DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (59 page)

Dellman smiled, too, but both of the men turned their lips down quickly into most profound frowns when Haney unrolled the parchment.

“Grave news,” Warder Presso said, seeing it clearly from their expressions.

Abbot Haney was trembling as he handed the parchment to Presso, who took it, thinking that perhaps their dear friend Agronguerre had died.

When he read the words, a warning about the rosy plague, the warder—who was a friend of Agronguerre’s and admired the man greatly—wished that his initial fears had been correct.

“I trust that you will be discreet with this information,” Brother Dellman remarked. It struck Presso from the look that Dellman gave Haney that he wasn’t pleased that his abbot had so readily turned over the letter. “If we are too quick to spread this grave news, it could cause panic.”

“And of course, only King’s men and Church members should be so privileged,” Warder Presso said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“That is not what I said.”

“But is it not what you meant?”

“Enough,” Haney demanded of them both. “Deliver that at once to Prince Midalis, I pray you, Warder Presso,” he instructed. “If he wishes to meet with us that we can coordinate our efforts to spread such dire news, then, of course, I—we,” he added, glancing up at Dellman, “will be available.”

Presso nodded, gave a slight bow, then started to turn, but paused and looked back at Dellman. “Forgive me, brother,” he said sincerely. “Blame my surly words on my surprise at reading such unexpected and tragic news.”

“And my own for so responding,” said Dellman with a polite bow.

Prince Midalis met with Abbot Haney that same evening, but not before issuing a general blockade of Pireth Vanguard. No ships were to be allowed in, not even to the long dock, and no goods unloaded.

Abbot Haney agreed, and the next morning, the two leaders broke the devastating news to the general population of Vanguard. Also, that same day, Midalis sent runners north to alert the Alpinadorans of the pending disaster. And thus was the northeastern quarter of Honce-the-Bear shut down.

Visitors were no longer welcome in the land that prided itself on camaraderie and friendship.

T
he cart slogged along trails that were mud where the sun hit them and ice where it did not. Greystone tugged at the harness without protest, eager to please the driver, Pony.

And she urged the horse on with all speed, though she tried to pick as smooth a path as she could find. Behind her, wrapped in blankets but cold and miserable nonetheless, Colleen Kilronney groaned and coughed.

Pony tried to block out those pitiful sounds and focus on the road ahead, the road south to Palmaris, to St. Precious, to somewhere Pony might find someone and some way to help her mortally ill friend.

She glanced west, to the dark clouds that had risen over the horizon as the afternoon had drawn on, and second-guessed her decision to set out from Caer Tinella. She little feared weather this early in the season if it was just herself and Greystone, but how would she keep Colleen warm if the snows forced them off the road? And surely her friend would not survive a cold, wet night.

And so she rode on, after the sun went down, and wishing that she had a magical diamond that she might light the path before her!

Later on snow began to fall and a cold, cold wind rushed down; and Pony wished even more for that magical diamond, that she could call a warming glow to comfort her poor friend.

She set a torch blazing and drove on, trying to outrun the storm, to get far enough south so that it would be a more gentle event, rain, perhaps.

But the snow kept falling, wet snow, clumping on the wagon and wheels, weighing down Greystone’s load. It settled over the trail, making the ice even more slippery and more treacherous in the dark.

Pony knew that she could not stop. She had seventy miles of road before her to get to Palmaris, Colleen’s only chance. Gently but firmly she bade Greystone continue, and the valiant horse trudged along.

The night deepened and the snow continued, accumulating on the road, making progress more difficult, bringing a bright sheen to poor Greystone’s blond coat. Pony knew that she had to press on, but knew, too, that if she did, Greystone would likely fall over and die. She and her horse could not make it alone.

She pulled up at the side of the trail and brought her torch back, tucking the blankets tightly about Colleen, trying to keep her as warm as possible. Then she ran to Greystone and unhitched him and walked him, trying to cool him down slowly and safely.

And all the while, she wondered what she could do next. How could she save Colleen?

Her soul stone seemed the only answer. Perhaps she could reach out and find some nearby help. Of course, if she was honest with any nearby farmers or woodsmen, they wouldn’t likely come anywhere near her or Colleen. Perhaps she could swap a horse with them, though she’d hate to part with wonderful Greystone.

She came back to the wagon then, deciding that the soul stone was her only option. She reached into her pouch and produced the hematite, and fell into it immediately, using its magic to free her of her corporeal form. For a moment, she thought of going at Colleen’s tiny disease demons again, but the memory of the previous encounter left her weak. So she went out, searching, searching.

And she found her answer—her wonderful, amazing answer—in but a few moments, as she encountered another spirit, strong and natural: the thoughts of magnificent Symphony, nearby and running hard toward her. Pony felt the horse keenly, understood so clearly that it was indeed Symphony, and recognized clearly Symphony’s intent to come to her aid. She suspected that she had touched the turquoise bond with her hematite reach, and a miraculous bond it was!

She rushed back into her corporeal form, then over to Colleen, lighting a fire, tucking in her blankets, kissing her on the forehead and telling her that it would be all right.

Symphony arrived soon after, snorting and pawing the ground. Pony wondered if she could manipulate the harness and rope so that both horses could pull the wagon, but she gave up on the idea quickly, mostly because she sensed Symphony’s impatience, almost as if the horse understood her needs and was assuring her that he could fulfill them.

She harnessed him up and tied Greystone to the back. Though the snow continued, even intensified, the wagon was rolling again, and swiftly, with Symphony plowing forward.

A dull sunrise came and went, and still they rolled on. Soon they came to muddier
ground, and the snow became cold rain, and still they rolled on.

Symphony pulled tirelessly, through the morning and into the afternoon, and then, amazingly to Pony, she saw the farmhouses increasing in number along the rolling hills, and knew that she would see Palmaris over the very next rise.

Down they went, gaining speed with the goal in sight. The guards at the city’s northern gate motioned for the wagon to stop, and Pony called out to them to let her pass. “Without delay!” she cried. “I am Jilseponie Wyndon—you know me—and you know the person I carry to the healing doors of St. Precious. Colleen Kilronney, she is: a friend to any soldier of Palmaris!”

The soldiers bustled about and seemed unsure what to do, until one of them took careful note of the black, white-booted stallion pulling her wagon, and cried out, “Symphony!” They knew then that it was indeed Pony returned to them, and they threw the gates wide. Several mounted their own horses and led Pony’s wagon through the winding streets of Palmaris, clearing the road all the way to the doors of St. Precious.

The brothers who met the unexpected caravan reacted with equal fervor, bringing Abbot Braumin and the other leaders, Viscenti, Talumus, and Castinagis, in short order.

Pony saw the bed of flowers laid out in front of the abbey, half buried by wet snow, most of them dead. Shaking her head, she came down from the wagon and fell into Braumin’s arms. “Help her,” she pleaded, and then, overcome with exhaustion, Pony collapsed.

She awoke in a plain but comfortable cot, dressed only in a long white shirt, but covered by many thick blankets. She was in the abbey, she recognized by the narrow, rectangular window and the plain, gray stone walls. A shaft of sunlight streaming in through that narrow window told her that the storm had ended.

Pony pulled herself out of bed and went over to the window, looking out to the Masur Delaval and the rising sun. Only then did she realize that she had slept for the better part of an entire day, and only then did she remember the harrowing journey through the dark night and the snow.

She searched for her clothes, but, finding none, wrapped a blanket about her and charged out of the room. She knew the layout of St. Precious well from her days there after the fight at Chasewind Manor, and so she ran straight off for Abbot Braumin’s office.

He was there, along with Viscenti and Talumus, arguing over some philosophical point concerning the origin of Man and how the Original Man had become diversified into the various races: Alpinadoran, Bearman, Behrenese, and To-gai-ru.

That conversation ended abruptly when Pony came crashing through the door.

“Jilseponie,” Abbot Braumin said. “How good it does my heart to see you awake and well. Ah, yes, your clothing—”

“Where is she?” Pony asked.

Abbot Braumin looked at her curiously for just a moment, and then a cloud passed over his face. He looked at his two companions, nodding for them to leave
the room.

They both did so without question, Viscenti pausing only long enough to drop a comforting pat on Pony’s shoulder.

Then the door shut hard behind her, and Pony nearly jumped off the floor. Hardly able to draw breath, she asked again, more somberly, “Where is she?”

“She is very ill,” Abbot Braumin replied, standing up and coming around the desk. He moved near Pony, but she visibly stiffened and so he sat instead on the edge of his desk.

“Is?” Pony echoed. “Then she is still alive.”

Abbot Braumin nodded. “But not for long, I fear.”

Pony started to respond, but nearly choked as Braumin’s blunt response registered fully.

“She is afflicted with the rosy plague,” Braumin said quietly. “The red spots, the fever … there can be no doubt.”

Pony was nodding with each word. “I was told as much already,” she said.

“But you do not understand what that means, I fear,” Braumin replied, “else you would not have driven so hard to bring her here.”

Pony stared at him incredulously. “Where, then?” she asked. “Where am I to bring one so ill if not to St. Precious Abbey? Who am I to turn to for help if not Abbot Braumin Herde, my friend?”

Braumin put his hand up in the air as she spoke the words—words obviously painful for him to hear. “The rosy plague,” he said again. “Do you not know the song?”

Pony stared at him curiously, and Braumin began to sing the children’s rhyme.

Pony continued to stare, but the words began to sink in, began to ring in her heart the truth about her doomed friend. “Where, then?” she asked weakly.

Braumin came forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. “You make her comfortable, as much as possible, and you say good-bye,” he whispered.

Pony let that hug linger for a long, long while, needing the support. Finally she pushed Braumin back far enough so that she could look into his compassionate face. “Where is she?” she asked quietly.

“There is a house not so far from here that already knows the plague,” Braumin started to explain.

“She is not within St. Precious?” Pony asked, her voice rising with her surprise.

“I could not,” Braumin answered. “I should not have let you in so soon after you spent such intimate time with her.”

Pony’s eyes widened.

“But I could not refuse you,” Braumin went on. “Never that! And yet you must understand that I had to send several brothers to you with soul stones, to search your body for signs of the plague. Still, I should not have let you in, in accordance with Abellican canon.”

Pony’s eyes stayed very wide.

“Did you not understand the words of the rhyme?” Braumin asked, turning away from her with a withering glare. “One in twenty we may help, but one in seven will afflict the tending monk. The words are true. We of the Order, even with the gifts of God’s gemstones, cannot wage battle against the rosy plague.”

“One in twenty, you say,” Pony replied, a distinct edge to her voice. “Will you not, then, try? For Colleen? For me?”

“I cannot. Nor can any of my brethren. Nor should you.”

“Is she not your friend?”

“I cannot.”

“Did she not stand strong with us against the darkness of Markwart?”

“I cannot.”

“Did she not escape De’Unnero, to spread news of my capture and of the march to the north?”

“I cannot.”

“Did she not suffer imprisonment without denouncing us, or Avelyn, or any of the principles that we held dear?” Pony continued to press, coming closer with each statement, so that she was, by this time, leaning heavily over the desk, staring Braumin in the eye from a distance of less than a foot.

“I cannot!” Braumin answered with even more emphasis. “It is our law, without exception.”

“It is a bad law,” Pony accused.

“Perhaps,” said Braumin, “but one without exception. If the King of Honce-the-Bear became ill with plague, the Abellican Church would offer only prayers. If the Father Abbot became ill with plague, he would be forced out of St.-Mere-Abelle, beyond the tussie-mussie bed.” Braumin settled back, his voice going low
and somber. “There is but one exception I would make. If you, Jilseponie, became ill with plague, I would abdicate my post and my calling, take one soul stone in hand, and would go to you with all my heart and soul.”