DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (287 page)

And now this.

The burly man looked down at the crumpled parchment, trying to find every angle between the actual words. He was not surprised, of course, to learn that Duke Kalas was fast approaching St. Gwendolyn with his enormous army; Glendenhook and all the other citizens of central and southern Honce-the-Bear had watched Kalas’ march from Palmaris throughout the winter, with every town falling into obedient line. Kalas had cut a line straight out to the coast south of St.
Gwendolyn, and so it had been obvious for nearly two weeks that he would not stop there, but would turn north to finish his blanketing march.

But this decree, from Duke Kalas himself, had not been so predictable, especially coming in some thirty miles ahead of the front ranks of Kalas’ force! The nobleman had formally announced his approach, and his demand that St. Gwendolyn be opened to him and to King Aydrian Boudabras, and that the brothers and sisters of the abbey formally declare Abbot Olin and Master De’Unnero as the rightful leaders of the Abellican Order.

“He knows that we, that I, will never accede to the demands of Marcalo De’Unnero,” Glendenhook said to Master Belasarus, another transplant from St.-Mere-Abelle.

“Not in any form!” the master declared. “The man is a dangerous rogue! He is beyond the bounds of rationality itself. There is no place in the Abellican Church for Marcalo De’Unnero, curse his name!”

Abbot Glendenhook patted his large hands in the air to calm the frightened and angry master. “Of course there is no place for him. Father Abbot Bou-raiy has formally banished Marcalo De’Unnero—he did so almost immediately after De’Unnero’s disgrace in Palmaris at the hands of Sister Jilseponie.”

“And now Abbot Olin has embraced him?” Master Belasarus spat incredulously. “Has the man gone mad?”

“Beyond mad, it would seem,” said Glendenhook. “It is no secret that Abbot Olin did not take his defeat by Father Abbot Bou-raiy well. But never could we have imagined this.”

“They will march to the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle,” Master Belasarus reasoned. “Father Abbot Bou-raiy will not open the abbey for them. Does King Aydrian mean to tear those great gates down?”

Abbot Glendenhook looked down at the parchment once again and offered only a shrug. That was an issue that would be settled later in the season, it seemed, likely before midsummer’s day. For Glendenhook now, though, the issue was here before him in the form of this letter. Why had Kalas sent it?

Glendenhook and Kalas had met only briefly a couple of times in their lives. In many ways, they were men cut of the same mold. Both lurked in the background of the true power, Fio Bou-raiy and Father Abbot Agronguerre for Glendenhook, and King Danube and now, apparently, King Aydrian for Kalas. They were generals in their respective armies, Glendenhook for the Church and Kalas for the crown. There had been no animosity between them, at least none that Glendenhook had ever noticed. Was it possible that Duke Kalas had sent this letter so far ahead of the army to give Glendenhook the opportunity to gather up his staff and escape to St.-Mere-Abelle? By all accounts, the roads to the mother abbey were clear of any soldiers.

“What do you want of me, Duke Kalas?” the abbot said quietly.

“He knows that we cannot open our gates for a king demanding such change within the Abellican Church,” Master Belasarus remarked.

Glendenhook looked up at him.

“Duke Kalas surely understands that we, none of us, will ever accept the rule of Marcalo De’Unnero,” the master explained. “Nor of Abbot Olin, unless he wins the position he so covets by our rules at a College of Abbots.”

“Where is Olin?” Glendenhook asked. “Is he still in Behren?”

“By all accounts.”

A soft knock sounded on the door of Glendenhook’s office. The abbot motioned to Belasarus, who answered, opening the door wide to admit Sovereign Sister Treisa, the highest-ranking woman at the abbey, and a likely successor to Glendenhook. Before the storm that was Aydrian had clouded the Honce-the-Bear sky, there had been rumors that Father Abbot Bou-raiy intended to move Glendenhook to another position, perhaps even as abbot of St. Honce in Ursal, to thus elevate Sovereign Sister Treisa and restore St. Gwendolyn to the control of a woman. Nearing forty, the comely Treisa seemed more than ready to assume the mantle. She had lived through many trials during her years at St. Gwendolyn, including the devastation of the rosy plague and the perversion of Marcalo De’Unnero. She had come through it all with grace and dignity, and had returned from her personal pilgrimage to Mount Aida to partake of the Miracle of Avelyn with such a profound sense of serenity that she calmed any room simply by entering. She had supported Glendenhook brilliantly over the last couple of years, since her return from a walking tour of the Mantis Arm, and the two had become as close as any brother and sister of the Abellican Order dared. There were even rumors that their friendship had gone beyond propriety.

But no one really cared to investigate the rumors, and many actually hoped they were true. For whatever reason and by everyone’s estimation—even Glendenhook’s—Sovereign Sister Treisa had made Glendenhook a better and more generous abbot.

Abbot Glendenhook rose when she entered, offering a warm smile despite his foul mood.

The sovereign sister didn’t return that smile. “Duke Kalas will arrive in two days,” she explained. “His army has been spotted to the south, moving hard and without resistance.”

“They will have to cross through two villages, and securing them may slow them,” Master Belasarus offered.

“I would not count on that,” Treisa replied. “His army’s ranks have swollen. By all reports, he left Palmaris with a few thousand.”

“What is the estimate of his force in the field now?” Glendenhook asked.

“Twenty thousand, perhaps. Perhaps more.”

The staggering number had Glendenhook sliding back into his seat.

“All towns are rallying to King Aydrian,” Treisa explained. “Their menfolk are running to join in Duke Kalas’ glorious march.”

“One that will take him to the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, no doubt,” a dour Belasarus added.

“Twenty thousand,” Glendenhook echoed quietly.

“Perhaps more,” Treisa said again. “There are rumors of a second force moving north to the west of here.”

“Encircling us,” Belasarus reasoned.

“So many have joined him,” Glendenhook said, shaking his head.

“How could they not?” asked Treisa. “Duke Kalas and his Allheart Knights in their shining armor have stormed into every village, praising King Aydrian. To contest them would be suicide.”

“To follow them is to deny the true line of kings!” Belasarus protested.

“The common folk care little who is their king, master,” Treisa replied. “They care only that their families have enough to eat, and that their children might live more comfortably than they. All this rattle of politics is background gossip for the folk, unless the rattle leads to the misery of war.”

“Which it certainly shall when Prince Midalis arrives,” insisted Belasarus.

“If he is not too late,” said Glendenhook, and his pessimism seemed for a moment as if it would knock Belasarus from his feet.

“They join Duke Kalas because they have no one to lead them otherwise,” Treisa reasoned. “Perhaps King Aydrian’s army will fracture when and if Prince Midalis arrives. Perhaps not.”

“And what is the role of the Abellican Church in all of this, then?” asked Belasarus. “Are we to cater to the demands of the usurping young king if doing so means demanding the abdication of Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy for the likes of Abbot Olin and Marcalo De’Unnero?”

“Of course not!” Abbot Glendenhook said without the slightest hesitation. He held a stern stare upon Belasarus for a bit, then softened his strong features as he turned back to Treisa. “What counsel do you offer?”

The woman paused a bit, her brow furrowing pensively beneath her black hair and showing only the slightest wrinkles of age. She chewed a bit on her bottom lip, a common twitch when she was deep in thought that often brought a smile to Glendenhook; and she turned her hazel eyes to the floor. Finally, she looked back up.

“If King Aydrian had remained secular and had not involved the Church in his theft of the throne, then I would counsel inaction,” she explained, “even though his ascent adversely affected another sovereign sister and forced Jilseponie from Ursal. But since it was Abbot Olin and worse, Marcalo De’Unnero, at Aydrian’s side, we cannot step away from it. No distance that we put between Church and State will hold. It is clear now that Aydrian means to instate one of his cohorts into the structure of the Abellican Order at the very highest level. Twelve significant chapels have been rolled under Duke Kalas’ present march, and only those brothers who pledged their allegiance to King Aydrian and to both Abbot Olin and De’Unnero remain in place serving their communities. All others were forced away, or worse.”

“We have heard such rumors from the brothers seeking refuge here,” Glendenhook agreed.

“And so we must stand, on one side or the other,” Treisa went on. She looked at Belasarus, then at Glendenhook, forcing their undivided attention. “We cannot stand with Abbot Olin and the traitorous De’Unnero. We cannot sacrifice our mortal souls.”

“Then fight or run?” Belasarus asked of Glendenhook.

The abbot looked to Treisa for guidance.

“Neither,” the sovereign sister said, and she squared her shoulders. “Do not close our gate to Duke Kalas, for he will merely trample it down. Let us resist with inaction. Let us not run from them, nor march with them, but rather, merely sit where we are.”

“Does that not signify our acceptance of Abbot Olin and Marcalo De’Unnero?” asked an obviously confused Belasarus.

Treisa shook her head. “We will not allow it to seem so. Not to Duke Kalas and not to the folk of the land. We will surrender without a fight, because we cannot win, but we will not serve King Aydrian or his kingdom as long as he embraces such treachery in the Abellican Church. Let our example perhaps begin the first fissure in Duke Kalas’ army, a slender crack that will widen when the true king of Honce-the-Bear marches south from Vanguard.”

“We must make this clear if our statement is to have any effect,” reasoned Belasarus.

“And we must ensure that our surrender does not strengthen Duke Kalas,” Glendenhook reasoned. “Organize an escape by some of the younger and hardiest brothers. Let them take our treasures, particularly our gemstones, along the coast to St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“Duke Kalas will not appreciate that,” said Treisa.

“And it will perfectly outrage Marcalo De’Unnero, which makes it all the sweeter,” Glendenhook agreed.

“But we need something more telling,” Master Belasarus reasoned. “Something to ensure that the people all around, especially those commoners who have joined with Duke Kalas, understand that we do not support King Aydrian.”

Glendenhook considered what options he might have, then noticed that Sovereign Sister Treisa’s face had suddenly brightened. He prompted her with a look.

“My sisters and I are nearly finished with the altar cloth intended for the final canonization of Avelyn Desbris,” she explained. “The image of the upraised arm of Avelyn placed against a solid red background—the same image that Father Abbot Bou-raiy commissioned for the new window in the great keep of St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“What do you propose to do with it?” the intrigued Glendenhook asked.

“Let us fly it above St. Gwendolyn, proudly so!” said Treisa. “And right beside it, let us fly the bear rampant of the Ursal line. By all accounts, Duke Kalas marches under a different flag, that of the bear and the tiger rampant, the flag of Aydrian Boudabras.”

Abbot Glendenhook nodded his agreement—such a show as that would spread ear-to-ear all along the eastern stretches of Honce-the-Bear.

“But doing so will ensure that Abbot Olin and Marcalo De’Unnero gain the altar cloth of Avelyn’s upcoming canonization,” reasoned Belasarus.

“It is worth the price,” Treisa decided before Glendenhook could speak. “In our show, we will send a message to St.-Mere-Abelle, as well, offering our vote for Brother Avelyn’s long-overdue ascent to sainthood, and we will remind all the kingdom of the miracle that precipitated his rise.”

Abbot Glendenhook had never shared Treisa’s enthusiasm for Avelyn Desbris. Nor had Father Abbot Bou-raiy. But Bou-raiy and Glendenhook had long ago discussed the matter, and had agreed that Avelyn’s rise was an avalanche that would bury any who opposed it. After the Miracle of Aida, with a majority of Honce-the-Bear’s population making the difficult pilgrimage to be cured of the rosy plague, or insulated against its deadly effects, there could be no denying the rise of Saint Avelyn. The process should have been completed several years before, but the typically ponderous Abellican Church simply hadn’t gotten around to it yet—mostly, Glendenhook knew, because his friend the Father Abbot was holding the final canonization in reserve against any potential crisis in the Church. Only the Father Abbot could finalize the process, and that gave Fio Bou-raiy a large stick indeed to wave against any upstart young brothers, particularly Braumin Herde and his fellows of St. Precious and in Vanguard.

“Any who stay will do so out of choice,” the abbot decided. “All who wish to flee for St.-Mere-Abelle should go out this very afternoon. And I strongly suggest that most of your sisters make that flight, Sister Treisa. We have precious few women in the Abellican ranks as it is.”

Glendenhook’s expression went very serious. “I would ask of you that you, too, make the pilgrimage.”

“Then you have little understanding of my faith, Abbot Glendenhook,” came the stern reply. “In my God, in St. Abelle, in my Church, and in my abbot.”

While on one level he wanted to yell at her and scold her, Abbot Glendenhook could not help but smile at the determined and strong woman.

“Master Belasarus,” he said, without ever taking his eyes from Treisa, “I bid you to lead our delegation to St.-Mere-Abelle. Tell Father Abbot Bou-raiy of our actions here, of the flags we proudly fly.”

“But …” the man started to argue, but he stopped and sighed. “Yes, Abbot, it will be done.”