DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (32 page)

“Hear, hear,” Master Glendenhook applauded.

Francis let the uncalled-for slight slip by, relieved that Bou-raiy would take that one insult as satisfying enough and let the promotions stand without argument.

“As for the woman Jilseponie,” Bou-raiy went on, “she can go in peace, and let the wisdom of the ages judge her actions, good or bad. We have not the time nor the resources to pursue the battles waged by Father Abbot Markwart. However,” he warned in the gravest of tones, “Jilseponie would be wise not to keep those stones, for whatever justification she might have found in holding them during the reign of Markwart is past now.”

Francis nodded, understanding the complications that would indeed arise if Jilseponie had the stones and began using them in the northland. Bou-raiy would never stand for it, though Francis wondered what, indeed, the man might do about it. Francis had seen the results of Jilseponie’s frightening march through Palmaris on her way to Markwart.

“We have more important issues to contend with, anyway,” Bou-raiy continued, leaning forward in his chair, a clear signal that he wanted to move the meeting his way. “There is the little matter of filling, and efficiently, the vacancy at the top
of our Order. We have discussed this long before your arrival, of course, Master Francis, and already have planned to summon a College of Abbots in Calember, as you advised us today.

“Brothers,” he went on solemnly, pausing and looking at each of the other five in turn. “We must be united in this. It is no secret that Olin of Bondabruce will make a claim for father abbot. I have known Abbot Olin for many years and consider him a fine man, but his ties to Behren disturb me.”

“What of Master Bou-raiy?” Glendenhook immediately put in, and again Francis got the distinct impression that the man was speaking for Bou-raiy, as if the two had planned this little exchange.

“With all due respect,” Master Machuso put in calmly and, indeed, respectfully, “you are but five years in the title of master, Brother Bou-raiy. I would not oppose such a seemingly premature ascension to the highest position under other circumstances—”

“He is the finest master remaining within the Church!” Glendenhook snapped. Bou-raiy remained very calm and waved the man to silence, then motioned for Machuso to continue.

“Even if we were all to stand united behind you, you cannot expect to have any chance of winning the nomination against Abbot Olin,” Machuso explained. “And where, then, would that leave us? Abbot Olin would ascend to the position of father abbot, and he would not come to serve as such viewing any of us in a favorable light.”

Again Glendenhook started to respond, but Bou-raiy cut him short.

“True enough, good Master Machuso,” he said. “Who among us, then, do you advise? Yourself?”

Machuso narrowed his eyes a bit, Francis noted, for Bou-raiy’s tone, though his words were in agreement, was somewhat condescending. The gentle Machuso quickly let the insult pass, and then replied with a laugh.

“Then who?” Bou-raiy asked, holding his hand up. “Tell us, Master Francis, was this matter discussed among the brethren in Palmaris? With Abbot Je’howith? Yes, perhaps Je’howith will try for the position, but I warn you that any intentions you might be holding in that matter will not bring the Church together. Je’howith is far too—”

“Tied to King Danube, and to the troubled days of Father Abbot Markwart’s end, to be acceptable,” Francis interrupted. “But, yes, we did indeed discuss the matter at length, to find a candidate who would prove acceptable to all in the Church, one who would heal us and bring us back together, of one mind and one purpose.”

“And that choice?”

“Agronguerre of St. Belfour, it would seem,” Francis replied.

“An excellent man, of fine reputation,” Master Machuso said enthusiastically.

“Indeed,” Master Timminey agreed.

“Why do you say, ‘it would seem,’ brother?” Bou-raiy asked Francis.

“I do not know that Abbot Braumin Herde knows the man well enough to agree to the choice,” Francis admitted.

“And Abbot Je’howith?”

“It was Je’howith who suggested Abbot Agronguerre,” Francis explained.

Bou-raiy settled back in his chair, again in that pensive pose, again rubbing his hairless chin. Francis saw the disappointment, even anger, flash across his face—particularly in his gray eyes—more than once, but he was clearly a man in control of his emotions, and the dark cloud was but a temporary thing.

To the left of Bou-raiy, Glendenhook seemed even more agitated, rubbing his thumbs across his fingers, even chewing his lip. They had hoped that all the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle, particularly all the masters, would rally behind Bou-raiy, but Machuso’s grounded response had thrown those hopes out in short order.

Francis looked back to Bou-raiy, could already see the man coming to terms with the developments. Likely, he was thinking that Abbot Agronguerre was an old man, probably with less than a decade of life left, compared to Olin, who was barely into his fifties and in fine health. Yes, Francis came to recognize, Bou-raiy was thinking that it might be wise to throw his weight behind Agronguerre, virtually assuring the man of election. He could then make himself indispensable to the new Father Abbot, working himself into the position of heir apparent.

Yes, Bou-raiy was going to agree with this, Francis realized, and the cause for Abbot Agronguerre was not hurt at all by the fact that Masters Bou-raiy and Olin had never been friendly.

“We will take the issue under advisement,” Bou-raiy decided, “with each of us, and the other masters of St.-Mere-Abelle, coming to his own decision on the matter.”

“Agronguerre of St. Belfour is a fine choice,” Machuso said, offering a wink to Francis.

“Indeed,” Master Timminey said again, with even more enthusiasm.

Francis glanced over at Baldmir to see if he might even get a third supporter, but the old master’s head was drooping, his rhythmic breathing showing that he was fast asleep.

“Now, to the last matter we must herein discuss,” Bou-raiy said, his voice growing grave and dark. “We suffer greatly at the loss of so many promising brothers.”

“As do I,” Francis replied.

“Yet you chose to pursue the goblin band and attack,” Bou-raiy maintained, “when you obviously could have avoided the conflict.”

“At the price of a village,” Francis reminded.

“You have explained as much,” Bou-raiy replied, holding his palm toward Francis, ending the debate. “This, too, we must take under advisement. We will appoint a brother inquisitor to study the matter.”

Francis nodded: this was not unexpected, and he was confident that he would be exonerated.

“Vespers will begin within the hour,” Bou-raiy said before Francis could continue
with the only remaining part of his tale—that concerning the rosy plague. Baldmir stirred, and, as one, the gathered masters looked out the western window at the setting sun. “Let us go now and prepare.”

As soon as he finished the sentence, the other brothers, except for Francis and Bou-raiy, began sliding back their chairs, and that unquestioning obedience confirmed to Francis that Fio Bou-raiy had strengthened his position considerably at St.-Mere-Abelle in the days since Markwart’s departure for Palmaris.

Francis, too, then started to rise, but Bou-raiy subtly motioned to him to hold back. In a matter of moments, the two were alone.

“I have secured all of those brothers who returned with you,” Bou-raiy explained.

“Secured?”

“Separated them from their peers,” Bou-raiy explained, and Francis’ face grew tight. “That we might ensure their understanding of what they have seen.”

“Concerning the plague,” Francis reasoned.

“Concerning a sick woman and a scarred goblin,” Bou-raiy corrected.

“I am not unversed in matters of the rosy plague,” Francis curtly replied.

“Nor do I doubt your claims,” Bou-raiy was quick to respond. “But, dear brother, do you understand the implications of your discovery? Do you realize the problems, the panic, the ostracism, the stonings, perhaps, that such information could propagate if it became generally known throughout the land?”

“That is why I only quietly relayed my beliefs to Laird Dinnishire,” Francis replied.

“Yet you would have those fears spoken openly at St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“We are the chosen of God,” Francis reasoned, “the shepherds of the common folk, the protectors.…”

Bou-raiy snorted, shaking his head. “Protectors?” he echoed skeptically. “Protectors? There are no protectors against the rosy plague, Master Francis. Are we to protect the people by alarming them?”

“Warning them,” Francis corrected.

“To what end? That they might see death coming? That they might live in fear of their neighbors or of their own children?”

“We are to sit quietly, then, and take no action?” Francis asked.

“I do not doubt your observations, though I caution you that many other diseases resemble the rosy plague,” Bou-raiy explained. “And perhaps this is some other sickness, since the goblins apparently escaped the disease alive. Yes, we shall take precautions here at St.-Mere-Abelle, and perhaps we will send word to the other abbots that they, too, might open their gates only to a select few.”

Francis, full of frustration, rose quickly, his chair sliding out behind him. “What about them?” he demanded, swinging his arm wide, as if to encompass the whole world.

Bou-raiy, too, rose from his chair, slowly and deliberately, hand planted firmly on the table and leaning forward, so that even though he was nearly ten feet away
from Francis, the younger man felt his presence. “We do not know that it
was
the rosy plague,” he said. “And if it is indeed, then we do not know how widespread it is, or will become. You are versed in the history of the plague, you say. Then you know that there have been instances when it has scoured the world and other times when it struck in select places, then disappeared of its own accord.”

“And how are we to know which this will be, if we lock ourselves inside our abbeys and open our gates only to a select few?”

“By the passage of months, of years,” Bou-raiy answered solemnly. “Knowledge is not power in this matter, my friend, for our knowledge of the spreading plague, if it comes to that, will give us no power to slow it or to stop it.”

“The plague can be slowed,” Francis argued. “If those who are diseased remain apart from others—”

“This is something the people know already,” Bou-raiy reminded him. “And, in truth, it is a matter more for the King’s soldiers than the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle. You know the old song, I presume, rhyme and verse. You know what it says about the efficiency of gemstone magic against the rosy plague.”

Indeed, Master Francis Dellacourt knew the old words well, the old words of gloom and of complete disaster.

“One in twenty,” Francis admitted, for in all those times past, the best efforts of those brothers strongest in the gemstone magic had produced healing in one in twenty of those afflicted whom they treated. And the number of brothers who were then themselves infected because of their healing attempts actually outweighed the number of those healed!

“So what are we to do?” Master Bou-raiy said, and for the first time since his return, Francis noted some true empathy in the man’s strong voice. “But you fear too much, I believe,” he went on, patting Francis’ shoulder. “You have been through such trials, brother, that I fear you are overwhelmed and in need of rest. Perhaps what you witnessed were signs of the plague, and perhaps not. And even if it is so, it may be no more than a minor outbreak, afflicting a village or two, and nothing more.”

“You did not see the faces of the dead woman’s children,” Francis remarked.

“Death is a common visitor to Honce-the-Bear,” Bou-raiy replied, “in one form or another. Perhaps it has been much too common a visitor these last years—certainly our own Order has buried far too many brothers.”

The way he finished that sentence reminded Francis none too gently that, because of Francis’ choice, they were about to bury seven more.

“We will wait, and we will watch, and we will hope for the best,” Bou-raiy went on. “Because that is all we can do, and because we have other pressing business, duties to the Order and to the people, that we can perform.”

“Behind closed gates,” Francis remarked with sarcasm.

“Yes,” Bou-raiy answered simply, and to Francis, that matter-of-fact, callous attitude hit hard right in the heart, a poignant echo of another prominent brother he had recently buried.

Chapter 14
 

P
ONY RODE HER WONDERFUL
G
REYSTONE ALONG BESIDE THE WAGON
,
CHATTING
with Belster as he rolled and bounced along. The back of the rig was full of supplies—food and drinks, some extra clothing, and the kegs and other implements they’d need to rebuild Belster’s tavern in Dundalis, which they had just agreed would be named Fellowship Way.