DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (280 page)

Even more telling, Abellican monks and Chezru students walked among the wounded, bending low and speaking with them.

Brynn walked Runtly, her brown-and-white pinto pony, aside and dismounted, moving to join in one such discussion.

“The pain will end,” a Chezru student was saying to one emaciated and grievously injured man. “We will bring your wife and daughter inside with us, and they will hold your hands as Master Mackaront here shows you the truth of St. Abelle and Chezru. You will learn the beauty of our joined hands, my friend.”

The wounded man looked away in obvious disdain and the Chezru student straightened, spat upon him, and moved to the next in line.

Or started to, until Brynn stopped him. “How long have they been out here?”

The men turned to her; Mackaront flashed a toothy smile. “It is good to see you,” he started to say, but Brynn stopped him with a severe look and an upraised hand.

“How long have they been out here?” she asked again.

“Three days,” the Chezru student offered. “There were many more, of course, but some succumbed to their wounds.” His face brightened. “But many more have come to see the truth, and are even now resting comfortably!”

Brynn turned her stern look over to the Abellican master. “You hold their families and their very lives up before them with your offer of relief?” she asked incredulously. “Is this how Abellicans spread the word of their god?”

“They must accept the possibility that they have been deceived all these long years by a tyrant,” Mackaront replied, and it seemed to Brynn that these were well-practiced words. “They must show some repentance, at least, to counter their years of blindness. We of St. Abelle are a generous and kind lot, but our God-given magic cannot be bestowed upon our enemies nor upon heretics.”

Brynn tightened her jaw but resisted the urge to scream at him. She knew that she wasn’t going to get anywhere, so she turned away, glancing back once to soak in the pitiful image of the wretch on the ground, then moved more forcefully to catch up and pass her companions, striding with grim determination for the palace.

She was the first to stand before Yatol De Hamman, and neither offered nor
waited for any formal greetings. “How can you accept this?” she asked.

The man put on a confused look, one that Brynn didn’t believe for a moment.

“You are forcing Behrenese to embrace the Abellican Church,” Brynn explained. “You wear the robes of a Yatol of Chezru, yet you deny those robes and tenets before this holy place.”

A commotion from behind turned Brynn, to see her companions standing calmly behind her, and to see litter-bearers taking in the same man she had seen lying before the feet of Master Mackaront outside the palace. A woman and a younger girl, the man’s wife and daughter, obviously, flanked him, holding his hands and crying, while Mackaront moved beside him as well, clutching one hand to his chest, the other set upon the wounded man’s injured side.

“Does your desecration know no bounds?” Brynn asked De Hamman.

“Desecration?” the Yatol replied skeptically. “Because we have come to understand the deception of Douan? Because we have embraced friends from the north?”

“Abellican friends,” Brynn reminded. “Men who follow a different God, and men who have never been true friends of Behren.” She did note a bit of a wince there, and suspected that maybe De Hamman’s feelings didn’t run quite as deep as his words seemed to indicate.

“Release the hatred from your soul, Brynn Dharielle,” De Hamman bade her. “We live in enlightened times. Better times.”

“You throw away everything that gave Behren its very soul!” Brynn argued, but then a hand on her shoulder calmed her, and she glanced over to see Pagonel standing beside her.

“As you embrace the heretic mystics of the Jhesta Tu?” De Hamman retorted.

Brynn let the comment go and forced herself to a place of calm. She understood the error of the analogy, of course—the Jhesta Tu weren’t making any claims within To-gai, after all—and in that understanding, she allowed herself to dismiss the remark out of hand.

“Who leads Behren, Yatol De Hamman?” she asked. “Is it Yatol Mado Wadon? Or has Abbot Olin of Honce-the-Bear stepped forward behind this screen of ‘enlightenment’?”

That, too, seemed to sting the man a bit, but then he shook it off visibly and regained his firm posture. “I would be dead now,” he replied. “Without the aid that Abbot Olin brought to Jacintha in her hour of need, I would lie dead amid the bodies of so many good Chezru.”

The simple statement did set Brynn back a bit.

“And dead to what heaven?” De Hamman went on. “The one promised by Chezru Douan? The same one that he was too afraid to face through all those centuries when he stole the souls of unborn children to perpetuate his own wretched existence?”

Brynn paused a long moment to digest that heavy remark, to consider the weight behind it. Yakim Douan’s deception had been so horrible that it had torn Behren apart and shattered the foundations of the Chezru religion. De Hamman
was not unique among the Chezru clergy, obviously, and the weight of war and suffering could do much to convert those less learned in their ancient traditions. With that thought in mind, Brynn glanced back at the curtain behind which Mackaront and the others had disappeared, and noted that no more agonized screams were coming forth.

“Is this friendship?” the woman asked De Hamman. “Or conquest?”

The man’s response cut her to her heart, and warned her that great trouble might well be brewing in the kingdom to the east. “Does it matter?”

Chapter 26
 

“W
E HAVE AT LAST A KING WHO UNDERSTANDS THAT THE SACRED GEMSTONES
,
AS
the gifts of God, are the province of the priests who represent that God,” Marcalo De’Unnero told an attentive gathering of monks one morning in St. Precious. “With King Aydrian’s blessing, we might go about the task of returning the gemstones to the Abellican Church.”

That announcement was received with many assenting nods and even a few cheers—although the brothers in attendance of course knew that De’Unnero and the monks he had brought out of St. Honce in Ursal had set about doing that very thing all along the march up the Masur Delaval.

However, one older brother, a master of St. Precious who had been in Palmaris for many years, seemed not so enthusiastic, and his expression was not lost on those around him nor on De’Unnero as he surveyed his brethren army.

“Master DeNauer?” he prompted.

The older man—older than De’Unnero, and appearing much older than the unnaturally aging weretiger—looked up with sleepy gray eyes. “Have you not tried this once before, Master De’Unnero?” DeNauer asked. “Was this not the mission of Bishop De’Unnero when he represented Father Abbot Markwart in Palmaris?”

Marcalo De’Unnero stared at the man, trying to place him, trying to remember him. Had this one been among the treacherous brothers surrounding Braumin Herde back in those days? A follower of Jojonah and Avelyn, perhaps? De’Unnero’s scrutiny turned into a scowl and he felt the stirring of the beast within in simply thinking such things. He fought that feral urge away, temporarily at least, by reminding himself that he and Aydrian had screened the brothers of the conquered abbey cautiously, and that only those showing an open mind toward Aydrian and this new incarnation of the Abellican Church had been allowed to see the light of day since the conquest. And Aydrian’s tactics in his interrogations, De’Unnero knew, went far beyond the insights of human perception. Aydrian had used gemstones to scour the thoughts of the surrendering brothers, to learn which among them were too far engrossed with the lies of Braumin Herde to be of use to De’Unnero’s Church.

“And do you believe that Father Abbot Markwart was errant in everything he proposed?” De’Unnero asked, narrowing his dark eyes.

Master DeNauer rested back in his chair and didn’t blink as he took in that threatening stare.

“Because you see, brother,” De’Unnero went on when it was apparent that no answer would be forthcoming, “it is my understanding, and that of our new king, that the followers of Avelyn Desbris, in their elation over the end of the rosy plague
and in their confidence since the fall of Father Abbot Markwart, have seized the opportunity to press too far in their understanding of the generosity of the Abellican Church. Perhaps we should open the coffers of every abbey, and hand out gemstones to every peasant who desires one. Perhaps we should even train such peasants to use the stones!” He moved about as he spoke, waving his arms with dramatic flourish. “Perhaps Brother Avelyn’s belief that we of the Church are no different than those peasants whom we serve is the correct approach!”

“I have never heard such a thing attributed to Saint Avelyn,” Master DeNauer dared to say, and the man’s reference to Avelyn as a saint stung De’Unnero profoundly.

“Saint Avelyn?” De’Unnero echoed with great skepticism.

“All that remains is the formal declaration from St.-Mere-Abelle,” Master DeNauer replied. “The canonization process has been successfully concluded, has it not?”

“No proclamation from St.-Mere-Abelle at this time holds any weight, dear brother,” De’Unnero was quick to correct. “Not until, or unless, that body recognizes Aydrian as king.”

“And by extension, Marcalo De’Unnero as Father Abbot?”

The question sent a surge of anger running through De’Unnero’s body, one that awakened primal urges within him at every point. He needed Aydrian then, he realized. Or Sadye! Someone to tame the weretiger that was fast rising within him. He fought to reason with himself; if the beast came forth at this time and tore the bothersome DeNauer apart, then how would he ever hope to retain any semblance of control over the rest of the clergy? His credibility would be gone in the flash of a deadly tiger’s paw!

He fought hard and fell into the discipline that Aydrian had shown him. He closed his eyes, found a point of meditation, and gradually resisted those urges. He tucked his right arm up under the wide sleeve of his robe, as well, and it was good that he had, for he knew that beneath the brown fabric was not the limb of a human, but the deadly tearing paw of a great cat.

But the mind controlling that paw, thanks to the teaching of Aydrian, was not the primal, instinctive brain of a great hunting cat.

De’Unnero opened his eyes and stared hard at the obstinate master. “When King Aydrian claimed Palmaris, an honest question of allegiance was asked of every brother,” he reminded.

“Aydrian is king,” DeNauer replied.

“And?”

“And the Abellican Church has veered from its course,” the master admitted. “Abbot Olin should have been elected Father Abbot those years ago when Master Fio Bou-raiy was given the mantle.”

“Even now, Abbot Olin shows us his worth as a great leader!” De’Unnero interrupted, seizing the moment. “He is expanding the Church beyond anything that has been done since the sixth century. His strides exceed everything that was attempted
by all the Alpinadoran missionaries combined.” He moved about as he spoke, basking in the glow of admiring eyes. “But,” De’Unnero said, stopping suddenly and holding up his index finger to punctuate his words, “Abbot Olin’s duties will keep him away for many months, for many years, perhaps. In his absence, King Aydrian has other intentions for the Abellican Church within Honce-the-Bear, and we ignore the wishes of our wise young king at our peril.”

“Father Abbot De’Unnero!” one enthusiastic young brother cried out, and many others cheered their assent.

De’Unnero watched Master DeNauer as the applause grew, and noted that the man, though obviously less enthusiastic, was not openly disagreeing. Even his body posture hadn’t gone tight and defensive.

“Master DeNauer,” De’Unnero said when the cheering died away, “do you disagree with this premise?”

“If I did, then I would not be here at this time, brother,” the older monk replied, and De’Unnero did not miss the double entendre of his words.

“But I am no fanatic for Avelyn Desbris,” DeNauer went on, “though I believe him to have been a godly man, and perhaps worthy of sainthood. I question your decision concerning the magical gemstones not out of disrespect, but out of painful memories. How will Palmaris react this time when brothers arrive at the doors of merchants, demanding the precious stones? Stones purchased from the Abellican Church, no less, and for tidy sums?”

De’Unnero nodded as the man played out his reasoning. “We must first identify every stone,” he explained. “And then we will contact the owners of such stones privately. We will not take the stones, as Father Abbot Markwart once desired, but rather, we will procure them with generous payment. King Aydrian understands the potential for anger in this action, and so he has provided us with the wealth we require to buy back the sacred stones that the Church should never have sold in the first place.

“We enter a new chapter in the history of our faith, brothers,” De’Unnero went on, his voice excited and almost breathless. “No more will the Abellican Church operate outside the secular society of Honce-the-Bear. We now have a joining, of Church and State. King Aydrian is our ally.” He turned a sudden sharp look over at DeNauer, anticipating a retort. “And not as Jilseponie was supposedly our ally when she served as queen,” he said before the man could offer an argument. “For King Aydrian understands the truth of our faith. His teacher was not Avelyn Desbris—yes, a godly man in many respects, but an errant one in many others! No, King Aydrian understands the truth of Brother Avelyn, and of Father Abbot Markwart. He knows where each was correct, and where each ultimately failed. We have the wealth, brothers. We have the strength of the throne behind us. Let us go now and reshape the Abellican Church in our wisdom.”