Mortalis

under arrest and try me publicly? Who next, then, fool? Will you find those who came with Father Abbot Markwart to St. Precious on his first visit and try them for their actions in taking the centaur, Bradwarden, prisoner? But wait, was not your own dear friend, Brother Dellman, among that group? What of the guards in St.-Mere-Abelle who watched over Bradwarden and the doomed Chilichunks in the dungeons of our home abbey? Tell me, abbot of St. Precious, if you mean to punish them as well.' De'Unnero shook his head and laughed wickedly, then came forward to stand face-to-face with the abbot, his eyes locked in a fanatical glare. 'Pray tell me, abbot reformer, what you will do with all those brothers and all the townsfolk who dragged your precious Master Jojonah through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle town and tortured him and burned him at the stake. Are they all guilty, as you hint that I am? Shall we build rows of stakes to satiate your lust for revenge? '

'Markwart has been discredited,' Abbot Braumin said grimly and determinedly. 'He was wrong, Brother De'Unnero, as were you in following him blindly.'

De'Unnero backed off a step, though he continued to hold fast that wicked grin of his, the look he had perfected years before, that made it seem as if he held the upper hand in every confrontation, as if he, De'Unnero, somehow knew more than his opponents could begin to understand. 'Even if what you say is true, I expect to be formally welcomed back into the Church,' he said.

'You must account for the last months,' Abbot Braumin declared, but De'Unnero was shaking his head even as the words came out.

'I must account for nothing,' he replied. 'I needed time to sort through the tumultuous events, and so I left. Can less be said of Braumin and his cohorts and their flight to the Barbacan? '

Braumin's expression turned incredulous.

'If I am called to account for my actions of the last year, dear Braumin Herde, then know that you and your friends will likewise face the inquisition,' De'Unnero said confidently. 'Your side won the conflict in Palmaris, that much is obvious, and the victor might write the histories in his manner of choosing; but St. Precious is not so large and important a place when measured against St.-Mere-Abelle, and I, and Father Markwart, did not leave that place without allies.

'I have returned, brother,' De'Unnero finished, holding wide his arms. 'Accept that as fact and think well before you choose to begin a war against me.'

Braumin winced and did indeed begin to reflect on the man's words. He hated De'Unnero as much as he had hated Markwart, but did he really have any kind of a case for action against the man? There were rumors that De'Unnero had murdered Baron Bildeborough, rumors Abbot Braumin believed wholeheartedly. But they were just that, rumors, and if there was any evidence of the crime, Braumin hadn't seen it. Marcalo De'Unnero had been Markwart's principal bully, a brute who reveled in the fight, who punished mercilessly those who disagreed with him.

De'Unnero had viciously battled Elbryan, and the wound that had eventually brought down the ranger had been inflicted by a tiger's paw, the favored weapon of this man.

But were De'Unnero's actions in that last fight, when Jilseponie and Elbryan had invaded Chasewind Manor with the express purpose of killing the Father Abbot of the Abellican Church, really a crime?

Braumin thought so, but had not Master Francis tried to stop the ranger from entering Chasewind Manor earlier? Did that make Francis a criminal as well? Braumin winced again and tried to find some answer. To him, De'Unnero was indeed a criminal, and he knew that he would not be the only one who saw the dangerous man that way. Certainly Jilseponie would do battle with De'Unnero if ever she saw him again-on sight and to the death.

Then it hit Braumin squarely, the realization that the timing of this meeting was much more than coincidence. How strange that De'Unnero had walked back into St. Precious on the same day Jilseponie had left Palmaris for the northland!

Bolstered by the notion that the dangerous man might harbor some fear of Jilseponie, Braumin Herde squared his shoulders. 'I am the abbot of St. Precious,' he declared, 'sanctioned by Church and Crown, by King Danube himself, and backed by Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce and by all the brethren of St. Precious. I'll not relinquish the position.' 'And I am simply cast aside? '

'You left,' Braumin insisted, 'without explanation, without, many would say, just cause.' 'That was my choice.'

'A choice that cost you your appointment at St. Precious,' said Braumin, and then he snorted. 'Do you believe that the people of Palmaris or that Duke Kalas, who has publicly professed his hatred for you, will support your return to this position? '

'I believe that the choice is for the Church alone,' De'Unnero replied calmly, seeming entirely unshaken by Braumin's blunt attacks. 'But the point is irrelevant, because I have no further designs on St. Precious, or upon this wretched city at all. I only came here to fill a vacancy at the request of my Father Abbot. You see my loyalty to him as a crime, but given the doctrine of the Church, that is a ridiculous assertion. I am confident that if we battled for this position at the College of Abbots-which I assume will soon be called-I would prevail. My service to St.-Mere- Abelle cannot be undone by your passions, nor can it be twisted into something perverse and evil.

'But fear not, too-young abbot, for I am no threat to your coveted post,' De'Unnero went on. 'Indeed, I am glad that you are here; I only hope that all of the other followers of Jojonah and Avelyn will flock here beside you. Better that you all fester in this place of minor importance, while I attend to the greater workings of the Church in St.-Mere-Abelle.'

Braumin Herde wanted to shout out at the man, to call for the guards and put this wretched criminal in prison, but when he considered it all, he knew that he could do little, really, and that any actions he took against De'Unnero now could have very serious implications at the forthcoming College of Abbots, repercussions that Braumin and his friends could ill afford. For De'Unnero, though his title as bishop had been revoked and his stewardship as abbot of St. Precious had been rightfully turned over to Braumin, was still a ranking master of the Abellican Order, a monk of many accomplishments, a strong leader with a place and a voice within the Church.

A very loud and obnoxious voice, Abbot Braumin understood.

Prince Midalis and Andacanavar sat on a large wet rock overlooking the Gulf of Corona, holding stoically against gusting and unseasonably cold ocean winds and stinging drizzle.

'I keep hoping that we will see a sail, or a hundred,' Midalis admitted.

'That your brother will send the help you requested?' the ranger asked.

'Two score Allheart knights and a brigade of Kingsmen would bolster our cause against the goblins,' Midalis remarked.

'Where are they, then?' Andacanavar asked. 'Your brother sits as king in a land that, by all reports, has defeated the threat. Why has he not sent his soldiers to aid in your-in our-cause? '

Midalis honestly had no answer to that. 'I suspect that he is embroiled in other pressing matters,' he answered. 'Perhaps rogue bands of monsters remain.'

'Or maybe he has his soldiers busy in keeping order in a kingdom gone crazy,' the ranger reasoned, and that raised Midalis' eyebrows.

'I have seen such things before,' Andacanavar went on. 'The aftermath of war can be more dangerous than the war itself.'

Midalis shook his head and stared back out over the dark waters.

'Where are they, then?' Andacanavar asked. 'Where are the ships and the brave Allheart knights? Is your brother so deaf to your call? '

Prince Midalis had no answers. Whatever the reason, it was becoming obvious to him that this fight in Vanguard was his alone among the nobility of Honce-the-Bear. He glanced from the cold and dark waters of the Mirianic back to his ranger companion, and took heart in the sight of the great and noble warrior.

For, whether his brother, the King, came to his aid or not, the Duke of Vanguard-the Prince of Honce-the- Bear-knew that he and his people were no longer alone in their fight. She looked up at the sky and noted the dark, heavy clouds. There would be more rain; every day, it seemed, more stormy weather rolled in from the Mirianic, pounding Falidean Bay and Falidean town, soaking the ground where they had buried poor Brennilee, turning the dirt to mud. That ground had still been hard when they had put the child into it, and some of the men digging the grave had muttered that they hoped they had put Brennilee down far enough to keep her from the rains.

Merry Cowsenfed prayed-prayed mostly that the torrents wouldn't bring up the little box into which they had placed Brennilee. That had happened several times in Falidean town during heavy storms: coffins sometimes rotted through so that you could see the decomposed corpses, floating right out of the ground. Merry stifled a cry and