The Demon Awakens (DemonWars), page 103
Whatever the truth of the blade’s origins, Connor understood that he now possessed a most extraordinary weapon. With Defender in hand, just a week before he had led a contingent of Kingsmen against a horde of powerful giants, and though the results had been somewhat disastrous—as can be expected in a fight with giants—Connor had done quite well, could even claim two kills by his sword. What glories he had found in the north!
Now, though, in this room with his good friend Abbot Dobrinion, Connor understood that he should be keeping his attention a bit closer to home.
“It is about Jill,” the abbot insisted. “Father Abbot Markwart believes she is in possession of the gemstone cache which was stolen from St.-Mere-Abelle.”
Jill. The name hit Connor bard, tugged at his memories and at his heart. He had courted her for months, wonderful months, only to have their marriage disintegrate in a matter of hours. When Jill had refused him his marital rights of consummation, Connor could have demanded her death.
But of course he could not have done that, for he had indeed loved the spirited, though troubled, woman. He had settled for the judgment that she should be indentured to the King’s army, and how his heart had broken when his Jilly left Palmaris.
“I had heard that she was far, far away,” the young nobleman said somberly. “In Pireth Tulme, or Pireth Danard, serving in the Coastpoint Guards.”
“So she may be,” Abbot Dobrinion conceded. “Who can tell? The Father Abbot is searching for her, and believes she was in the north, back in Dundalis, and even farther, accompanied by Avelyn of St.-Mere-Abelle, who stole the sacred gemstones.”
“Do you know this man?” Connor asked suddenly, again wondering about this first monk who had visited Pettibwa Chilichunk.
“Never met him,” Abbot Dobrinion replied.
“A description, then?” Connor pressed.
“A large man, big of bone and, they believe, big of belly, as well,” the abbot replied. “So said Master Jojonah.”
Connor nodded, digesting the information. The monk who had visited with Pettibwa was indeed large, of bone and of belly. Could it be that Jill had come back through Palmaris in this man’s company? Could Jilly, his Jilly, have been so close, without him ever knowing it?
“The woman is in trouble, Connor, very great trouble,” Abbot Dobrinion remarked gravely. “And if you know anything concerning her, where she might be, or if she is indeed in possession of the stones, the Father Abbot will seek you out. And his techniques of interrogation are not pleasant.”
“How could I know anything about Jill?” Connor replied incredulously. “The last time I saw her was at her trial, when she was sent away to join the King’s army.” His statement was true enough—the last time he had seen Jill was on the occasion of their annulment, and her indenture—but of late Connor had traveled out of Palmaris often, to the north to do battle, to make a name for himself in what many agreed were the waning days of the war. He had heard tales of a rogue band operating farther to the north, near the towns of Caer Tinella and Landsdown, using tactics and magic to wreak havoc with the monsters. Might Jill and the monk Avelyn, with their stolen gemstones, be the source of that magic?
Of course, Connor meant to keep his suspicions private, even from Abbot Dobrinion.
“The Father Abbot means to find her,” Dobrinion said.
“If Jill has made more trouble for herself, then there is little I can do to rectify the situation,” Connor replied.
“But by the simple fact that you were once wed to the woman, you are involved,” Dobrinion warned.
“Ridiculous,” said Connor, but even as he spoke the word, the door to the room burst open and four monks, Youseff and Dandelion, Brother Francis, and the Father Abbot himself, entered.
Dandelion went right for Connor; the man moved to draw his slender sword, only to find it lifting of its own accord from its scabbard. Connor grabbed at the handle, but when he caught it by the pommel, he found his arm pulled up high, and in a moment he was standing on his tiptoes, and for all his strength and all his weight, he could not bring the sword back down to a defensive posture.
Dandelion hit him a short, sharp blow, then yanked his hand from the sword hilt and wrapped him in a tight hug. The sword drifted away, weightless, and Connor couldn’t comprehend it until he noticed that the fourth monk, Brother Francis, was using a green-ringed gemstone.
“Do not resist, Master Connor Bildeborough,” the Father Abbot instructed. “We wish to speak with you, that is all, on a matter of tremendous importance, a matter concerning the security of your uncle’s holdings.”
Connor instinctively tried to break free of the hold, but found his efforts futile, for Dandelion was too strong and too skilled to allow him any openings. Besides, the other young monk, Youseff, was standing at the ready, a small and heavy club in hand.
“My uncle will hear of this,” Connor warned Markwart.
“Your uncle will agree with my decision,” the Father Abbot replied confidently. He gave a nod to his two lackeys and they dragged Connor away.
“You tread on dangerous ground,” Abbot Dobrinion warned. “Baron Rochefort Bildeborough’s influence is not to be taken lightly.”
“I assure you that one of us is indeed treading on dangerous ground,” the Father Abbot calmly replied.
“You knew that we were looking for Connor Bildeborough,” Brother Francis accused, walking over to take the sword from midair. “Yet you came out to warn him?”
“I came out to find him,” the abbot corrected. “To tell him that he must come in and speak with you, that any information he might have—and he has none, I can assure you—might prove important to winning the war.”
Father Abbot Markwart chuckled snidely throughout Dobrinion’s halfhearted protest. “Words are often such pretty things,” he remarked when Dobrinion was finished. “We use them to speak the truth of facts, yet to hide the truth of intent.”
“You doubt me?” Dobrinion asked.
“You have made your position concerning this matter quite clear to me,” Markwart replied. “I know why you came looking for Connor Bildeborough. I know what you wished to accomplish, and know, too, that your goals and my own are not in accord.”
Abbot Dobrinion huffed in reply and strode defiantly past the pair. “The Baron must be informed,” he explained, moving to the door.
Brother Francis grabbed him roughly by the arm, and he spun, glaring in disbelief at the young man’s brazen action.
Francis returned that look with a murderous stare, and for a moment Dobrinion thought the brother would lash out at him. A motion from Father Abbot Markwart ended the tension of the moment, though, and Francis let go of the abbot with his hand, if not with his glare.
“The manner of the telling is all important,” Markwart said to Dobrinion. “Do explain to the Baron that his nephew is not charged with any crime or sin, and had merely volunteered to answer our questions on this important matter.”
Abbot Dobrinion stormed away.
“His report to the Baron will not be flattering,” Brother Francis remarked as Youseff and Dandelion dragged Connor away.
“As he will,” the Father Abbot conceded.
“Baron Bildeborough could prove a difficult adversary,” Brother Francis pressed.
Again Markwart did not seem overly concerned. “We will see what happens,” he replied. “By the time Rochefort Bildeborough is even informed, we will have discerned what Connor knows, and the mere fact of his arrest will publicize our presence and the identity of our other prisoners. After that, this man means little to me.”
He started away then, and Brother Francis, after a short pause to consider the ramifications of this meeting, to consider the strain between Markwart and Dobrinion and the dire consequences that rivalry might hold for the abbot of St. Precious, turned to follow.
“Are we to do battle in the streets of Palmaris?” a frustrated Brother Francis fumed at Abbot Dobrinion. They had barely begun questioning Connor Bildeborough—using polite and friendly tactics—when a host of soldiers arrived at the gates of St. Precious, demanding the man’s release.
“I told you that arresting the nephew of Baron Bildeborough was no small matter,” the abbot shot back. “Did you not believe that his uncle would react with force?”
“Enough, enough, from both of you,” Father Abbot Markwart scolded. “Bring to me the emissary of Baron Bildeborough that we might settle this.”
Both Dobrinion and Brother Francis started for the door, then stopped, glaring at each other.
“And you, Abbot Dobrinion,” the Father Abbot went on, drawing the man’s attention, then motioning for Francis to go and complete the task. “You are needed with the centaur. He wishes to speak with you.”
“My place is here, Father Abbot,” Dobrinion replied.
“Your place is where I deem it to be,” the old man said. “Go to the pitiful creature.”
Abbot Dobrinion stared hard at Markwart, not pleased at all. He held no reservations about speaking with Bradwarden, but the centaur’s cell was far below, perhaps the farthest point in all the abbey from their present position, and by the time he got down there and back, even if his conversation with Bradwarden lasted but a few words, the meeting with Bildeborough’s men could be long over.
He did as he was instructed, though, bowing to his superior and storming out of the room.
Brother Francis entered a moment later. “Brother Youseff will bring the emissary presently,” he explained.
“And you will go right off to Connor Bildeborough,” Father Abbot Markwart said, tossing a gray soul stone to Francis. “Or near to Connor, though not where you can be seen. Go to him in spirit only, at first, and be not gentle. See what secrets his mind might hold. Then bring him to me. I will delay the Baron’s soldiers for as long as possible, but they will not leave here without Connor.”
Brother Francis bowed and ran off, and had just exited when another man burst in.
“Where is Abbot Dobrinion?” the gruff soldier asked, pushing past Brother Youseff to stand before Father Abbot Markwart. He was a burly man, dressed in the overlapping leather armor bearing the house insignia, the eagle, of House Bildeborough. That emblem was emblazoned on his metal shield, as well, and on the crest of his shining helm, a tight-fitting affair that pulled low over his ears, with a single strip running down between his eyes to fit over his nose.
“And you are?” Markwart prompted.
“An emissary from Baron Bildeborough,” the man said imperiously. “Come to secure the release of his nephew.”
“You speak as if young Connor had been arrested,” Markwart remarked casually.
The burly soldier rocked back on his heels, taken a bit off guard by Markwart’s cooperative tone.
“The Baron’s nephew was only asked in to St. Precious that he might answer some questions concerning a previous marriage,” Markwart went on. “Of course he is free to leave at his leisure; the man has committed no crime against the state or the Church.”
“But we were informed—”
“Erroneously, it would seem,” Father Abbot Markwart said with a chuckle. “Please, sit and take some wine—fine boggle from Abbot Dobrinion’s private stock. My man has already been sent to retrieve Master Connor. They should join us within a few minutes.”
The soldier looked around curiously, not really knowing how to react to it all. He had come out with a contingent of more than fifty armed and armored warriors, ready to do battle, if necessary, to pull Connor Bildeborough from his imprisonment.
“Sit,” Father Abbot Markwart bade him again.
The soldier pulled a chair from a side table, while Markwart retrieved a bottle of boggle from a cabinet at the side of the room. “We are not enemies, after all,” the Father Abbot said, again in an innocent tone. “The Church and King are allied, and have been for generations. It amazes me that you would be so impetuous as to come to the gates of St. Precious thusly armed.” He popped the top from the bottle and poured a generous amount in the soldier’s glass, then just a bit for himself.
“Baron Bildeborough wastes no effort where young Connor is concerned,” the soldier replied, taking a sip, then blinking repeatedly as the potent wine washed down.
“Still, you came here looking for battle,” the Father Abbot went on. “Do you know who I am?”
The man took another sip—a larger one this time—then eyed the wrinkled old man. “Another abbot,” he answered. “From some other abbey, St.-Mere-Able, or something like that.”
“St.-Mere-Abelle,” Markwart confirmed. “The mother abbey of all the Abellican Church.”
The soldier drained his glass and reached for the bottle, but Markwart, his expression changing dramatically to one of outrage, pulled the boggle away. “You are a member of the Church, are you not?” he asked sharply.
The soldier blinked a couple of times, then nodded.
“Then you should be aware that you are now addressing the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order!” Markwart screamed at him. “With a snap of my fingers I could have you banished and branded! With a word to your King, I could have you declared an outlaw.”
“For what crime?” the man protested.
“For any crime I choose!” Markwart yelled back at him.
Brother Francis entered the room then, Connor Bildeborough tight behind him, the nobleman looking somewhat unsettled, though not physically harmed.
“Master Connor!” the soldier said, rising so quickly that his chair toppled behind him.
The Father Abbot rose as well, and moved about the desk, coming to stand right before the obviously intimidated soldier. “Do not forget what I told you,” the old priest said to the man. “With just a word.”
“Now you threaten the soldiers of my uncle’s house?” Connor Bildeborough said. His presence and the forcefulness of his tone bolstered the soldier’s resolve, the man straightening and looking Father Abbot Markwart in the eye.
“Threatening?” Markwart echoed, and that laugh came again, but this time it held a sinister edge. “I do not threaten, foolish young Connor. But I think that it would do you well, would do your uncle well, and would do the soldiers of your uncle’s house well, to understand that these are matters quite beyond their understanding. And interference.
“I am not surprised that a willful young man, so full of pride, such as yourself, would not look past his own importance to comprehend the gravity of our present situation,” Markwart went on. “But it does surprise me that the Baron of Palmaris would act so foolishly as to send an armed contingent against the leaders of the Abellican Order.”
“He thought that those leaders had acted improperly, and dangerously,” Connor stated, working hard to keep from seeming defensive. He had done nothing wrong, after all, and neither had his uncle. If there had been criminal conduct in all of this, it was perpetrated by the old man standing before him.
“He thought . . . you thought,” Markwart said dismissively. “It seems that all of you make your own judgments, and act upon them as though God Himself blessed you with special vision.”
“You deny that you came and took me?” Connor asked incredulously.
“You were needed,” Markwart replied. “And were you mistreated, Master Bildeborough? Were you tortured?”
The soldier puffed out his chest and clenched his jaw.
“No,” Connor admitted, and the burly man relaxed. “But what of the Chilichunks?” he asked. “Do you deny that you hold them, and that their treatment has not been so kindly?”
“I do not,” Markwart replied. “They have, by their own actions, become enemies of the Church.”
“Rubbish!”
“We shall see,” the Father Abbot replied.
“You mean to take them from Palmaris,” Connor accused.
No answer.
“That I will not allow!”
“You hold jurisdiction in such matters?” the Father Abbot asked sarcastically.
“I speak for my uncle.”
“How pretentious,” Markwart said with a snicker. “And tell me, Master Connor, are we to do battle in the streets of Palmaris, that all the city might learn of the rift between the Church and their Baron?”
Connor hesitated before responding, realizing the potentially disastrous implications. His uncle was held in high regard, but most of the common folk in Palmaris, and in any other city in Honce-the-Bear, truly feared the wrath of the Church. But still, the fate of the Chilichunks was at stake here, and for Connor that was no small matter. “If that is what is necessary,” he said sternly.
Markwart continued to laugh, his agitated trembling hiding the movement as he slipped his hands into a pouch on the sash of his voluminous robes, drawing forth a lodestone. Up came the hand, and a split second later the magnetite shot out to smash the soldier’s helmet on the nose guard. The burly man yelped and grabbed at his face, blood pouring freely from both nostrils, waves of pain rolling over him, driving him down to one knee.
At the same moment, Brother Youseff leaped forward, tightening his hand as though it were a blade and driving it into the kidney of unsuspecting Connor Bildeborough, dropping him to his knees, as well.
“Possess him,” Father Abbot Markwart instructed Brother Francis. “Use his mouth to instruct the soldiers to let us pass.” He turned to Youseff. “The prisoners are ready for transport?”
