DemonWars Saga Volume 1 (172 page)

The old cleric smiled wickedly as he fantasized about that meeting. At the College of Abbots he would forever discredit Avelyn Desbris, would brand the man indelibly as a heretic. Yes, that was important, Markwart realized, for if he did not pass such sanctions against Avelyn, then the man’s actions would remain open for interpretation. As long as the brand of heretic had not been formalized, all of the monks, even first-year brothers, remained free to discuss the events of Avelyn’s departure, and that was a dangerous thing. Would some be sympathetic to the man? Might the word “escape” wriggle into such discussions in place of the commonly described murder and theft?

Yes, the sooner he made the declaration of heresy and it was approved by the Church leaders, the better. Once the brand was formalized, no discussion of Avelyn Desbris in any positive light would be tolerated at any abbey or chapel. Once Avelyn was declared a heretic, his entry into the annals of Church history would be complete, and ultimately damning.

Markwart blew a long sigh as he considered the road to that coveted goal. He would be opposed, he suspected, by stubborn Master Jojonah—if the man lived that long.

Markwart dismissed the possibility of yet another assassination; if all of his known enemies began dying, then probing eyes would likely turn his way. And besides, he knew that Jojonah was not alone in his beliefs. He could not strike out that hard. Not yet.

But he had to be prepared should the fight come to pass. He had to be able to prove his point about Avelyn’s heresy, for the devastation at the Barbacan was certainly open to interpretation. It was true, and indisputable, that Siherton had been killed on the night of Avelyn’s flight from St.-Mere-Abelle, but in that, too, Jojonah might be able to find some argument. Intent, and not mere action, determined sin, and only true sin could brand a man a heretic.

Thus Markwart knew he would have to prove more than his interpretation of the events on the night when Avelyn absconded with the stones. To get the complete confirmation of that brand—a brand the Church had never been quick to hand out—he would have to prove that Avelyn subsequently used those stones for ill, that the man’s degeneration to the dark side of human nature was complete. But he would never quiet Jojonah, Markwart realized. The man would fight him concerning Avelyn Desbris, would deny his plans to the last. Yes, he saw that now; Jojonah would return with the College of Abbots and would fight him. They were long overdue for that confrontation. Thus Markwart decided that he would have to destroy the master, and not just the man’s argument.

Markwart knew exactly where he could find allies to that cause, a preemptive strike against Jojonah. Abbot Je’howith of St. Honce held a position as a close adviser to the King, and could access that power, in the form of the fanatical Allheart Brigade. All that he had to do, Markwart thought, was prep Je’howith properly, have him bring along a few of those merciless warriors…

Satisfied, the Father Abbot turned his thoughts to the issue of Avelyn. He did have one remaining witness to Avelyn’s actions, Bradwarden, but from his interrogations of the centaur, both verbal and with the soul stone, he had a fair measure of the beast’s considerable willpower and feared that Bradwarden would not break, no matter how brutally they tortured him.

With that in mind, the Father Abbot moved to his desk and made a note to Brother Francis that he should work ceaselessly with the centaur until the College convened. If they couldn’t trust that Bradwarden had indeed broken and would say whatever they told him to say, then the centaur would be killed before the distinguished guests arrived.

Markwart realized yet another problem as he penned that note. Francis was a ninth-year brother, yet only immaculates and abbots would be allowed to attend the College. Markwart wanted Francis there; the man had his limitations, but he was loyal enough.

The Father Abbot ripped a corner of the parchment and noted a reminder, “IBF,” to himself, then tucked it away. As he had broken protocol, due to the emergency of the war, in appointing De’Unnero as abbot of St. Precious and in sending Jojonah to the Palmaris abbey to serve as De’Unnero’s second, so he would promote Brother Francis to the rank of immaculate.

Immaculate Brother Francis.

Markwart liked the sound of that, liked the notion of increasing the power of those who obeyed him without question. His explanation for the premature appointment would be simple, and surely accepted: with two masters sent to bolster St. Precious, St.-Mere-Abelle had been left weak at the top echelons. Though the abbey boasted scores of immaculates, few had attained the credentials necessary for promotion to the rank of master, few even continued to strive for such a rank, and Francis, given his vital work with the caravan to the Barbacan, would strengthen that stable considerably.

Yes, the Father Abbot mused. He would promote Francis before the College, and then again, soon after, to the rank of master, to replace…

… Jojonah, he decided, instead of De’Unnero. For De’Unnero’s replacement he would look among the scores of immaculates, perhaps even to Braumin Herde, who was deserving even if his choice of mentors had left a great deal to be desired. Still, with Jojonah so far away and unlikely to ever return—except for the three weeks of the College—Markwart figured that he might be able to bring Braumin Herde tighter into the fold by tempting him with the coveted rank.

The Father Abbot’s step lightened as he waded through these problems, as solutions became all too apparent. This new insight he had found, this new level of inner guidance, seemed nothing short of miraculous. Every layer of intrigue seemed to fall away, leaving him with answers crystal clear.

Except for the problem of branding Avelyn quickly, he reminded himself, and he slapped his hand against his desk in frustration. No, Bradwarden would not break, would remain defiant until the bitter end. Markwart, for the first time, lamented the loss of the Chilichunks, for they, he knew, would have been so much easier to control.

An image came to him then, of the small library wherein Jojonah had been digging for information about Brother Allabarnet. Markwart saw the room clearly in his mind, and couldn’t understand why—until one area of the back corner, a distant, unused shelf, came clear in the image.

Markwart followed his instincts, followed the inner guidance, first to his desk to retrieve some gemstones, then down from his office, down the damp and dark stairs that led to the ancient library. No guards were posted now, for Jojonah was supposedly far away, and Markwart, glowing diamond in hand, entered cautiously. He went past the shelves of books to the back corner, to the books which the Church had long ago banned. He knew logically that even he, the Father Abbot, should not be perusing these, but that inner voice promised him answers to his dilemma.

He studied the shelf for a few minutes, glancing at every tome, at the labels of every rolled parchment, then closed his eyes and replayed those images.

His eyes stayed closed, but he lifted his hand, trusting that it was being guided to the book he needed. Grasping gently but firmly, Markwart tucked the prize under his arm and shuffled away, and was back in the privacy of his office before he even inspected the work,The Incantations Sorcerous.

Roger expected that the Baron would be gone late into the evening, and was rather surprised when the man returned long before the sun had even touched the horizon. He went to meet Bildeborough full of hope that all had gone well, but those hopes were deflated as soon as he saw the huge man, huffing and puffing, his face red from explosive rage.

“In all my years, I have never met a more unpleasant man, let alone a supposed holy man!” Rochefort Bildeborough fumed, storming out of the foyer and into his audience room.

Roger, following quickly, thought he might have to take a second choice of seat this time, for the Baron plopped into his stuffed chair. But then the huge man was right back to his feet, pacing anxiously, and so Roger slipped in behind him to take what was fast becoming his customary seat.

“He warned me!” Baron Bildeborough fumed. “Me! The Baron of Palmaris, friend of Danube Brock Ursal himself!”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, it started well enough,” Bildeborough explained, slapping his hands together. “All polite, with this De’Unnero creature hopeful that the transition would be smooth as he took his place in St. Precious. He said that we might work together—” Bildeborough paused and Roger sucked in his breath, recognizing that some important declaration was forthcoming. “—despite the apparent shortcomings and criminal behavior of my nephew!” the Baronexploded, Stomping his feet and punching at the air. The exertion overwhelmed him almost immediately, and Roger was quick to his side, helping him into the comfortable chair.

“The dog!” Bildeborough went on. “He does not know of Connor’s death, I am sure, though he will certainly learn of it soon. He offered to pardon Connor, on my word that Connor would be more careful of his behavior in the future. Pardon him!”

Roger worked hard to keep the man calm then, fearing that he would simply die of his rage. His face was puffy and bloodred, his eyes wide.

“The best thing that we can do is to go to the King,” Roger calmly said. “We have allies that the new abbot cannot overcome. We can clear Connor’s name—indeed, we can put all the blame for these troubles where it rightly belongs.”

The reminder did calm the Baron considerably. “Off we go,” he said. “To the south, with all speed. Tell my attendants to prepare my coach.”

De’Unnero had not underestimated Baron Bildeborough in the least. His forceful demeanor at their meeting had been purposefully designed to garner both information from the man and understanding of the Baron’s political leaning, and in De’Unnero’s sharp eyes, their conversation had been extremely successful on both counts. Bildeborough’s outrage showed that he, too, might prove an open enemy of the Church, more troublesome than either his nephew or Abbot Dobrinion.

And De’Unnero was smart enough to understand the true culprit behind the removal of those troubles.

For, despite his words at the meeting, De’Unnero did indeed know of the death of Connor Bildeborough, and he knew, too, that a young man had brought the body back to Palmaris, along with the body of a man dressed in the robes of an Abellican monk. Again the angry abbot lamented that Father Abbot Markwart had erred in not sending him on the most important mission to retrieve the stones. Had he gone in search of Avelyn, this issue would have been settled long ago, with the gemstones returned and Avelyn and all of his friends dead. How much less a problem Bildeborough would be to him, and to the Church!

For now Markwart and the Church had a problem, a big one, De’Unnero believed. According to those monks of St. Precious whom De’Unnero had already interviewed, and those of St.-Mere-Abelle who had witnessed the near battle in St. Precious’ courtyard, Baron Bildeborough had thought of Connor as a son. The accusation of murder had no doubt been laid at the Church’s door, and Bildeborough, whose influence went out far from Palmaris, would not be silent on this matter.

The new abbot was not surprised, then, when one of his flock, a fellow monk who had made the journey with De’Unnero from St.-Mere-Abelle, returned from his assigned scouting post to report that a carriage had left Chasewind Manor, riding south, right out of Palmaris, along the river road.

The new abbot’s other spies soon returned, confirming the story, one of them insisting that Baron Bildeborough himself was in that coach.

De’Unnero did not betray his emotions, remained calm and went through the few remaining evening rituals as though nothing was amiss. He went to his room early, explaining that he was weary from the ride, a perfectly plausible excuse.

“This is where I hold advantage even over you, Father Abbot,” the abbot of St. Precious remarked as he looked out his window to the Palmaris night. “I need no lackeys for my dark business.”

He pulled off his telltale robes and dressed in a loose-fitting suit of black material, then pushed open the grate on the window and climbed out, disappearing into the shadows. Moments later he crouched in an alleyway, his favorite gemstone in hand.

De’Unnero fell into the stone, felt the exquisite pain as the bones in his hands and arms began to reshape and twist. And then, spurred by the sheer excitement of the coming hunt, the sheer ecstasy that he could finally act, he fell deeper, and quickly kicked off his shoes as his legs and feet, too, transformed into the hind legs and paws of a tiger. He felt as if he was losing himself in the magic, becoming one with the stone. All his body jerked and spasmed. He raked a paw across his chest, tearing wide his clothing.

Then he was on all fours, and when he tried to protest, a great growl came out of his feline maw.

Never had he gone this far!

But it was wonderful!

The power, oh, the power! He was the hunting tiger now, in body, and all of that sheer power was under his absolute control. Soon he was running swiftly and silently on padded feet, bounding over the high Palmaris wall with ease and charging off down the southern road.

*

On the very first pages, the general description of the tome, the Father Abbot understood. Only a few months before, Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart would have been horrified at the thought.

But that was before he had found the “inner guidance” of Bestesbulzibar.

He reverently placed the book away in the lowest drawer of his desk, locking it tight.

“First business at hand,” he said aloud, drawing clean parchment and a vial of black ink from another drawer. He unrolled the parchment and secured its ends with weights, then stared at it for a long time, trying to determine the best manner of wording. With a nod, he titled the paper:

Promotion of Brother Francis Dellacourt to Immaculate Brother

The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle