DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (171 page)

He wanted to stay near and continue his eavesdropping, but realized then that time was short and that he would have to cover quite a bit of ground before the dawn. His spirit soared back to his waiting body, and when he was again corporeal, he breathed easier to learn that his out-of-body flight had not been noticed. All the camp was quiet.

Jojonah looked at the soul stone, wondering how to proceed. He might need this, he realized, but if he took it, then De’Unnero would likely make hunting him down a priority even above the journey to St. Precious. On the other hand, if he left the soul stone, then it might be used, much as he had used it this night, to search for him.

Jojonah found a third option. From inside the folds of his voluminous robes he produced parchment and ink, then set about writing a short note explaining that he was going to return to the merchant caravan and escort them to Palmaris. He would take the soul stone, he explained, because the merchants were far more likely to need it than were the monks, especially—and Jojonah took great care to play this part up—since the monks had Master De’Unnero, perhaps the greatest fighter ever to come out of St.-Mere-Abelle, at their head. Also, Jojonah assured De’Unnero that he would make sure that the merchants, and any compatriots they could muster, would attend the ceremony at St. Precious, bearing expensive gifts.

“My conscience will not allow me to leave these people out here all alone,” the note finished. “It is the duty of the Church to help those in need, and by so helping, we bring willing contributors into the flock.”

He hoped that the emphasis on wealth and power would calm De’Unnero’s expectedly vicious response. But he couldn’t really worry about that now, not with these three people, so potentially important to everything that he held dear, so very near. Carrying only the soul stone and a small knife, he crept out of the camp, taking care not to be noticed, and set out as fast as his old frame would carry him, back to the east.

His first destination was the valley where the merchants had settled, so he could get his bearings, and also from an honest desire to check in on the battered caravan. When he drew near the place, he found another potential gain. Improvising, Master Jojonah cut a piece of his robe, not a difficult thing to do since the material had grown threadbare from his many days of traveling. He broke a few low branches and scuffled his feet about to make it seem as if a fight had occurred, then cut his own finger, carefully soaking the ripped material in blood and dripping some more about the area.

He quickly sealed the wound with the hematite, then moved over the ridge to the slope above the valley. The camp seemed peaceful enough, a couple of fires burning, several figures moving about calmly, so the monk took a moment to gauge his position, then set out.

He came in sight of the low-burning campfire before the dawn, and crept up. He didn’t want to startle these people, certainly not to alarm them, but he figured that his best chance was to get close enough for the woman to recognize him.

He was soon in the bushes about the small campsite, the fire clearly in sight. He thought that he had been silent, and was glad to see the two bedrolls bulging with forms. How to wake them, he wondered, without frightening them into action?

He decided to wait until the dawn, to let them wake up on their own, but even as he started to settle down for perhaps an hour’s wait, he sensed that he was being watched.

Master Jojonah spun about as the large form crashed in. Though Jojonah, like all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, was a trained fighter, in the blink of an eye he was on his back, the edge of a very fine sword pressed against his throat, the strong man on top of him, pinning him helplessly.

Jojonah made no move to resist, and the man, upon recognizing him, backed off slightly.

“No others in the area,” came a melodic voice—the elf, Jojonah presumed.

“Master Jojonah!” the woman said, coming into view. She rushed over and put a hand on the strong ranger’s shoulder, and with a look and a nod, Elbryan got up from the monk and offered his hand.

Jojonah took it and was pulled to his feet with such ease that the man’s strength, like his incredible agility, stunned him.

“Why are you here?” the woman asked.

Jojonah looked right into her eyes, their beauty and depth not diminished in the least by the dim light. “Why are you?” he asked, and his tone, one that showed such understanding, gave both Pony and Elbryan pause.

“Brother Talumus,” Baron Bildeborough went on slowly, calmly, his tone a futile attempt to hide the agitation that bubbled just beneath the surface, “tell me again of Connor’s visit here, of every stop he made, of everything he inspected.”

The young monk, thoroughly flustered, for it was obvious he wasn’t giving the Baron what he wanted, started talking so fast and in so many different directions that his words came out as a jumble. Prompted by the Baron’s patting hand, the man stopped and took a deep and steadying breath.

“The abbot’s room first,” Talumus said slowly. “He was not pleased that we had cleaned it up, but what were we to do?” As he finished the sentence, his voice rose up again with excitement. “The abbot must be in public state—tradition demands it! And if we were to have guests at the abbey—oh, and streams of them!— then we could not leave the room all gory and torn up.”

“Of course not. Of course not,” Baron Bildeborough said repeatedly, trying to keep the monk calm.

Roger watched his new mentor closely, impressed by the man’s patience, by how he was keeping this blubbering monk somewhat on track. Still, Roger could see the underlying tension on Rochefort’s face, for the man now understood, as did Roger, that they would get few answers and little satisfaction here. St. Precious, with no ranking masters behind Abbot Dobrinion, was in absolute disarray, with monks running every which way, and discussion of this or that rumor taking the place of even the prayer times. One confirmed bit of news had proven especially unnerving to Roger and Rochefort: St. Precious would soon get a new abbot, a master from St.-Mere-Abelle.

To Roger and to Rochefort, that fact seemed to lend even more credence to Connor’s suspicions that the Father Abbot himself had been behind the murder.

“We left the powrie, though,” Brother Talumus went on, “at least until after Master Connor had departed.”

“And then Connor went to the kitchen?” Rochefort inquired gently.

“To Keleigh Leigh, yes,” replied Talumus. “Poor girl.”

“And she was not injured other than the drowning?” Roger dared to put in, looking directly at Rochefort as he spoke, though the question was obviously for Talumus. Roger had previously explained to Rochefort that Keleigh Leigh’s lack of cuts—for dipping berets—had been a primary clue to Connor that the powrie had not committed these crimes.

“No,” replied Talumus.

“None of her blood was spilled?”

“No.”

“Go and find me the person who first discovered her body,” Baron Bildeborough instructed. “And be quick.”

Brother Talumus scrambled to his feet, saluted and bowed, then ran from the room.

“The monk who found her will likely have little to tell us,” Roger remarked, surprised by the Baron’s request.

“Forget the monk,” Rochefort explained. “I only sent Brother Talumus that we might find a few minutes alone. We must decide upon our course, my friend, and quickly.”

“We should not tell them of Connor’s suspicions, or of his demise,” Roger said after a few seconds’ pause. Baron Bildeborough was nodding as he went on. “They are helpless in the face of this. Not a single monk here, if Talumus is the highest-ranking remaining, could possibly stand against the coming master of St.-Mere-Abelle.”

“It does seem that Abbot Dobrinion was lax in developing any talents in his lessers,” Rochefort agreed. He gave a snort. “Though I might enjoy the sheer tumult of telling Talumus and all the others that St.-Mere-Abelle murdered their beloved abbot.”

“Not much of a fight,” Roger put in dryly. “From all that Connor told me of the Church, St.-Mere-Abelle would quickly dismantle the order at St. Precious, and then the Father Abbot would be even more entrenched in Palmaris than he will be when the new abbot arrives.”

“True enough,” Baron Bildeborough admitted with a sigh. He brightened his expression immediately for the sake of the two jittery monks entering the room, Talumus and the first witness. On with the questioning, he decided, but only for appearances—both he and Roger knew they would learn nothing more from this man or any other at St. Precious.

The two were back at Chasewind Manor soon after, Rochefort pacing the floor while Roger sat upon the man’s favorite stuffed chair.

“Ursal is a long ride,” Rochefort was saying. “Of course, I will want you with me.”

“Will we actually meet the King?” Roger asked, a bit overwhelmed by that possibility.

“Oh, but King Danube Brock Ursal is a good friend, Roger,” replied the Baron. “A good friend. He will grant me audience and will believe me, do not doubt. Whether or not he will be able to take any overt action given the lack of evidence—”

“I was a witness!” Roger protested. “I saw the monk kill Connor.”

“Perhaps you bear false witness.”

“You do not believe me?”

“Of course I do!” the Baron replied, again giving that customary pat in the air with his plump hand. “Indeed, boy, else why would I have gone to so much trouble? Why would I have given you Greystone and Defender? If I didn’t trust you, boy, you would be in chains, and tortured until I was convinced that you were speaking truly.”

The Baron paused and looked at Roger more closely. “Where is that sword?” he asked.

Roger shifted uncomfortably. Had he just compromised that trust? he wondered. “Both sword and horse have been put to good use,” he explained.

“By whom?” the Baron demanded.

“By Jilly,” Roger was quick to reply. “Her road is darker still, and fraught with battle, I fear. I gave them over to her, for I am no rider, nor much of a swordsman.”

“Both can be taught,” the Baron grumbled.

“But we’ve not the time,” Roger replied. “And Jilly can put them to good use at once. Do not doubt her prowess …” Roger paused, trying to gauge the great man’s reaction.

“Again I trust in your judgment,” the Baron said at length. “So we’ll not speak of this again. Now back to our primary business. I believe you—of course I do. But Danube Brock Ursal will be more cautious in his acceptance, do not doubt. Do you realize the implications of our claims? If King Danube accepted them as truth and spoke of them publicly, he might well begin a war between Church and state, a bloodbath that neither side desires.”

“But one that the Father Abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle began,” Roger reminded.

A cloud passed over Baron Rochefort Bildeborough’s face then, and he seemed to Roger so very old and tired indeed. “And so we must go south, it would seem,” he said.

A knock on the door cut short Roger’s response.

“My Baron,” said an attendant, entering, “word has just come to us that the new abbot of St. Precious has arrived. Master De’Unnero, by name.”

“Do you know of him?” the Baron asked Roger, who only shook his head.

“He has already requested your audience,” the attendant went on. “At St. Precious this very afternoon at high tea.”

Bildeborough nodded and the attendant left the room.

“I must hurry, it would seem,” the Baron remarked, glancing out the window at the westering sun.

“I will accompany you,” Roger said, rising from the stuffed chair.

“No,” Bildeborough replied. “Though I would indeed welcome your impressions of this man. But if the depth of this heinous conspiracy is as far-reaching as we fear, then better that I go alone. Let the name and face of Roger Billingsbury remain unknown to Abbot De’Unnero.”

Roger wanted to argue, but he knew that the man was right, and knew, too, that Bildeborough’s answer for not taking him was only half of the reason. Roger understood that he was still young and very inexperienced in matters politic, and Bildeborough feared— and Roger could not honestly dismiss those fears as folly—that this new abbot might glean a bit too much information from their high tea.

So Roger sat and waited at Chasewind Manor for the rest of that afternoon.

Mid-Calember was not so far away. Not when Father Abbot Markwart considered the preparations he must make for the momentous proclamations he intended. The old and wrinkled man paced his office at St.-Mere-Abelle, pausing every time he passed the window to view the summer foliage. The events of the last few weeks, particularly the discovery at the Barbacan and the trouble in Palmaris, had forced Markwart to change his thinking on many matters, or at least to accelerate his maneuvers toward his long-term goals.

With Dobrinion gone, the makeup of the College of Abbots had changed dramatically. Though he would be a new abbot, De’Unnero, by the mere fact that he presided over St. Precious, would be granted a strong voice at the College, possibly even third behind only Markwart and Je’howith of St. Honce. That would give Markwart great power to strike hard.