rising ire. “They are more than could be expected of any man, of any king, of any father ab—”
“Enough!” Fio Bou-raiy interrupted, and he laughed. “I surrender, good Abbot
Braumin!”
That tone, even the friendly reference, caught Braumin Herde off guard, for it was certainly nothing that he had ever come to expect from Fio Bou-raiy! “You cannot blame Jilseponie, then, if her heart is not open to receive the attentions of another, king or not.”
Bou-raiy nodded and smiled, offering a great sigh. “Indeed,” he lamented, “but better for the kingdom if Jilseponie finds it in her heart to return the affections of King Danube.”
Abbot Braumin stared at the master curiously.
“She is a friend of the Abellican Church,” Fio Bou-raiy explained. “And in these times of prosperity and peace, the tightening of the bonds between Church and State can only be a good thing.”
Abbot Braumin worked hard to keep the doubt from his face. He had known Fio Bou-raiy for many years, and while he, like so many of the Abellican brothers, had found an epiphany that had pushed him in a positive direction at the covenant of Avelyn, Bou-raiy was certainly self-serving. And he was ambitious, as determined to ascend to the position of father abbot as any man Braumin Herde had ever known. Was that it, then? Had Fio Bou-raiy come to Palmaris, speaking well of Jilseponie and of the possibility that she would one day become queen, in an effort to win over Braumin? For Masters Castinagis, Viscenti, and Talumus of St. Precious would likely follow Abbot Braumin’s lead when it came time to nominate and elect a new father abbot.
“Perhaps in the spring,” Braumin admitted a few moments later, and Fio Bou-raiy looked at him questioningly.
“Perhaps Jilseponie will find her way closer to King Danube in the spring of next year,” Braumin explained. “She has agreed to travel to Ursal to summer next year, and that is perhaps an important step in the process that will put her on the throne of Honce-the-Bear.”
Fio Bou-raiy sat back in his chair and mulled that over for a short while. “And do you believe that she will accept King Danube’s proposal if and when it is given?”
Braumin shrugged. “I do not pretend to know that which is in Jilseponie’s heart,” he replied, “more than to say that her love for Elbryan has lasted beyond the grave. I do admire—and believe that Jilseponie does, as well—King Danube’s patience and persistence. Perhaps she will find her way to his side. Perhaps not.”
“You do not seem to prefer one way or the other,” Bou-raiy observed.
Abbot Braumin only shrugged again, for that was an honest assessment of his opinion on this matter. He liked King Danube, and respected the way he had waited for Jilseponie, had allowed things to blossom according to her timetable instead of one that he could have easily imposed. But still, there remained within Braumin a nagging loyalty to dead Elbryan, and he could not help but feel some sense of betrayal.
Fio Bou-raiy sat back in his chair again, his slender fingers, nails beautifully manicured, stroking his angular chin. “Perhaps there is a way that we can effect the
desired changes, whatever Jilseponie decides is her best course,” he said at length.
Abbot Braumin’s expression showed that he was uncertain about any such plan and that he did not completely trust the source, either.
“King Danube is in a fine mood, by all reports,” Bou-raiy explained. “Perhaps he could be persuaded to agree to a slight change in the Palmaris hierarchy.”
“How so?”
“A second bishop of Palmaris?” Fio Bou-raiy asked. “One more akin to King Danube’s wishes than was Marcalo De’Unnero.”
If Fio Bou-raiy had stood up, walked around the small table, and punched Abbot Braumin in the face, Braumin would not have been more stunned. “King Danube’s mood can only be grand if he is in the company of Jilseponie,” he replied. “But that does not mean he has forgotten the dark days of Bishop De’Unnero! Nay, nor would I desire such a post if you somehow persuaded King Danube to offer it. The duties of abbot of St. Precious are heavy enough, good brother, without adding the weight of the secular position.”
Bou-raiy’s expression was one of abject doubt. “You?” he asked, and he snorted. “Hardly would King Danube agree to that. Nor would the Church, though you are doing a fine job at your current post. Nay, Brother Braumin, I was thinking that perhaps the present abbot of St. Precious might move on to another, temporary position, to clear the path for my designs.”
He had Braumin more horrified than intrigued, but the abbot held his objections and listened.
“We will soon consecrate the Chapel of Avelyn in Caer Tinella,” Bou-raiy went on. “Not a major abbey as yet, of course, since the population is so small in that region, and it will take time for us to build a great physical structure. But neither of us doubts that Avelyn will soon be canonized—it seems to have come down to mere formalities now. So that particular chapel—soon to be abbey—might well become among the most important in all the world and will act as a gateway to the northlands, where many pilgrims still desire to travel so that they might kiss the mummified hand of Avelyn Desbris.”
“You are asking me to surrender the abbey of St. Precious that I might go and preside over the Chapel of Avelyn?” Braumin asked skeptically.
“That would seem fitting,” Fio Bou-raiy answered without hesitation. He shifted in his seat, causing the tied-off arm of his brown robe to flap forward noticeably. “Better that you, above anyone else in the world, preside as the initial parson of the chapel. Better that you, who has so offered his heart to Avelyn, longer than any brother in the Church, preside over the conversion from chapel to abbey.”
The words sounded wonderful to Braumin Herde—on one level. It would indeed be an honor for him to oversee such attainments of glory for the memory of the dead hero, Avelyn. And in truth, he was growing a bit weary of his unending duties here in the bustling city, clerical work mostly, scheduling weddings and funerals and other such ceremonies. Caer Tinella might prove a welcome relief, as long as the reduction in responsibility was not accompanied by a reduction in
rank and the appointment was temporary, with guarantees that Braumin would soon get back his post at St. Precious.
“It would not be a lasting appointment,” Fio Bou-raiy assured him, as if reading his mind, “perhaps ending as early as this spring.”
Braumin stared at the surprising man long and hard. None of this made immediate sense to him, but he knew Bou-raiy well enough to understand that there had to be layers of intrigue—and ones that would lead to personal gain for Bou-raiy—lurking beneath the surface. “You ask me to go north to Caer Tinella to clear the way for Fio Bou-raiy to assume power here in Palmaris?” he asked, thinking he had figured it all out.
Bou-raiy’s laughter brought only more confusion to poor Braumin Herde.
“Hardly that!” Bou-raiy said with obvious sincerity.
“For even if I speak with King Danube,” Braumin went on, “even if I implore Jilseponie to speak to him on your behalf and she agrees, I doubt that he will see the way clear for as dramatic a step as that. His first experience with a bishop was not a pleasant one.…”
Braumin’s words trailed away as Fio Bou-raiy chuckled all the more. “I assure you that I have no intention of either seeking or accepting such a position, if it were offered by God himself,” the master from St.-Mere-Abelle explained. “Nay, I have come to look in on you, to attend the opening of the Chapel of Avelyn as St.-Mere-Abelle’s official emissary, and to see for myself the level of interest mounting between King Danube and Jilseponie. I will not remain in Palmaris for more than a couple of weeks after the dedication of the chapel, and my destination, without doubt, is St.-Mere-Abelle, where I will resume my duties as principal adviser to Father Abbot Agronguerre. I have no designs on Palmaris, Abbot Braumin, nor on your precious St. Precious!”
Braumin’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the man, finding himself lost in the seeming illogic of Bou-raiy’s widening web. If not Braumin, if not Bou-raiy, then who did the man have in mind to preside over Palmaris? Master Glendenhook of St.-Mere-Abelle, perhaps, for he had ever been Bou-raiy’s lackey. But still, that made no sense to Braumin, for what gain might that bring to Bou-raiy in his quest to become father abbot? Glendenhook already had a voice and a vote in any College of Abbots. And what chance, honestly, did they have of bringing Glendenhook, who was far from a diplomatic creature in any event, to such a powerful position? No, none of this made any sense to Abbot Braumin at that moment.
“King Danube would not agree to appointing another Bishop who served as an officer of the Church,” Fio Bou-raiy explained. “Not after the debacle of Father Abbot Markwart and Bishop De’Unnero. But we may be able to court the King’s desires by intimating that we believe his current secular power in Palmaris should assume both roles.”
Braumin spent a moment digesting that, and unraveling it, and as he came to understand that Fio Bou-raiy, the stern master of St.-Mere-Abelle, had just said that he would agree to having Jilseponie, who was not even officially ordained into
the Abellican Church, become, in effect, the abbess of St. Precious, the third most powerful abbey in all the Order, his eyes popped wide indeed.
“It makes perfect sense,” Bou-raiy argued against that incredulous stare. “For the good of the Church and of the State. Jilseponie has proven herself an able secular leader, and her influence and ties within the Church cannot be denied. Nor will King Danube likely deny her the title, if we present the option to him. Indeed, he will either be thrilled to see that his court might be making inroads in the powers of the Church, or he will, at the least, be caught in such a terrible conflict between his heart and his head that he’ll not dare oppose it.”
“You assume that Jilseponie would desire the title,” said Braumin, who was intrigued but far from convinced.