(own south, it was still autumn, but up here, in Alpinador and on the slopes of a steep mountain, winter had set in.
The stinging winds and snow hardly seemed to bother Andacanavar as he led Bruinhelde and Midalis. The ranger walked lightly, despite his years, despite the storm, as if he were more spirit than corporeal, as if he had somehow found a complete unity and harmony with naturesomething made even more painfully obvious to poor Prince Midalis, trudging on, plowing through the snow up to his knees.
Bruinhelde’s steps were even more strained, for the barbarian leader had not fully healed, and never would, the embedded arrowhead grinding painfully against his hipbone. Still, he had no trouble pacing Midalis, who was not used to such climbs nor such heights, for they were nearly two miles higher than Pireth Vanguard now, approaching the cave of the snowcrawler, the spirit shaggoth.
Finally, Andacanavar stopped and shielded his eyes with his hand, pointing to a windblown, rocky spur up ahead. “The opening,” he announced.
Midalis came up beside the ranger, staring hard, but he could not make out any opening in the snow and rocks.
“It is there,” Andacanavar assured him, seeing his doubtful expression.
“The home of the spirit shaggoth?”
The ranger nodded.
“How do you know? “ the Prince asked.
“Andacanavar has walked this range for many years,” Bruinhelde put in, catching up to them.
“But how do you know that the beast is still alive? “ Prince Midalis asked. “How many years have passed since you have seen the creature? “
“As long as men are alive, the spirit shaggoth is alive,” the ranger answered confidently. “With haste, now,” he said, starting away, “before the night catches us on the open face.”
251
There was indeed a cave entrance up ahead, though Midalis was practically on top of it before he even discerned it. Andacanavar led the way in, and they had to crawl beneath the low-hanging rock ceiling for some distance, along a dark, winding corridor-something that didn’t bring much comfort to the Prince, with a legendary monster supposedly residing just within!
They came into a chamber, dimly lit by daylight creeping in through a small opening where the overhanging rock of the western wall overlapped a bit but did not join with the western edge of the floor. It was a small room, barely large enough for the three to get apart without bumping elbows, with only two exits: the one they had crawled through and another tight tunnel across the way, this one ascending at a steep angle.
Andacanavar methodically went about his preparations, building a small fire near that tunnel. He produced a hunk of venison, a thick and juicy steak, and set it on a spit above the fire, then sat back, fanning the smoke, letting the aroma of cooking meat drift up the natural chimney.
“Whetting his appetite,” the ranger explained with a wink.
From his large pack, the ranger then brought forth the items the pair would need: two pairs of iron spurs, which angled downward rather than backward; a palm-sized ornate item of flint and steel; a metal pole tipped on both sides by lengths of chain; a pair of javelins, specially crafted to hook to the free end of each chain; and finally, reverently, a disc-shaped object wrapped in deerskin. The ranger put this on the ground before the three of them and spoke several prayers in his own tongue as he gently unfolded each layer of leather.
Prince Midalis stared at the revealed item curiously, at the beauty of the thing in light of the knowledge that it had been crafted by the fierce Alpinadorans. It was a burnished wooden hoop, holding within it what seemed like a spiderweb set with dozens and dozens of crystals, or diamonds, perhaps. In the very center, and suspended back from the web, was a single candle.
“What is it? “ he dared to ask.
“Your only hope of getting out of there alive,” the ranger answered with a wry grin. He lifted the hoop and the flint and steel, and with a flick of his fingers, created a spark that ignited the candle. Then he turned to face the other two, with the candle flame pointing toward him.
Slowly, Andacanavar moved the hoop, left and right. The crystals caught the candle’s flame and reflected it and brightened it and bent it into different colors so that Bruinhelde and Midalis felt as if they were sitting in the middle of a brilliant rainbow.
“Behold Towalloko,” the ranger said, and quiedy, so that his voice did not break the mounting trance, “the bringer of dreams.”
“Towalloko,” Midalis repeated softly, and he was falling, falling, deeper and deeper into the web of colors and images, his mind soaring from the cave on the side of the mountain to a different place, a quieter and more peaceful place.
With a puff, Andacanavar blew out the candle, and Midalis’ eyes popped wide as if he had just awakened from a restful sleep. He stared at Towalloko, trying to piece it all together. There was magic here, he knew, gemstone magic; and Andacanavar had spoken of the hoop as if it were one of the many Alpinadoran gods. And yet the Alpinadorans rejected the sacred stones outright and completely. Midalis furrowed his brow at the apparent contradiction. He stared hard at Andacanavar, seeking some explanation, but the ranger only smiled knowingly, and went back to sorting the many items.
Then the ranger explained, in precise detail, the procedure for this task that lay before the two leaders. The ritual of blood-brothering had ancient traditions in Alpinador, ever since the tribal ancestors, who worshiped the spirit shaggoth as the mountain god of snow, had captured the beast in this cave. Once, the feat of riding the creature had been a passage of manhood for every tribal youngster, but as the years had passed with many, many of the adolescent boys losing their lives or limbs in the attempt, the ritual had been moved to a more remote and even more special place in Alpinadoran culture, the blood-brothering.
This blood-brothering between Midalis and Bruinhelde, Andacanavar explained, would be the first in over a decade.
“And how did the last one end? “ a clearly worried Midalis asked.
Andacanavar only smiled.
“You are not to harm the shaggoth,” the ranger explained a moment later, “in no way, not even at the cost of your own life.”
Bruinhelde nodded, his jaw set, but Midalis gave a doubtful smirk.
“Not that you could bring harm to the great beast anyway,” Andacanavar said, his tone somber, “not even if you brought fine weapons in there with you. This is a test of your courage, not your warrior skills, and a test of your trust in each other. If either of you fails, then you both will surely die, and horribly.”
Midalis wanted to remark that he doubted Andacanavar would risk such a loss, but he held the thought and considered, then, that the ranger would not do this thing, would not bring them here and risk so very much, if he didn’t trust both Midalis and Bruinhelde. The Prince turned to regard this giant man who would become his blood-brother. In truth, he didn’t care much for stubborn Bruinhelde, found him driven by honor to the point of callousness, but he did trust the man would keep his word. And in battle, in any test where he had to depend upon the honor of an ally, Midalis couldn’t think of another man, except perhaps Liam, with whom he would rather be allied.
“Are you prepared to begin? “ the ranger asked solemnly; and both men, after a glance at each other, nodded. Andacanavar took a small pot out of his seemingly bottomless backpack, and then produced packets of various herbs from his many belt pouches. He poured them all together in the pot, added a little snow, and set it over the fire. Soon a sweet aroma filled the small chamber, permeating Midalis’ consciousness with rainbow dreams and blurring images.
He felt light, as if he could glide on mountain winds. He felt sleepy, and then strangely energetic. He watched Andacanavar’s movements as if in a dream, as the ranger took the venison off of the spit, then unhooked one chain from the metal center bar and skewered the venison upon it. He reattached the chain and handed it to Bruinhelde. Then the ranger, with a final salute to both men, crawled back into the tunnel that had brought them to this chamber and began to sing softly outside.
Bruinhelde gathered a pair of spurs and began tying them on his heavy boots, and Midalis did likewise; then, without even a glance at the Prince, Bruinhelde collected the rest of the items and began crawling up the steep tunnel. Midalis, feeling as if he was simply floating up the shaft, followed closely.
The Prince couldn’t see much through the smoke, but he sensed that Bruinhelde had exited the chimney, and then heard the barbarian’s sharp intake of breath, as if in fear.
Fighting his own fears, reminding himself that Bruinhelde was depending on him, Midalis clawed up the last ten feet of tunnel, pulling himself onto the floor of a higher chamber, beside the barbarian. Midalis followed the man’s gaze across this larger chamber to a light-colored mound on the floor. Midalis at first thought it was a pile of snow.
But then it moved, uncoiled, coming toward them slowly, sniffing. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Midalis could make out more and more of the creature-this shaggoth spirit-and it took every ounce of will he could muster not to simply dive back down the tunnel!
It resembled a great centipede, perhaps ten times the length of a man and thrice as thick, its wormlike torso gleaming white, with one line of glowing bright orange along its back. Even from this distance, Midalis could feel the heat of that stripe and realized that the spirit shaggoth used that hot strip to help it burrow under the snow.
It kept its monstrous head off the ground as it clattered toward them, its single, bulbous, black insectlike eye glittering eagerly from the middle of its flat face, and its many legs skittering. Midalis shivered at the sight of the creature’s ample teeth: great elongated fangs and tusks, too large to be contained even by its considerable mouth.
“We go now,” Bruinhelde whispered, and he thrust one of the chains into Midalis’ hand. The Prince looked at it curiously for just a moment; but Bruinhelde was already moving, so he, too, leaped up, working rapidly to take up the slack. The spirit shaggoth sprouted small white wings from the sides of its upper torso, beating them furiously to lift its head farther off the ground, raising its front quarter up, like one of the great hooded snakes of Behren.
And that eye! That glittering eye! Looking right through him, Midalis believed. He nearly lost all hope then, nearly threw himself on the ground before the mighty creature that it could kill him swiftly.
But Bruinhelde kept moving, and the barbarian’s calm allowed Midalis to keep his wits about him. A moment later the pair, swinging their chains in unison, sent the skewered venison steak flying out before them, to land on the ground near the spirit shaggoth.
The creature eyed the meat curiously. Midalis heard it sniffing again and recognized the spirit shaggoth’s nose was a mere hole in its face right below the bulbous eye.
“What if it does not strike the meat?” Midalis asked quietly, working, fastening his javelin to the free end of his chain, as was Bruinhelde.
The spirit shaggoth began to sway, back and forth. Hypnotizing movements, back and forth, back and forth. Andacanavar had warned them about this, had told them that to stare into that eye was to forget all plans, was to freeze in the face of the spirit shaggoth and be devoured.
Midalis glanced at Bruinhelde and saw the barbarian was standing perfectly still, staring at the creature. The Prince lashed out, punching the barbarian’s shoulder. Then he and Bruinhelde both jumped in terror as the spirit shaggoth struck, taut muscles propelling the head forward with blinding speed at the venison and the bar, snapping it up.
“Now!” Bruinhelde yelled. Both he and Midalis launched their javelins past the spirit shaggoth’s head, which was up high again, to the floor behind. Bruinhelde immediately brought forth Towalloko, snapping flint against steel to light the wick. Then he ran before the great beast, holding out the bringer of dreams, turning the ring slowly, slowly.
Prince Midalis knew what he was supposed to do-run past the distracted monster, scoop up one chain as a rein, and mount it, straddling the orange line of fire to catch the other chain. He knew that the sooner he went, the better their chances of success, and silently screamed at himself to move. But he couldn’t bring his legs to action.
“Go!” Bruinhelde called to him.
Midalis tried to move. He thought of the disaster this day would bring if he did not go-if, because of his cowardice, Bruinhelde was killed, or they both were forced out in disgrace. What loss to Honce-the-Bear, to Vanguard, which had been saved by the Alpinadorans.
Yes, that was it, the image of St. Belfour besieged, of the goblins closing in on Midalis’ small force. Surely those creatures would have destroyed the Vanguardsmen had not Bruinhelde and his clansmen come to their aid.
Now Midalis was running low in a crouch, his spurs crunching into the ice-covered floor or sparking whenever they struck bare stone. He tried to keep his movements fluid, to make no abrupt move that would break the swaying spirit shaggoth from its Towalloko-induced trance.
He Came around the side of its swaying neck and saw the first chain on the floor. Then it seemed to him as if everything was happening in a dreamlike fog, his own motions slow, so slow! He gathered up the chain and leaped for the spirit shaggoth’s back, planting one foot on the bony ridge separating the outer segments from that glowing orange stripe. Midalis didn’t even consider the plain good luck that kept his foot securely in place, for to slip here and fall upon that superheated back would have melted the skin from his bones! Nor did he even consider his next motion, but quickly swung his free leg over that glowing stripe and planted his foot on the opposite bony ridge, then reached down low and scooped up the other chain.
Then he saw the many bones littering the chamber-whitened skulls and charred leg bones-and the Prince nearly froze in horror.
But he growled away his fear. In a moment, he was standing straight, holding the chains, frantically taking up the slack.
The spirit shaggoth turned suddenly to the left and reared even higher; and Midalis, thrown off balance, fell forward and just managed to throw his arm out and stop himself, his chest and face barely an inch from the glowing stripe.
He realized that Bruinhelde was moving, heading for a side exit, holding forth Towalloko, luring the creature out.
They went down a corridor and came out on a long, snow-covered ledge, with a thousand-foot drop to Midalis’ left and a towering cliff face to his right. Now Bruinhelde scrambled out of the way, and Midalis was on his own.
Immediately, the spirit shaggoth began to tug and buck, but Midalis held the reins, keeping the creature’s head high.
The Prince heard the wind in his ears as the creature ran down the length of the ridge, scattering the snow from the rock, its hundred feet clacking on the stone. At the far end, the Prince tugged hard on the right rein, bringing the creature around in a dizzying turn, and before he had even oriented himself, he discovered that they were almost back to Bruinhelde.
Now the barbarian put up Towalloko again, entrancing the creature. Prince Midalis found getting off the beast was even more trying than getting on, out here in the wind, where one slip could burn his leg or send him flying to his death.
He managed it somehow and went to Bruinhelde, taking Towalloko, keeping the mesmerizing rainbow working.
He retreated into the creature’s chamber as Bruinhelde rode the beast the length of the precipice and back again, and was ready to catch the creature’s attention and hold it as the barbarian dismounted and joined him. But of breath, hardly believing what they had just done, the pair slowly backed toward the chimney.
Without warning, the candle went out; the mesmerizing rainbow hues were no more.
Midalis knew beyond doubt that the creature would strike at Bruinhelde. He knew, too, that he could escape in a wild slide down the steep tunnel. But how could he do that to this man, his new brother?
He leaped in front of Bruinhelde-or tried to, for the barbarian, harboring the same thoughts, tried to leap in front of him at the same moment. They crashed together, Midalis’ forehead smacking Bruinhelde’s shoulder, their knees crashing together, and then they stumbled, certain that they were doomed.
The spirit shaggoth inexplicably missed the strike, as if their sudden movements and collision had confused it.
The pair scrambled all over each other, pushing each other toward the downward-slanting tunnel, then falling into it together, bouncing and tumbling, and finally crawling out the lower opening, to find Andacanavar waiting for them.
“A fun ride, then.” The ranger laughed at the disheveled pair, for Midalis’ forehead was bleeding and Bruinhelde was holding one knee. “We could go up and ride it again.”
“With all our blessings,” Midalis said, holding out Towalloko. “You go.”
But Andacanavar only laughed again and led them out of the cave.
Midalis hardly noticed the first part of their descent, for he was lost in a haze of smoky dreams. Then, as his thoughts cleared, he found himself with a most profound headache, could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. At first, he thought it the result of the collision with Bruinhelde, but when he looked at him, he found that the barbarian was similarly rubbing his head.
The herbal smoke, Midalis reasoned; and a strange notion occurred to him then. How much of this experience had been real and how much had been hallucination? Was there even really a creature within that cavern? And if so, was it as they had seen it, so terrifying, so mighty? Yes, that was it, Midalis thought. This whole experience had been naught but an elaborate deceit!
“What are you thinking?” Andacanavar asked, seeing Midalis’ perplexed expression; but then the ranger exploded in laughter, and so did Bruinhelde.
Midalis stared at them both curiously.
Andacanavar, laughing still, produced a small sheet of polished metal and held it out to the man. “Your face,” he explained.
Midalis took the mirror and held it up before him, then gasped and had to reconsider his assumption. For the Prince’s face was bright red, burned by his close encounter with the spirit shaggoth’s back.
“You have some ugly monsters in Alpinador,” Midalis remarked. “We say the same of your women,” Bruinhelde replied; and they laughed again, all three.
“You are brethren now,” Andacanavar remarked in all seriousness. Midalis and Bruinhelde nodded-each had willingly risked his own safety to save the other. Even in that moment of victory, the Prince wondered how his natural brother would feel about the newest addition to the family.
“I’m only eight years in the Church,” Brother Haney said to Liam O’Blythe and Brother Dellman as they walked along the docks of Pireth Vanguard, toward the waiting Saudi Jacintha. “There be two brothers older than meself in all of Vanguard, not counting Abbot Agronguerre.”
His doubts touched Dellman, for he had heard the rumors that had named Haney as Agronguerre’s choice for abbot, if he was indeed elected father abbot. Haney wasn’t of the correct age, of course, wasn’t even a master, but such premature appointments were not unusual at all in Vanguard, where brothers were few. On occasion, St.-Mere-Abelle had been forced to send a master north to replace a fallen abbot. Given the turmoil in the southland these days, and the absence of masters and other high-ranking brethren, Dellman thought that unlikely. And if Abbot Agronguerre did indeed become father abbot, then his faith in Haney would likely secure the man’s ascent as abbot at St. Belfour.
“Will ye come back to us? “ Liam O’Blythe asked Dellman.
“My course is not my own to decide,” the brother answered, then quickly added, “but if given the chance to name my road, it will indeed include Vanguard. Perhaps I will take my first appointment as master in service to Abbot Haney of St. Belfour.” It was just the right thing to say, a remark that widened a smile on Brother Haney’s face, and just the right time to say it, for they had come to the gangplank leading aboard the Saudi Jacintha, with Captain Al’u’met looking across at them approvingly. The three, their friendship forged that night on the beach, and grown since, joined hands then.
“Would that we had a jigger o’ single malt to toast,” Liam said with a wink.
Dellman looked at him curiously. “I have but one fear of returning to Vanguard,” he said seriously, drawing concerned looks from his companions.
“I fear that I will begin to speak like you!” Dellman explained, and all three broke down in laughter and fell into a great hug.
“Ye do return to us, Brother Dellman,” Brother Haney remarked as the man started up the gangplank. Dellman glanced back over his shoulder and nodded sincerely, for he had every intention of doing just that. * * *
“And if I do not return-“ Abbot Agronguerre began to Prince Midalis, the two standing in a side room off the docks of Pireth Vanguard while the SaudiJacintha was readied for leaving,
“Then Brother Haney will be named as abbot of St. Belfour,” the Prince assured the monk. “We are no strangers to succession, my friend. Is there an abbey more independent than St. Belfour in all Honce-the-Bear? “
“More renegade, perhaps,” the abbot answered with a laugh, but his visage quickly sobered. “It pains me to leave Vanguard.”
Prince Midalis, whose own heart was equally tied to this wild and beautiful land, understood. “You are called to serve, and there could be no better choice.”
“We do not know the outcome,” Agronguerre reminded him.
“But we do,” the Prince insisted. “Your Church is not so foolish a body as to ignore the obvious. You will become the next father abbot in a month’s time, and the world will be a brighter place because of it, though Vanguard will suffer without your wisdom.”
“Somehow, I think that Vanguard will survive,” the abbot remarked dryly. It was his turn to give a congratulatory pat on Midalis’ shoulder.
It was true enough. Bruinhelde and the ranger had gone back to Alpinador, and the barbarian leader, though walking with an even more pronounced limp now, had left as a friend of Midalis, their bond forged in battle and in blood-brothering. It seemed obvious to all that the potential for true peace in Vanguard had never been greater. The way was open now for friendships among the people of the two countries, permission granted by respective leaders. A Vanguardsman who saw an Alpinadoran walking the southern roads could invite the man in for a meal and a bed without fear now, and an Alpinadoran who completed a successful hunt could now go south to find trade with the Vanguardsmen. Midalis and Bruinhelde had done all that up on that mountain, in the cave of the spirit shaggoth. They had become as brothers, bonded forever, and by extension, had bonded their kingdoms together.
Of course, the Prince continued to wonder with more than a little trepidation how his brother would receive these tidings, but it was a fear he easily suppressed. Vanguard was his responsibility-Danube had made that point all too clear by sending no help in their struggles against the demon’s minions-and thus, it was his province to forge such necessary bonds. He still didn’t understand the barbarians and their fierce culture, and didn’t pretend that he did. But he did know, beyond doubt, that his beloved Vanguard was more secure, and that his people would live better lives because of the alliance.
“The world has changed much,” Agronguerre remarked.
“For the better,” Midalis replied.
“Perhaps,” said the man who would be father abbot. “The passage of time will show us the truth. I wonder, though, need it take a war to bring about such change? Are we men creatures of habit, locked into routines and rituals that have long since lost their purpose, that have long since degenerated into worthlessness? “
“That is a proper question for any father abbot to ask,” said Midalis. “ That is the question of a visionary, of one not complacent with that which is but who seeks that which can be.”
“ I remember well when Father Abbot Markwart burned Master Jojonah at the stake,” Abbot Agronguerre explained. “The man’s one crime was to disagree with that which was, to seek that which he thought could be.”
“You said that he allowed criminals into St.-Mere-Abelle.”
Agronguerre shrugged. “Criminals?” he asked skeptically. “The woman Jilseponie, who has since been declared a hero, who came with Nightbird to rescue the centaur, Bradwarden, one of those who battled and destroyed the demon dactyl.”
“Father Abbot Markwart could not have known that at the time of Master Jojonah’s demise,” Midalis reasoned.
“Could not, or would not?” Abbot Agronguerre replied, and he gave a resigned sigh. “I am not a visionary, I fear; and if they believed that I was, I would not now be considered for the position of father abbot.”
“Then you will show them the truth,” Midalis replied, but Agronguerre gave him a skeptical look, an expression that showed Midalis that the old monk wasn’t certain of what that truth might be.
“You will follow your heart always,” the Prince insisted. “You will do that which is best, not for you, but for your Church and for the world. That is my definition of a man of God, and the very best quality that anyone could ask in a father abbot.”
To those claims, Agronguerre had no response, nor any doubts. He smiled warmly at his friend-this young, but so wise, Prince-and gave the man a hug, then turned for the docks and walked the first steps of the most important journey of all his life.
CHAPTER 21
Calm Captain in a Stormy Sea fhe mood was somber that Calember at St.-Mere-Abelle, where all the abbots and masters and many of the immaculate brothers had gathered for their second College of Abbots in recent years. That first College, wherein Markwart had declared Avelyn a heretic and had burned Avelyn’s primary follower, Master Jojonah, at the stake, had been marked by excitement and action, with rousing speeches and grand rhetoric. But this one, though the times seemed more peaceful and the future in many ways more promising, was a quiet yet foreboding event. Two noteworthy absences-that of Abbess Delenia of St. Gwendolyn and that of Master Marcalo De’Unnero-had set the grim tone, especially when De’Unnero’s messenger, a peasant, had arrived with the news of the tragedy at St. Gwendolyn.
Abbot Braumin and Master Viscenti spent their first hours at the great abbey enjoying a reunion with Brother Dellman, and it didn’t take Dellman long to convince them that Abbot Agronguerre was indeed the best choice for the position of father abbot. Dellman spoke mostly of Agronguerre’s easy temperament and of the man’s handling of Bruinhelde and the other Alpinadorans.
“I have spent several months with the abbot,” Dellman finished, “and I am certain that he was no lackey of Markwart. No, when Abbot Je’howith told you that Agronguerre was not pleased with the handling of Master Jojonah, he was speaking truthfully.”
Abbot Braumin looked at Viscenti, who was nodding enthusiastically. “Abbot Agronguerre, then,” he remarked, “and may God grant him the wisdom to lead us through these difficult days.” Abbot Braumin patted Dellman’s shoulder, thanking him for a job well done, and then rose to leave-to confer with Master Francis and then with old Je’howith, who had only arrived an hour earlier, obviously exhausted. “There is yet another matter we must discuss,” Brother Dellman remarked, his tone grave.
Abbot Braumin turned, studied the man for a moment, then took his seat.
Brother Dellman began this part of his report dramatically, throwing a bright red beret, a powrie’s infamous bloody cap, “on the table before his two companions. “It concerns Duke Kalas,” he began.
As expected, Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour was quickly nominated and elected father abbot. Abbot Braumin and his followers backed him enthusiastically, as did old Je’howith and Master Francis, along with Bouraiy and Glendenhook and several others from St.-Mere-Abelle.
Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce of Entel was not pleased, but as Abbess Delenia was dead, he could rally no real support for his own cause. Delenia’s self-appointed successor, De’Unnero, surprisingly backed Olin in absentia, but that only seemed to hurt the man’s chances even more.
So on a cold morning in God’s Year 827, on the very first vote of the College, Abbot Fuesa Agronguerre of Vanguard became Father Abbot Agronguerre of the Abellican Church, the second most powerful man in all Honce-the-Bear.
He ascended the podium to offer his acceptance speech to moderate applause. Even his most fervent backers had voted for him only because they believed him to be a peacemaker, a fence-mender, someone who could appease both that group rooted in the traditions of the Church as expressed by Father Abbot Markwart and those followers of Avelyn Desbris, determined to reform what they saw as tragic flaws in the Church.
“As you know, I have spent almost all my long life in Vanguard,” Agronguerre said, measuring his words carefully, after he had completed the formal regards to his hosts and a recitation of the virtues of Abbot Olin, his only competition for the position, that went on for nearly five minutes. “Many of you might wonder, then, if that experience-or lack of experience-might prove a detriment to me as I seek to lead the Church that is mostly based outside that isolated region. Put those fears in a hole deep and dark, I pray. Vanguard is not so different a place from St.-MereAbelle, and living among the small numbers of people up there has provided me an understanding of the world at large.
“I have served the Prince of Honce-the-Bear for many years now,” Agronguerre went on, “as fine a man as I have ever known. With his guidance, the folk of Vanguard have forged an alliance, a bond of necessity, with the barbarians ofAlpinador.” That news brought more than a few surprised expressions and more than a few gasps and groans. The Abellican Church had a long and disastrous history with the Alpinadoran barbarians. Many times, the Church had sent missionaries, had even established minor chapels inside Alpinador; and every one of those excursions had ended disastrously, with missionary monks never heard from again.
“Our ways, our beliefs, our entire lives are very different from those of our northern neighbors,” Agronguerre went on, “and yet we found strength in unity against the minions of Bestesbulzibar, curse his very name; and from that necessary moment of peace, we found more to agree upon than ever we would have believed possible. And so I see our current situation within our own Order. We are faced now with the task of understanding the tragedy of Father Abbot Markwart, his reign and his demise, and with understanding the truth of Mount Aida, and of Avelyn Desbris. How widely opinions differ on this point and on this lost brother, Avelyn! Some would proclaim him saint; others, heretic. But there is a truth out there, my brethren, one that we, as a united Church, must discover and embrace, wherever it leads us.”
He went on for many minutes, recalling his own anger at the fate of Jojonah, speaking of Abbot Braumin and the others who claimed to have witnessed the miracle at the blasted mountain. He spoke of the relationship of Church and Crown, of the encroachment made on both independent forces in the battle-torn city of Palmaris, and the continuing struggle that Abbot Braumin now faced with Duke Kalas.
And then Agronguerre, after a pause and a most profound sigh, came around to the most pressing issue of all. He asked for a moment of silent prayer for Abbess Delenia, who had been a friend to so many of those in attendance and who had served the Church with honor and distinction for more than three decades.
“ It appears that our hour of darkness has not yet passed,” he said quietly. “Upon its discovery by Master Francis, the other masters wisely dispatched one of their own to the south to investigate rumors of the return of the rosy plague. Well, my brethren, those rumors seem well-founded. Master De’Unnero has reported the disaster at St. Gwendolyn, where the plague has devastated the ranks of our brethren, where pitiful refugees have crowded the fields around the abbey, begging for relief that we have no power to give. Let us pray, each of us, that the plague is restricted to that region, that it will not encompass the world as it did in centuries past, and that its presence in our time will be short indeed.”
He finished with a recitation of the entire litany of prayers, where all the gathered brothers joined in, and then opened the floor for comments.
And how they came pouring in, opinions from every quarter concerning how the Church should deal with the rosy plague. Some called for the complete isolation of the Mantis Arm-though Francis was quick to remind them that Davon Dinnishire lay between St.-Mere-Abelle and Palmaris, far from there. Others called for the immediate isolation of every abbey, barring the doors, holding masses outside with presiding monks standing atop gate towers and the like. On and on it went, with no practical answers, only suggestions wrought of abject terror. Father Abbot Agronguerre listened to them all attentively, hopefully, but all that he came away with was the understanding that this budding crisis was far beyond them, was something that only God could alleviate. The last call of that day, from the Father Abbot at the podium, was for all of them, for every brother in the Abellican Church and the few remaining sisters, to pray for guidance and for relief.
It seemed a meager weapon to the gathering of a Church that had just battled the armies of Bestesbulzibar, to monks who had used mighty gemstone magic to fell giants and powries by the score.
But it was all they had.
“I was no better a guest than you were a host, Father Abbot,” a blushing Brother Dellman responded after Agronguerre spoke highly of him to Abbot Braumin that evening after vespers.
“You were more than a guest,” the new Father Abbot replied. “In your short time in Vanguard, you became as family to us of St. Belfour.”
Dellman searched for a reply, but merely bowed his head.
“Which is why I have asked you to join me at this time,” Agronguerre went on to Dellman and particularly to Abbot Braumin.
“Brother Dellman’s integrity and graciousness come as no surprise to me, Father Abbot,” Braumin Herde replied, but there was an edge to his voice, telling Agronguerre that he understood where this was leading.
Given that, the Father Abbot got right to the point. “I know how valuable a companion Brother Dellman has been to you,” he said, “and I do appreciate your work in Palmaris at this troubled and delicate time, but I have answered the call of my Church at great risk to St. Belfour. Brother Haney, who will soon become abbot of St. Belfour, is an excellent man indeed, and I could not have asked for a more suitable replacement.”
“But...” Abbot Braumin prompted, looking at Dellman.
“He is all alone,” Agronguerre answered. “Almost all the other brothers at St. Belfour are young and inexperienced, and though Prince Midalis is certainly a friend of the Church, the new alliance with the barbarians of Alpinador will place great demands on the abbot of St. Belfour. I think it prudent to give our young abbot a strong ally and a voice of experience and wisdom.”
“Surely there are others m-more qualified than I,” Brother Dellman stammered, obviously overwhelmed. His tone showed that he was not upset about the request, just stunned. “Masters from St.-Mere-Abelle.”
“Abbot Braumin,” Father Abbot Agronguerre said with a great sigh, “I know not in which of the masters here I can place my trust. Nor do I know any of them well enough to guess if they could tolerate the hardships of Vanguard. Master Francis comes to mind, of course, for he seems the most worldly of the group, but I believe from all that I have heard-from your own Brother Dellman-that I should keep Master Francis close at hand for a time.”
“An assessment with which I heartily agree,” said Braumin.
“Then?” Father Abbot Agronguerre asked. “Will you lend your friend Brother Dellman to Brother Haney and St. Belfour? “
Braumin turned to Dellman. “What say you, brother? This is your life we are discussing, after all, and I would say that you have earned your choice of abbeys. Will you return with me to St. Precious or sail north for Vanguard?”
Dellman seemed completely at a loss. He started to answer several times, but stopped and merely shook his head. “Which would be of greater service to my Church?” he asked.
“St. Belfour,” Abbot Braumin said before the new Father Abbot could answer. He looked directly at Dellman as he spoke, staring into the younger man’s eyes, showing his sincerity.
Dellman turned to the new Father Abbot and nodded. “ I go where my Church most needs me, Father Abbot,” he said. “And, truly, I would be glad in my heart to spend more time in Vanguard, to learn more of the folk and of the good brothers of St. Belfour.”
“I will sorely miss him in Palmaris,” Abbot Braumin remarked. “Brother Dellman was among the wisest of advisers and the most steadfast of supporters during the ordeal of Father Abbot Markwart’s last days.”
“You make my heart glad, then,” the Father Abbot said, “and this will not merely be to the bene£t of St. Belfour and our friend Brother Haney. Up there in wild Vanguard, you will attain the rank of master very quickly, perhaps within a few months.”
“I am not nearly prepared,” Brother Dellman replied.
“You are more prepared than most who attain the rank,” Abbot Braumin was quick to put in, “and more prepared than I, certainly, in the role God has now chosen me to play.”
“Vanguard is not thick with brethren,” the Father Abbot said. “And St. Belfour at this time, as in so many times, is without masters. I will send word to Brother Haney to rectify that situation as soon as he is established as abbot.”
Abbot Braumin nodded his agreement, his smile wide; and Brother Dellman, too, was beaming.
“Now for a less pleasing matter,” Father Abbot Agronguerre announced. He rose from his chair, motioning for Abbot Braumin alone to follow him into an adjoining room, where several masters and abbots were waiting, including Francis, Bou-raiy, Glendenhook, and Machuso.
“I had asked Abbot Je’howith to join us, as well,” Agronguerre remarked to them all, taking his seat at the head of the table and motioning for Braumin to sit right beside him-again a subtle but distinct hint about his attitude concerning the last days of Markwart’s reign. “But he has already departed, well on his way back to Ursal and St. Honce.”
Abbot Braumin nodded, recognizing that he understood that departure better than did the new Father Abbot. Braumin knew, and Je’howith knew, that they now had gathered to discuss the disposition of Marcalo De’Unnero. Abbot Je’howith, so tied to Markwart, certainly wanted no part of this potential battle.
And it did become a battle, immediately.
“He has declared himself abbot of St. Gwendolyn,” Master Fio Bou-raiy spouted angrily, “an unprecedented act of arrogance.”
“Or of necessity,” Master Machuso, ever the peacemaker, put in.
“St. Gwendolyn is traditionally led by an abbess, not an abbot,” one of the lesser abbots argued.
“That may be true enough,” Father Abbot Agronguerre conceded, “but by Master De’Unnero’s words, there are no suitable women to take the position at this time. All but one of the sovereign sisters are dead, and the remaining one has become ill.”
“Or had her heart removed by a tiger’s paw,” Master Bou-raiy remarked under his breath but loud enough for several seated near him, including Agronguerre and Braumin Herde, to hear.
“Interim abbot, then?” Machuso innocently asked.
“No!” Bou-raiy flatly declared, pounding his fist on the table. He turned to Agronguerre. “Deny him this, I beg of you. His record is one of destruction, and if the plague is thick in the southland, St. Gwendolyn will be key to holding the common folk loyal to the Church.”
Surprised by the forcefulness of the master’s argument, Agronguerre looked to Abbot Braumin, who, in turn, motioned to Master Francis. “You served beside him,” Braumin said. “You know him better than any other in this room.”
Francis narrowed his eyes as he stared hard at Braumin, obviously not pleased to be so put on the spot. “We were never friends,” Francis said evenly.
“But you followed him to Palmaris and served in positions vacated by Master De’Unnero,” Father Abbot Agronguerre reasoned.
“True enough,” Francis conceded. “Yet I want it made clear here before I speak my opinion that you all understand that I harbor little friendship for Master Marcalo De’Unnero and that I would have preferred to remain silent on this matter.
“But I have been asked, and so I will answer,” Francis went on quietly. “Master De’Unnero’s record in Palmaris was less than exemplary. The people there would not have him back, I am sure.”
“They would have him on a gallows,” Abbot Braumin remarked. “Indeed, I requested that he leave the city because his mere presence within St. Precious was bringing us disdain that bolstered Duke Kalas.”
“But Master De’Unnero is not known in the region of St. Gwendolyn,” Master Machuso pressed. “Can we presume that his actions in Palmaris were at the explicit instructions of Father Abbot Markwart and, thus, are mistakes that will not be repeated? “
“A dangerous assumption,” Master Glendenhook replied.
“Am I to replace him? “ Agronguerre asked distastefully. It was obvious to all in attendance that the gentle man did not want his first official act in office to be one of division. And yet, given the mood of all around him, of masters as diverse as Bou-raiy and Francis-obviously not in any alliancewhat choice did Father Abbot Agronguerre have?
“Recall him,” Master Bou-raiy said determinedly. “We will not find it a difficult task to find a more suitable abbot or abbess for St. Gwendolyn, I assure you.”
That call was seconded by many about the table, including Abbot Braumin, who made a note to speak with the new Father Abbot at length about his true feelings concerning Marcalo De’Unnero-the man, in Braumin’s honest opinion, who posed the greatest threat of all to the Abellican Church.
Father Abbot Agronguerre took in all the nods and calls with a resigned nod of his head. Yes, the year would end on a grave note, Agronguerre realized, and given the confirmation of the rosy plague, he doubted that the next year would be any better.
Part 3
Where is the balance, I wonder, between community and self? When does the assertion of one’s personal needs become mere selfishness?
These are questions that followed me to Dundalis, to haunt me every day. So many hopes and dreams were placed upon me, so many people believing that I somehow magically possessed the power to change their world for the better. If I had fought that battle, I believe that not only wouldIhave accomplished little, and perhaps nothing lasting, but also I would have completed the destruction of myself that the wretch Markwart began in the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle when he murdered my parents; that he continued on the field outside Palmaris, when he stole from me my child; and then, in Chasewind Manor, when he wounded me deeply and when he took from me my husband, my love. This was my fear, and it chased me out of Palmaris, chased me home to a quieter place.
But what if I was wrong? What if my efforts might have had some impact upon the lives of so many deserving innocents? What obligation, what responsibility, is then incumbent upon me?
Ever since I first witnessed Elbryan at his morning routine of bi’nelle dasada, I longed to learn it and to understand all the lessons that he had been taught by the Touel’alfar. I wanted to be a ranger, as was he. But now, in retrospect, I wonder if I am possessed of that same generous spirit. I learned the sword dance, and attained a level of mastery in it strong enough to complement Elbryan’s own, but those other qualities of the ranger, I fear, cannot be taught. They must be a part of the heart and soul, and there, perhaps, is my failing. Elbryanno, not Elbryan, but Vightbird-so willingly threw himself into my battle with Markwart, though he was already grievously wounded and knew that doing so would surely cost him his very life. Yet he did it, without question, without fear, and without remorse because he was a ranger, because he knew that ridding the world of the demon that possessed the father Abbot of the Abellican Church was paramount, a greater responsibility than that of protecting his own flesh and blood.
I, too, went at Markwart with every ounce of my strength and willpower, but my motive at that time was not generosity of spirit but simple rage and the belief that the demon had already taken everything from me. Would I have been so willing to begin that battle if I understood that it would cost me the only thing I had remaining? If I knew that Elbryan, my dearest husband, would be lost to me forever?
I doubt that I would.
And now, with all those questions burning my every thought, I came north to the quiet Timberlands to find peace within myself. But this, I fear, is yet another of life’s twisted and cruel paradoxes. I am moving toward inner peace now-I feel it keenly-but what awaits me when at last I attain that level of calm? When I find the end of turmoil, willIfind, as well, the end of meaning? Will inner peace be accompanied by nothing more than emptiness?
And yet, what is the other option? The person who strives for peace of community instead of inner peace must find just the opposite, I fear, an unattainable goal. For there will always be trouble of one sort or another. A tyrant, a war, a despotic landowner, a thief in the alley, a misguided father abbot. There is no paradise in this existence for creatures as complex as human beings. There is no perfect human world, bereft of strife and battle of one sort or another.
I know that now, or at least I fear it profoundly. And with that knowledge came the sense of futility, of running up a mud-slick steep slope, only to slide back over and over again.
Will the new father Abbot be any better than the previous one? Likely, since those electing him will be cautious to seek certain generous qualities. But what about the next after that, and after that? It will, it must, come back to Markwart, I fear; and, given that, how can I see anything more than the futility of sacrifice?
And, given that, how can I agree with Elbryan’s gift of his own life?
And so here I am, in Dundalis, the place quiet and buried in deep snow as the world drifts into God’s Year 828. How I long/or seasons far past, for those early years when Elbryan and I ran about Dundalis, oblivious of goblins and demons and men like father Abbot Dalebert Markwart!
Perhaps the greatest thing of all that has been stolen from me over these years was my innocence. I see the world too clearly, with all of its soiled corners.
With all of its cairns over buried heroes.
JILSEPONIE WYNDON