Francis had declared that he would nominate Pony as mother abbess, and Braumin had dared to hope that this woman, his hero, would stand tall at the front of his straying Church and, through sheer determination and willpower, put them back on the proper course. Even after it became obvious that Pony would not so ascend within the Church, Braumin had thought his position solid, and the ascension of the followers ofJojonah and Avelyn certain.
But then Francis had withdrawn his support for Pony, and-despite the man's continuing opposition to Abbot Je'howith-Braumin wondered now how much trust he could put in Francis.
And now Pony was leaving, and though he still had Castinagis and Viscenti supporting him, and though he understood that Brother Talumus and several other minor-ranking monks of St. Precious had given themselves to his cause, Braumin remained afraid. Because now he was in charge of it all. His would be the primary voice battling stubborn Duke Kalas; he would be the one answering any questions that came to St. Precious from St.-MereAbelle; he would be the one fronting the cause of Master Jojonah at the College of Abbots. And that cause, he knew, would not be an easy one to sell to many of the Abellican leaders, including many of the masters whom Braumin had served at St.-Mere-Abelle less than a year ago.
Only then, with the sound of that closing door, did Abbot Braumin come to realize the truth of it all: he had depended upon Pony to protect him and bolster him, to fight the battle for Avelyn and Jojonah from the lead position.
He was very afraid.
On a drizzly spring morning two days later, the small wagon bearing Pony and Belster O'Comely rolled through Palmaris' northern gate, bouncing along the road that would take them to Caer Tinella. Many heads turned to regard them as they crossed the city and then the rolling farmlands just north of Palmaris, and the departure of this most notable woman sparked many whispered conversations.
In a copse of trees on a hill just beyond those farmlands, Marcalo De'Unnero, too, noted their passing. From the farmers, he had heard that Pony meant to leave Palmaris, and now he was very glad to see that the rumors were true. De'Unnero didn't want to face Jilseponie now, for he believed that any such encounter would end in violence, a battle that would prove disastrous for him, whether he won or lost.
He waited for more than an hour after the wagon had rolled out of sight, considering his course. Many times during that hour, the former bishop reminded himself that he had controlled his inner beast, despite the ultimate temptation. He had defeated the demon within, and thus was ready to take his rightful place back in the Abellican Order.
Though what that place might now be, the man could not be sure.
Marcalo De'Unnero had never marked the days of his life with fear or lack of confidence, and would not do so now. He jumped up from his mossy seat and trotted down the face of the hill onto the road, turning south for Palmaris. The same heads that had regarded Jilseponie's departure turned to mark his approach, but they seemed not to care.
And why should they? De'Unnero asked himself. He hardly resembled the man they remembered as their bishop, the man who had fled Palmaris months before. He was leaner now, a thick beard upon his face, his black curly hair hanging several inches longer, bouncing at the base of his neck. Indeed, the guards at the open north gate hardly seemed to pay him any notice at all and didn't even ask his name.
He felt even more invisible as he moved unrecognized along the busy streets of the city, and he found that he did not enjoy that anonymity. Rationally, he knew it to be a good thing-he had not left the folk of Palmaris on good terms, after all! — but still he did not like it, did not like blending into a crowd of people he recognized as his inferiors.
Soon enough, he came to the front door of St. Precious Abbey, and he paused there, staring at the structure with his emotions churning. The farmers had told him the name of the new abbot, and that alone made him want to spit at the place. Braumin Herde? When De'Unnero had fled the city, the man wasn't even formally a master! And though De'Unnero knew that Markwart had once meant to promote Herde, it was only for political reasons, to quiet the other side, and certainly not the result of anything Braumin Herde had ever accomplished in his mediocre existence.
De'Unnero stood there, outside the door, for a long time, playing through his emotions and his anger, throwing the negativity aside with conscious reminders that he would have to find a way to fit into the new order of his Abellican brotherhood. 'May I help you, brother?' came a question from a monk approaching De'Unnero from the side, a monk whom the former bishop did recognize.
De'Unnero pulled back his hood and turned a hard stare on the man.
'Brother? ' the oblivious monk asked again.
'Do you not recognize me, Brother Dissin?' De'Unnero asked rather sharply.
The younger man glanced up, scrutinizing the speaker, and then his eyes widened.
'B-bishop De'Unnero,' he stammered. 'But I–I-had thought-'
De'Unnero waved at him to stop his blabbering. 'Lead me in,' he instructed. 'Announce me to the new abbot of St. Precious.'
Chapter 7
She edged closer, closer, and the biggest challenge to her, it seemed, was trying hard not to giggle. For though this was considered one of the prime tests of her training, to Brynn Dharielle it was just a game, and an easy one! She blew a strand of her long black hair-hair so dark that it seemed to show all the colors of the rainbow within its depths-from in front of her equally dark eyes and chewed her lip, again to prevent the giggle.
She saw the white-tailed deer, and it saw her, and it believed her no enemy. As long as she made no sudden movements, no sudden sounds..
As long as she continued the quiet humming, the song of grazing that she had learned as a very little child, before she had ever come to the land of the Touel'alfar…
The young girl crouched lower, slowly and deliberately placing one foot ahead and twisting it gently into the moist grass, shifting her weight forward, slowly, slowly.
Another step. The deer seemed frozen in place now, staring at her intently, and so the girl likewise stopped all movement, even keeping her jaw set, though she continued to hum that coaxing, calming song. The moment of tension passed, and Brynn began to lift her hand, opening it palm up to reveal the sweet, crushed pulossa cane.
The deer caught the scent, its ears popping straight up, its nose twitching.
Brynn Dharielle took a slow deep breath, holding her patience, though she wanted to run right up to the beautiful animal. She continued to move delicately and unthreateningly, her hand out. And then, almost anticlimactically, she was there, beside the deer, letting it lap the pulossa cane from her hand while she lovingly stroked its sleek, strong neck and rubbed it behind the ears.
She knew that she was being watched, monitored, and measured, but she didn't care at that moment. All that mattered was the deer, this beautiful creature, this new friend she had just made. What a wonderful spring day in the most wonderful place in all the world.
Over in the thicket not so far to the side, Belli'mar Juraviel put his head in his hands and groaned. Did this spirited young lady do anything by the rules? Ever?
But Juraviel was chuckling, too-and not out of helpless anger, not even out of frustration-but out of sheer surrender. Brynn Dharielle had charmed him, he had to admit. Never had the elf encountered a human female quite like her. She seemed possessed of two spirits: the warrior intensity of the To-gai-ru-the fierce nomadic riders of the steppe region of western Behren-combined with a level of playfulness and impertinence beyond anything Juraviel had ever seen, even in an elf! Her given name was Dharielle Tsochuk, but Lady Dasslerond had quickly added the name Brynn, in honor of the ancient elven heroine credited with aiding in the creation of Andur'Blough Inninness by relinquishing her life and soul to the spirit of a tree that became the heart of the enchanted valley. In the tongue of the Touel'alfar, brynn meant 'butterfly,' and ironically, there was an elven word very similar to dharielle which
