into the vendor's cart and started away swiftly for St. Precious, hoping that he might use Kalas' tirade and those angry stares of the peasants to persuade the former Bishop that it would be better for all if he left the city.
Master Francis paused and stared long and hard at the cold walls of St. Mere-Abelle, brown and gray stone stretching for more than a mile along the high cliff overlooking All Saints Bay. He remembered the first time he had entered the abbey, more than a decade before, a young novice walking through the Gauntlet of Willing Suffering, a row of older brothers armed with wooden paddles.
Still, Francis would have preferred that treatment to what awaited him now within the foreboding place. His news was grim, all of it, from the disaster in Palmaris and the loss of brothers to the goblins outside Davon Dinnishire to, perhaps worst of all, the signs he had encountered of the rosy plague. But even more than that, Francis saw St.-Mere-Abelle now as a reminder of his errors. In that place, he had followed Father Abbot Markwart, had obeyed the man blindly, even when Markwart was torturing the innocent Chilichunks and the centaur, Bradwarden, in the dungeons. Here Francis had not spoken out against the murder-and it was indeed murder, he understood now-of Master Jojonah.
St.-Mere-Abelle-with all its strong stone walls, its sense of majesty and power-reminded Master Francis of his own frailties. And he could not even enter secure in the knowledge that he had put those faults behind him. Oh, he was wiser now, he understood the evil that had possessed Father Abbot Markwart, but it seemed to him that his own courage remained an elusive thing. Perhaps he had been wrong in withdrawing his demand that Jilseponie take over the Abellican Church. He understood and still recognized the problems that such a nomination would have brought, but shouldn't he have fought for it anyway? Shouldn't he have stood up for the right course, whatever the potential troubles?
And yet, Master Francis knew now, looking at the mighty St.-MereAbelle, that he could not have done it, could not have nominated Jilseponie. Not then and not now. With a sigh, resigned to his own sense of failure, Master Francis Deliacourt led the brothers, the living carrying the dead, across the mile of open field to the front gates of St.-Mere-Abelle.
He was agitated, too much so, he knew, but Abbot Braumin could not contain his frustration. So many great dreams had followed him to this place within the hierarchy of the Church, so many hopes that Nightbird's sacrifice would bolster him and his companions in their efforts to better the Church and better the world.
Yet in the months he had been serving as abbot of St. Precious, Braumin Herde had known only frustration. And while the abbey had done much to aid the inhabitants of Palmaris, had expanded its prayer services considerably and had sent out brothers with soul stones on missions of healing, Braumin had made little, if any, progress on any institutional changes at St. Precious. Every one of his plans had run into Duke Kalas, and the man had forced a stalemate.
And now De'Unnero!
The word of the former Bishop's arrival was general throughout the city now, after the public discussion at the market. The prayer services immediately following their meeting had been crowded, but the people had not come into St. Precious for blessings but rather to gossip, to see if they might catch a glimpse to confirm that the hated De'Unnero was back.
Wisely, Marcalo De'Unnero had stayed away, as Braumin had advised. Protestors arrived daily and surrounded the abbey, calling for De'Unnero's expulsion, excommunication, even execution. Braumin understood that Duke Kalas had likely put them up to it, but that hardly mattered-for others had fallen in with the plans, no doubt, and the rage would grow and grow along with the summer heat.
The abbot paced about his office now, wringing his hands, muttering prayers for guidance.
The door opened and Master Viscenti poked his head in, then swung the door wide so that De'Unnero could enter before him.
Braumin held up his hand to Viscenti, motioning for him to leave.
'Did you expect any different reaction when you returned to the city?' Braumin began curtly, when he and De'Unnero were alone.
De'Unnero snorted, an unimpressed grin upon his face. 'I have returned subservient,' he said quietly. Braumin noted that there was a tremor in his voice, and it seemed to the abbot as if De'Unnero was engaged in a tremendous inner struggle at that moment. 'I have accepted your ascension to a position I once held, have I not? A position that I would likely have continued to hold-'
'Master Francis replaced you as abbot long before the fight at Chasewind Manor,' Abbot Braumin reminded him.
De'Unnero paused, a telling hesitation to the perceptive Braumin. He was trying to compose himself, the abbot knew, trying not to fly into a rage-and while Braumin surely feared such a rage from this dangerous man, he thought that prodding De'Unnero along in that direction might not be a bad thing.
'You need not recite me a chronology, Abbot Braumin,' De'Unnero said, his voice controlled once more. ' I understand perfectly well-better than do you, I am sure-all that went on during the last days of Father Abbot Markwart. I understand perfectly well the role I was forced to play-'
'That you eagerly played,' Braumin corrected. De'Unnero's dark eyes flashed with anger, but again he paused and suppressed the rage.
'As you will,' he said, his dark eyes narrowing. 'You were not here, I remind you.'
'Except when I was in your dungeons,' Braumin retorted. 'Except when my friends and I were dragged from the Barbacan, from Mount Aida and Avelyn's shrine, by De'Unnero and his henchmen.'
'By Father Abbot Markwart, whom De'Unnero served,' the former Bishop corrected, 'and by the King of Honce-the-Bear. Have you forgotten? Was not Kalas, the same Duke Kalas who now serves as baron of Palmaris, beside me on that plateau, demanding your surrender? '
'I remember!' Abbot Braumin said loudly and firmly. 'I remember, and so do they, Master De'Unnero, former Bishop of Palmaris,' he said, sweeping his arm out toward the window. 'The people of Palmaris remember.'
De'Unnero stiffened; Braumin noted that he clenched one fist at his side.
'They hate you,' the abbot went on determinedly. 'You represent to them everything that was wrong-'
'They are idiots,' De'Unnero interrupted sharply, his tone, the strength of his voice, setting Braumin back on his heels. 'Fools all. Cattle and sheep who flock into our pews in the hopes that their minor sacrifice of time will bring them absolution for the miserable ways in which they conduct their lives.'
Braumin stuttered over that blunt proclamation for a few moments before coming up with any response at all. 'They do not look upon your reign as bishop favorably,' he said. 'As it was with Father Abbot Markwart-'
'I did not return to fight old battles,' De'Unnero insisted, his tone stil razor edged-a clear sign to Braumin that his words against him were no falling upon deaf ears.
'Then why did you return, Marcalo De'Unnero?' the abbot asked matching the man's obvious ire.
'This is my appointed abbey,' De'Unnero replied immediately, 'M Church.'
'I rather doubt that the current St. Precious resembles anything th; could be called your Church,' Braumin reasoned, 'nor Markwart's.' F thought that he had touched a nerve within De'Unnero with the blunt statement, but the man's look proved to be one of incredulity and not defensiveness.
'Because you tend to the ills of the populace?' he asked. 'Because you comfort them and tell them that God will cure all and will take them into his bosom, no matter how wretched an existence they might live? Because, in your own foolishness and arrogance, you believe that you can cure those ills, that you can make it better for all of them? '
'Is that not our calling? '
'That is a lie, and nothing more!' De'Unnero insisted. 'It is not our place to coddle and comfort, but to instruct and demand obedience.'
'You do not sound like one who has dismissed the errors of Markwart,' Braumin remarked.
' I sound like one who would not compound those errors with the false dreams of paradise,' De'Unnero retorted. 'Since you apparently insist on such a course, perhaps I should make myself more prominent at prayers and about the city.'
'Do your words blot out the reality? ' Braumin yelled at him, coming forward suddenly and poking his finger toward the man. 'Can you not hear them about our walls? Can you not understand the enemies you have made, Duke Kalas among them? This is not your place, Marcalo De'Unnero. St. Precious is not-'
He ended with a gasp as De'Unnero exploded into motion, reaching his right hand over Braumin's extended arm and jabbing finger. De'Unnero twisted his arm down and turned around, forcing Braumin to turn, bringing
