DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (76 page)

“What is it?” the Duke asked, but the man did not—seemed as if he
could
not—respond. He continued backing, almost to the door.

“Speak up, fool,” Tetrafel demanded. “What is—”

The man turned and bolted from the room.

Still on the floor amid the tumble of blankets, Tetrafel stared at the open door for a long time, wondering.

And then it hit him, and then the variation of his too-common dream made perfect sense. Slowly, slowly, he brought his arm back in and turned it over.

Rosy spots.

His screams came even more loudly than before.

A
bbot Braumin rubbed his hands together nervously as he walked along the quiet corridors of St. Precious. The day had not been good, not at all, with devastating
rumors rolling along the unruly streets of Palmaris. And now this news, of a secret visitor that Viscenti had considered important enough to be admitted to the abbey—quietly and after a thorough gemstone inspection.

The abbot came to the door and paused, taking a deep and steadying breath, trying to find his heart. He pushed through, to find Shamus Kilronney waiting for him.

“Brother Viscenti claims that you are packed for the road,” the abbot said, trying to keep his tone lighthearted.

“As long a road as I can find, my friend,” Shamus said, coming forward and offering a handshake to the abbot. “I have seen too much of all this. I have no heart left for it.”

“Palmaris will be a lesser place without you,” Braumin remarked.

“Palmaris will be a place of catastrophe whether I remain or not,” Shamus corrected. “You have heard the rumors?”

“I hear many rumors every day,” said Braumin. “I cannot begin to sort fact from fancy.”

Shamus nodded and chuckled, and Braumin knew that the man understood his evasiveness for what it was. He had indeed heard the specific rumor to which Shamus Kilronney must be referring, and his obvious dodge made that truth quite clear.

“It is more than rumor,” Shamus said gravely. “Duke Tetrafel has the plague and is even now in a fit of panic at Chasewind Manor.”

“As he should be,” Braumin said with sincere sympathy.

“He will turn his eyes outward from his insecure sanctuary, will look to St. Precious for aid,” said Shamus.

“He and I have already discussed—”

“None of that will matter,” Shamus interrupted firmly. “His desperation will lead him to your gates, do not doubt.” He held his hand up to stop Braumin’s forthcoming, expected response. “And you will turn him away. I am leaving, my friend. I cannot suffer this catastrophe any longer.”

That last statement, linked with Shamus’ insistence that Tetrafel would come for help, explained it all to Braumin. The catastrophe to which Shamus was referring was not the plague itself but the coming storm when Duke Tetrafel realized that St. Precious would not help him. Shamus was foreseeing—and quite logically, it seemed to Braumin—the chaos that would ensue within the city, the all-out riot, even warfare, between Tetrafel and the abbey. To Braumin’s thinking, the brothers of St. Precious had already lost the city, a situation made even more dangerous by the arrival of De’Unnero and the Brothers Repentant. If Duke Tetrafel, instead of merely remaining neutral, actually put his muscle behind De’Unnero and the roused populace, then St. Precious would be hard pressed indeed!

“Where will you go?” Braumin asked his friend.

“North, perhaps,” Shamus answered, “to Caer Tinella, and maybe farther—maybe all the way to the Timberlands.”

“Is there nothing you can do to help us?” Braumin asked somberly.

“Is there nothing you can do to help Duke Tetrafel?” Shamus replied.

Abbot Braumin looked around, then rolled his eyes and shook his head helplessly. “Then pray for us, my friend,” he said.

Shamus Kilronney nodded, patted Braumin on the shoulder, and turned to go.

Abbot Braumin could not bring himself to judge the man, for in truth, he wished that he might run away with Shamus.

Chapter 38
 

F
RANCIS SLAPPED FUTILELY AT THE GREEN SWAMP OF PLAGUE THAT BUBBLED UP
all around his arms. He knew that this woman, too, was near death, but he could hardly bear the thought of watching yet another one die, the third in three days.

And so he fought, if not to buy some time for the poor infected woman, then to buy some time for his own shattered sensibilities.

Francis didn’t notice that the plague within this woman did not attack his spiritual presence with any vigor, and so he didn’t pause to wonder about this change and its implications.

He came out of his battle soon after, having done little good. He stared down at the poor woman, so close to death; and then, as he turned to leave, he found all the world suddenly spinning.

Francis hit the ground facedown.

H
uffing and puffing with every running stride, Father Abbot Agronguerre hurried to the front gate tower, where Bou-raiy, Machuso, Glendenhook, and many others had gathered. He pushed through the crowd of brothers to get to the wall, and peering over, beyond the tussie-mussie bed, he saw the spectacle that had so attracted them.

There lay Brother Francis, his head propped up by the one-eyed woman of whom so many demanded beatification.

“The plague has found Brother Francis,” Master Machuso softly explained.

“Ring around the rosy,” Master Bou-raiy said dryly. “The old songs do not lie.”

There came murmurs of assent from all about, with many hands moving through the evergreen gesture.

Father Abbot Agronguerre stared long and hard out over that misty morning field, thoroughly frustrated. He had been living vicariously through Francis, he understood, had been saluting the man’s courage and his few triumphs, and also, that greatest triumph of all: that he had been out among the plague victims working tirelessly, yet for all these months, had found miraculous immunity to the dreaded disease.

But now, in the blink of an eye, it seemed, all those notions of miracle had been washed away. There could be no doubt, even looking at him from this distance. Mere exhaustion alone had not felled Brother Francis.

“This is why we follow the precepts and heed the words of the old songs,” Fio Bou-raiy went on, turning as he spoke, as if making a speech to the whole gathering. “Our gift from our brothers who came before us lies in the wisdom that they passed down to us, and what greater fools are we if we do not heed their words!”

Again came the murmurs of assent, but it all sounded very wrong to Father Abbot Agronguerre. Not wrong in a practical matter, for he knew he would not run down then and there and throw wide the abbey gates. But wrong in a spiritual sense, in the very tone of Bou-raiy, excited and justified, and in those palpable sighs of relief from all gathered here in the relative safety behind thick stone walls and tussie-mussie aromas.

“Does it please you to see Brother Francis downed?” Agronguerre asked suddenly, the question, as it registered, widening Bou-raiy’s eyes with surprise and bringing a gasp of near disbelief from Glendenhook. Even Machuso shifted uncomfortably.

But Agronguerre would not relent so easily. “Every one of you take heed of Brother Francis and the sacrifice that he made,” he said forcefully, letting his gaze drift from surprised brother to brother. “If in your hearts, even secretly, you foster some relief, some justification of our course, in seeing Brother Francis stricken ill, if somewhere deep in your heart and soul you believe the man a fool deserving of such a fate, then I expect you at the sacrament of Penitence this very day. We hide because pragmatic Church doctrine demands it of us, but we, every one of us, should wish that we are possessed of such courage as Brother Francis’, that we are possessed of such compassion and generosity. We can look out upon him now, knowing that his end is near, and feel justification, or we can look out upon him now and feel sadness in losing a heroic brother.”

He finished with a deep breath, then, with a final look at Fio Bou-raiy, stormed out of the gate tower, needing the security of his own chambers.

Inside the gate tower, the mood was more somber and reflective, with many brothers murmuring and shaking their heads.

“So will you go to Penitence?” Master Glendenhook asked Bou-raiy.

The older master scoffed at the notion. “Brother Francis was guided by emotions that I cannot discredit,” he said, loudly enough to draw the attention of all the gathering, “but he erred in his thinking.”

That seemingly direct contradiction to what the Father Abbot had just said brought murmurs of surprise, even a few gasps.

“Believe not my words, for they are but opinion,” Bou-raiy went on, turning and sweeping his arm toward the spectacle beyond the wall. “Believe what you see before you. Brother Francis ignored doctrine because his heart was weak, because he was unable to suffer the wails of the dying. Nay, we cannot argue his emotions, but there before us lies the truth of his course. Perhaps his compassion and generosity, great gifts both, will grant him some measure of mercy in the eyes of God, whom he will soon meet; but he will need that mercy because he refused to accept the greater responsibility that has been thrust upon us—that legacy of constancy, of protecting the Church itself, and not our own fragile selves, against the onslaught of the rosy plague.

“Follow Francis, all of us, to the fields and to the grave?” he asked dramatically. “Aye, and then, in our weakness, do we plunge the future world of Corona into
complete and utter darkness!”

His departure was not less forceful or dramatic than Agronguerre’s.

Master Glendenhook, along with everyone else, watched Bou-raiy storm away. He had just witnessed the prelude to a titanic struggle, Glendenhook believed, for it seemed obvious to him then that his friend Fio Bou-raiy would not back down, would fight Agronguerre to the very end if the sight of fallen Francis began to weaken the old Father Abbot’s resolve.

An image of Agronguerre lying on the field in place of Francis came to Glendenhook’s mind then, and with new Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy watching the spectacle from the security of St.-Mere-Abelle.

At that particular moment, it seemed quite plausible.

B
rother Francis awakened to what he thought was the sound of angels singing, a chorus of joyous and beautiful harmonies fitting of heaven. When he opened his eyes, he saw that it was indeed.

Scores of pitiful plague-ridden peasants ringed him, their hands joined together, their voices blended in chanting prayer. He recognized some who had been too weak even to stand earlier the previous night; but with the support of their neighbors, they were standing now and smiling, every one, despite their pain.

Francis rolled to his side and with great effort managed to stand up, turning slowly, slowly, looking into the eyes of his angels, sharing their love and returning it with all his heart.

A fit of panic hit him then suddenly, as he realized that he did not have his precious soul stone. He glanced all around at the ground, hoping that someone from St.-Mere-Abelle had not sneaked out and stolen away with it.

But then, as if in answer to the plaintive expression upon his face, a frail and scarred, one-eyed little woman shuffled toward him with her hand extended, the gray stone upon her upraised palm.

“Thank you, Merry,” Francis whispered, taking the stone. “My work is not yet done.”

“They’re praying for yerself, Brother Francis,” Merry replied. “Every one’s sending ye his heart. Ye take yer stone and work upon yer own troubles.”

Francis smiled, but knew that was impossible, even if he had been so inclined, which he was not. He knew that he had the plague, and understood that it was growing ravenously within him, but Brother Francis was not bothered terribly by that harsh reality.

“We’re all singing for ye, Brother Francis,” Merry Cowsenfed went on. When he looked more closely at her, Francis realized that she had tears rimming her eye.

Tears for him! Francis had a hard time catching his breath. He could not believe how profoundly he had touched these poor people, could not believe that they so cared for him. He looked at them, looked at the dying, at people he could not save, at people who knew that he could not save them. And they were crying, for him! And they were praying, for him!

“We’re not to let the rosy plague take ye, Brother Francis,” Merry Cowsenfed said determinedly. “We’ll pray to God, we’ll yell at God! He’s not to be takin’ ye from us! Don’t ye fear, we’ll get ye yer miracle!”

Francis looked at her and offered the most sincere and warm smile that had ever found its way onto his often troubled face. No, they would not save him, he knew beyond doubt. He felt the sickness in him, bubbling and boiling. He could do nothing against it, even with his soul stone, and neither could they. It would take him, he knew, and deliver him to the feet of God for judgment.

For the first time in a long, long while, Brother Francis Dellacourt did not fear that judgment.

“We’ll get ye yer miracle!” Merry Cowsenfed said again loudly, and many people joined in that cheer.

They didn’t understand, Francis realized. They would indeed give him his miracle, but not the one for which they were now praying.