Mortalis

Tellarese down on one knee, holding his face, but hardly stemming the dripping blood flow.

'You two,' De'Unnero said to the two nearest brothers. 'See to his wounds or take him to Master Machuso, if necessary. And when he is bandaged, the three of you complete the lesson.' And with that, Marcalo De'Unnero went back to his small room, closed the door tightly, and wondered, wondered, how this thing had happened. So distressed was he that he missed the vespers.

'Allies?' De'Unnero asked Master Francis doubtfully later that evening, when Francis arrived uninvited at his door.

'We once served the same Father Abbot,' was all that Francis would admit.

'The man who fell,' De'Unnero replied. 'And now are we to fall with him? Or are we to stand together, my friend. Master Francis?' His tone showed his words to be obviously a jest. 'You and me against all the rest of the Church?'

'You make light of this, which tells me clearly that you underestimate the danger to us, and to any others who stood with Markwart,' Francis replied coldly. 'The Church has changed, Master De'Unnero, has shifted away from Markwart and his heavy-handed tactics. I suspect that Marcalo De'Unnero, whose primary fame stems from his ability to train brothers in the arts martial, will either change his mannerisms or find his role greatly diminished in the new Abellican Church,'

'Would you have me suckle at Fio Bou-raiy's teat?' De'Unnero snapped back.

'Master Bou-raiy will not lead the Church,' Francis answered. 'But do not underestimate his influence within St.-Mere-Abelle. When I returned from Palmaris, I, too, was surprised by how deeply he had entrenched himself. To go looking for a fight with the man is not wise.'

'Why did you come to me?' De'Unnero demanded. 'When has Francis called De'Unnero a friend? ' It was true enough; even in the days of Markwart, Francis and De'Unnero had not been close, not at all. If anything, they'd been rivals, vying for whatever positions came open as Markwart ran roughshod through the Church hierarchy.

'I came here only to advise,' Francis replied calmly. 'Whether you take that advice or not is within your province. This is not Markwart's Church any longer. I expect that Braumin Herde and the other followers of Avelyn andJojonah will have their day now.'

De'Unnero snorted at the absurdity.

'Even Father Abbot Markwart admitted his failure concerning Avelyn Desbris,' Francis explained.

'His failure in not bringing the man, and the man's followers, to swifter and more severe justice,' De'Unnero interjected.

'His failure in admitting the truth,' Francis went on determinedly. 'The tale that is widely accepted by the people of Honce-the-Bear is that Avelyn-with help from Jilseponie and Elbryan; the centaur, Bradwarden; and the Touel'alfar-destroyed the demon dactyl.' 'And how has this tale been proven?' De'Unnero asked. 'By the words of outlaws? '

'Outlaws no longer,' Francis reminded. 'And the story is confirmed by the presence of Avelyn's mummified arm, protruding from the rock at blasted Mount Aida. You have, perhaps, heard of the miracle at Aida?'

'The silly tale of goblins reduced to mere skeletons when they tried to approach those huddled at the all- powerful hand? '

Now it was Francis' turn to chortle. 'Not so silly when spoken by an abbot who witnessed the event,' he said; for, indeed, Abbot Braumin had been among those saved by the miracle at Aida.

'This is foolishness and nothing more,' De'Unnero said with a sigh, 'mere fantasy, put forth to further the ambitions of eager young men.'

'Whatever you may think of it, whatever I may think of it, the people of the kingdom, and many of those within the Church, have decided in Braumin Herde's favor,' Francis remarked.

'And how does Master Francis view the exploits of Avelyn Desbris, and Master Jojonah after him? ' De'Unnero asked, a sly edge creeping into his voice. 'And how does Master Francis view the supposed miracle at Aida?'

'Your test of me is irrelevant and foolish,' Francis answered.

'Yet I would know the answer,' De'Unnero was quick to reply.

'I have heard two sides of the story of Avelyn Desbris, and there is some truth in both versions, I would guess,' Francis said noncommittally. 'As for Master Jojonah, I do not agree that he deserved his fate.'

'You did not speak in his favor,' De'Unnero remarked.

'I was only an immaculate brother then,' Francis reminded, 'with no voice in the College of Abbots. But you are right in your accusation nonetheless, and my silence is something I will have to live with for the rest of my years.'

'Have you, too, lost the belly for the fight? ' De'Unnero asked.

Francis didn't justify that nonsense with an answer.

'And what of the miracle, then,' De'Unnero pressed. 'Does Francis believe that the ghost of Avelyn returned to slay goblins? '

'Your sarcastic tone reveals that you have not been to Aida,' Francis answered. 'I have. I have seen the grave, the mummified arm, and I have felt…' He paused and closed his eyes.

'What, Master Francis?' De'Unnero pressed, his words sounding more like a sneer than a question. 'What did you feel at Mount Aida? The presence of angels? God himself come down to bless you as you groveled before a fallen heretic? '

'I went there with complete skepticism,' Francis shot back. 'I went there hoping to find Avelyn Desbris alive, that I could drag him back to Father Abbot Markwart heavily chained! But I cannot deny that there was an aura about that grave site, a sense of peace and calm.' De'Unnero waved his hand dismissively. ' Next you will be nominating Brother Avelyn for sainthood,' he scoffed.

'Abbot Braumin will beat me to that, I would guess,' Francis said in all seriousness. De'Unnero nearly spat with disgust.

'Oh, wondrous time!' the fierce monk said with absolute sarcasm. 'To live in the age of miracles! What joy I have found!'

Francis paused for a long time, staring at the man, nodding. 'I came to you simply to explain what I have observed,' he said at length, 'to warn you that the Church as you knew it no longer exists. To bid you to temper your fires, for in this Church such actions as your wounding Brother Tellarese will not be looked upon with favor. This is not Markwart's time, nor are kingdom and Church under siege by the minions of the demon dactyl. Take heed, or do not. I felt obligated, for all that we went through side by side, to tell you these things, at least, but I'll take no responsibility for your decisions.'

De'Unnero was about to dismiss him, but Francis didn't wait, just turned and stormed away.

Despite De'Unnero's flippant attitude, the words of Master Francis resonated deeply within the troubled man. He could scoff and spit and respond with sarcasm, but the simple truth of Francis' observations cut deeply.

He went to bed with those thoughts in mind and found little sleep-and certainly nothing restful-for his tossing and turning was filled with dreams of his slashing his way through lines of praying brothers with his tiger's paws. Terrible dreams, with the blood of young brothers splattering him, covering him, while he yelled at them, telling them that they were wrong, that they were weak, and that their weakness would be the end of the Abellican Church. And when they wouldn't listen, when they turned away from his ranting to continue their idiotic prayers, De'Unnero slashed them and tore them and felt their hot blood all over his neck and face.

He awakened, covered in sweat, and on the floor, wrapped in his bedsheets, long before the dawn. Immediately he looked at his hands-and nearly fainted with relief to find that they were still hands and not feline paws. Then, his relief lasting only a split second, De'Unnero started patting himself and rubbing his neck and face, feeling for blood.

'Just a dream,' he told himself, for he felt only sweat. He climbed back into his bed and started straightening the blankets, but before he had settled down, he realized that he would find no further sleep this night.

He went to the abbey's east wall instead, overlooking All Saints Bay, and there watched the sunrise, the slanting rays turning the dark Mirianic waters a shimmering red.

He had thought that he was coming home when he had left Palmaris and the fools at St. Precious, but now he understood the painful truth. He hadn't changed-at least, he didn't believe that he had-but St.-MereAbelle surely had. This was not his home any longer, he knew, and he wasn't even certain if this was truly still his Church or his Order. Marcalo De'Unnero had not been overly fond of Father Abbot Markwart. Certainly he hadn't been the man's willing lackey, as had Francis. No, he had argued with Markwart at many turns, and had followed his own course on