He heard the cries, the angry shouts, and the sound only spurred him on. As he approached the abbey, he heard the rattle of armor and the clatter of horses.
Marcalo De'Unnero slowed his pace, and so, too, did the Brothers Repentant behind him, figuring that the soldiers of the Duke Tetrafel had come to restore order yet again. Still, he continued toward the abbey, hoping that he might find some opportunity to make life a little more miserable for Braumin Herde and the other heretics who had stolen St. Precious.
Turning into the square, De'Unnero's eyes brightened considerably, for he saw that the soldiers-and it seemed as if the entire city guard had turned out-were not impeding the peasants in any way. In fact, many were cheering on the ragged rabble as they, one after another, charged the abbey and launched stones at its unyielding walls.
It was a situation that seemed to De'Unnero to be on the verge of severe escalation.
He turned to his fanatical brethren. "Our call has been heard at last," he said eagerly. "The hour of our glory is upon us. Let us go to them, our flock, and lead them against the heretics!"
The Brothers Repentant squealed as one, raising fists into the air and charging out onto the courtyard before St. Precious, their red hoods over their heads, their black robes flying out behind them.
De'Unnero was taking a chance, and he knew it. The soldiers, he believed, would not stop him and his followers. Not this time.
"The Brothers Repentant," Anders Castinagis said with a growl. "Marcalo De'Unnero."
Braumin Herde watched the mounting insanity, the growing riot. "Duke Tetrafel is over there," he said, motioning across the way, to where a decorated coach could be seen behind the line of stern-faced soldiers. "He allows this."
"He is angry and afraid," Brother Talumus remarked.
"He is a fool," Castinagis added.
"Can we not just reveal him?" Brother Viscenti asked nervously. "De'Unnero, I mean. They hate him. Surely they'll not follow him if they know..."
"They fear the plague more than they hate De'Unnero," Abbot Braumin reasoned, shaking his head. "We can reveal him, and likely that will weaken his hold over some. But it will do little to help us in the end, for this riot was incited not by the Brothers Repentant but by Duke Tetrafel."
The blunt inference, though it made perfect sense, unnerved them all.
"I told you before that we had lost the city," Braumin went on. "Now, before us, we have the proof."
"They'll not get through our walls," Brother Castinagis said determinedly. "Not if all the Duke's soldiers charge our gates."
"We will beat them back," Viscenti started to agree.
"No," said Braumin Herde. "No, I will not have the walls of St. Precious stained with the blood of terrified peasants."
"Then how?" Brother Castinagis asked above the tumult that ensued from the abbot's surprising statement. Had not Braumin, after all, already determined that St. Precious would defend itself against all attacks?
Abbot Braumin nodded, his expression showing the other monks that he knew something they did not-that he, perhaps, had found an answer. "Restraint, brothers," he finished and he left them, walking briskly down the corridor leading toward his private chambers. After a confused look at the others, Marlboro Viscenti quickly followed his old friend.
He caught up to the abbot inside the private antechamber, finding Braumin fumbling with the keys to his desk drawer-the one containing most of St. Precious' gemstone stash.
"So you will arm the brothers," Viscenti reasoned as his abbot slid open the all-important drawer. "But you just said-"
"No," Braumin corrected. "I will not have the blood of innocents staining our walls."
"But then ..." Viscenti started to ask, but he stopped short as he saw the abbot take only a single stone from the desk, a gray stone.
"I will go out to them," Abbot Braumin explained, "to Duke Tetrafel, bearing the stone of healing."
"To what end?" a horrified Viscenti asked.
"To try," Braumin replied. "If I go to him and try to help, perhaps they will relent their attacks upon our walls."
He started to leave, but Viscenti jumped in front of him.
"They will not!" the nervous little man insisted. "And when you go out and try to heal Tetrafel-only to fail, likely-you will be adding more fire to De'Unnero's dragon breath. He will claim that if God were really on your side, your attempt to heal the Duke would have been successful."
"But he claims the wisdom of the true God, yet does not heal," Braumin reasoned.
"But he does not claim that he can heal," Viscenti replied without hesita; tion. "He says only that the plague will continue as long as the Church remains astray."
Abbot Braumin shook his head. "I will go to Tetrafel," he announced to Viscenti, and to Talumus and Castinagis, who had just arrived outside of his open door. "Perhaps I will fail, but I will try, at least."
"Because you are a coward," Viscenti said forcefully behind him. Braumin stopped short, stunned by the uncharacteristic outburst from the normally timid man. The abbot slowly and deliberately turned, but the expression he found staring at him was unyielding.
"You are," Viscenti growled.
Braumin shook his head, his expression incredulous. He was about to go out of the abbey, after all, and confront the rosy plague. How could this man construe that to be an act of cowardice?
"You go to Duke Tetrafel, though you know it to be wrong, because you are afraid that he will send his soldiers against us, or at least that he will not stop the peasants from a full riot against us."
"They will not get through!" Brother Castinagis declared. "Not if all the city converges at our front gates!"
"But that is the fear, do you not see?" Viscenti went on, hopping excitedly right up to Braumin. "You are afraid of the very measures you determined that we must take to defend the abbey. You would not preside over such a slaughter! No, not that!"
His sarcastic tone set Braumin even farther back on his heels.
"But when you go out and fail, they will come anyway," Viscenti went on, "led by De'Unnero, if not the dying Tetrafel, and then we will have to fight on without your leadership. You are a coward," Viscenti repeated, and he was trembling with every word. "You know what we must do, but you'll not have the blood on your hands."
Braumin glanced back curiously at Castinagis and Talumus, to find them staring at him coldly.
"And it will only be worse for us, then," reasoned Viscenti. "For how shall we justify our refusal to come out and help them, all of them, if you have broken ranks to go to the Duke? What words shall we use against the peasant curses when you have, by your actions, told them that we who remained within the abbey are merely cowards?"
That struck Braumin to his very core, as poignant a reminder of the reasons behind Church doctrine as he had ever heard. He surprised the three onlookers then, because he started to chuckle-not a mocking laugh, but one of the purest helplessness. "So you have shown me the error of my ways, my friend Viscenti," Braumin remarked. "I cannot go out to them, to him." He shook his head helplessly as Viscenti sprang forward, wrapping him in a great hug.
"But we'll not aggressively deter our attackers," Braumin instructed. "We shall hold them back as we must, but with limited magic only. A stunning stroke, perhaps, but not a killing one, if that can be avoided."
Castinagis didn't seem pleased with that, but he nodded his agreement.
Shamus Kilronney came into Caer Tinella to find the place infested with plague, but also to find, to his surprise, an aura of hope and determination about the common folk. These were not people preparing to die, Shamus Kilronney realized, but ones preparing to fight. To his continued surprise, Shamus saw that those afflicted with the plague were not being ostracized and told to leave but rather were being embraced by those seemingly unafflicted. While this generous compassion touched him, he honestly wondered if the folk of Caer Tinella had all gone crazy.
He met with Janine of the Lake, the appointed mayor of the town, soon after.
"Got it meself," Janine explained, and she rolled up her blouse sleeve to show the telltale rosy spots, all over her arm. "Thought me time o' living was growing short."
"Thought?" Shamus echoed skeptically, and he instinctively recoiled from the diseased woman.
"Thought," Janine said firmly, fixing the man with as determined a stare as he had ever seen. "Now I'm knowing better, knowing a way to fight back and to live."
Shamus continued to match her stare, his skeptical expression hardly relenting.
Janine gave a great belly laugh. "Thought!" she said again. "But then Pony-no, she's wanting to be called Jilseponie now-came to us and showed us the truth."
Shamus winced, thinking, perhaps, that his old friend Jilseponie might have seen too much of the dying and the suffering, that she, like the Brothers Repentant, might have discovered some false insight into the causes of the rosy plague.
"She cured Dainsey Aucomb, she did," Janine insisted against his unrelenting stare. "Took the plague right out o' her."
Shamus didn't blink. He knew that a person could be cured of the plague with the gemstones, but he knew, too, that such cures were rare indeed. While he was glad to hear that his friend Jilseponie was still alive, he did not dare to believe that she had become all-powerful with those gemstones. No, Shamus knew of the fate of his cousin Colleen, who had died in Jilseponie's arms. He knew better.
"And she has cured you, as well? " he asked.
Janine gave another laugh. "She chased the plague back a bit," she explained, "but not cured, no."
"Then you are still sick."
Janine nodded.
"But you just spoke of a cure," the increasingly frustrated man blurted.
"So I did, and so Jilseponie found one," Janine quietly and calmly explained, "but not here. No, here she can give ye a bit o' rest from the fighting, but to get yerself truly cured ye must be walking, me friend, all the way to the Barbacan and Mount Aida, to the hand o' the angel and the healing blood. We're readying for just such a journey-the whole town's going north-and the three Timberland towns're already on the road to Aida."
"What?" Shamus asked helplessly, shaking his head and screwing his expression up into one of pure incredulity, as if the whole thing sounded perfectly preposterous. "Where is Jilseponie? "
"Went to Landsdown to help 'em out over there and to get them ready for the road," Janine replied.
Shamus was on the road in a few minutes, riding hard for Landsdown, the sister village of Caer Tinella, a cluster of houses but an hour away.
When he entered the town, he saw a great gathering in the central square, where a tent had been hastily erected. A line of plague victims had formed in front of it, while other people, apparently healthy, rushed about, loading wagons with supplies.
Though he certainly had no desire to go anywhere near the plagueridden victims, Shamus suppressed his revulsion and his fear and walked along the line until he could see the front of it, where a woman, a familiar face indeed, worked on them, one by one, with a magical gemstone.
Shamus moved up beside Jilseponie, who was deep into the magic, working on a young boy, and patiently waited. A few minutes later, Jilseponie opened her eyes, and the boy smiled widely and ran off. The next sickly plague victim shuffled forward.
Jilseponie glanced to the side, and her expression brightened considerably when she saw her old friend. She held up her hand to motion the next victim to wait a moment, then stood up-with great effort, Shamus noted-and came forward to offer a friend a hug.
Shamus stiffened at the touch, and Jilseponie pulled him back to arm's length, laughing knowingly. "You have nothing to fear from me," she explained. "The rosy plague cannot touch me now."
"You have become the great healer of the world?" Shamus asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.
Jilseponie shook her head. "Not I," she explained. Shamus looked to the line of the sick, to the boy Jilseponie had Just apparently helped, who was working hard with some others loading a wagon.
"I do nothing that any brother trained with the gemstones could not do," Jilseponie said.
"I have seen their work against the rosy plague," Shamus corrected. "They can do little or nothing, and are so terrified that they hide themselves behind their abbey walls."
"They have not kissed the hand," she answered, and she took her seat, motioning for the next sufferer to come forward. She glanced up at Shamus once more, to find him wearing a perfectly incredulous expression.
"Why do you doubt?" she asked him. "Did not you yourself witness a miracle at the arm ofAvelyn?"
"But not against the plague."
"Well, I have so witnessed such a miracle against the plague," Jilseponie answered firmly. "I brought Dainsey to Avelyn, and she was as near to death as anyone I have ever seen. There is blood on his hand-perpetually, I believe-and the taste of that blood brought life back into her body. I saw it myself, and knew that when I, too, kissed the hand, I needed no longer fear the rosy plague."
"And so they are going, all of them? " Shamus asked.
"All of them and all the world," Jilseponie answered.
"But how do you know?" the man pressed. "The blood? Will it continue? Will it truly heal?"
Jilseponie fixed him with a perfectly contented and confident smile. "I know," was all that she answered, and she went back to her work, brushing her hand over the feverish forehead of the woman patiently waiting, then lifting the soul stone to her lips.
"We must talk later," Shamus said. Jilseponie gave a slight nod, then fell into the magic of the stone.
A very shaken Shamus Kilronney walked out of the tent, straight to the tavern across the way. The place was empty, but Shamus went to the bar and poured himself a very potent drink.
Jilseponie joined him there later, looking quite exhausted but quite relaxed.
"They should all survive the journey," she explained, "or at least, the plague will not take any of them on the road to Aida." She turned down her eyes. "Except for one," she admitted. "He is too thick with the plague, and even if I were to work with him all the way to Aida, which I cannot do, he could not possibly survive."
Shamus stared at her, shaking his head. "You seem to have figured it all out," he remarked.
"I was told," Jilseponie corrected. "The spirit of Avelyn, through the ghost of Romeo Mullahy, showed me the truth." Shamus hardly seemed convinced, but Jilseponie only shrugged, too tired to argue.
"So, you can now help to heal the people? " Shamus asked. "Because you tasted the blood and are now impervious to the plague? "
Jilseponie nodded. "I can help them," she said, accepting the glass Shamus handed her. "Some of them, at least. But so could any other brother who has kissed Avelyn's hand. I need not fear the plague anymore, and that freedom allows me to fight it back in most people."
"But not in those terribly afflicted," Shamus reasoned.
Jilseponie shook her head and swallowed the drink. "For many it is too late, I fear," she explained, "and every day I tarry, more will die."
Shamus' expression turned to one of horror. "You accept that responsibility? " he asked.
"If not me, then who? "
He still just stared at her.
"I will not go north with them-they leave in the morning," she went on. "But you should go. Indeed, you must-both to help protect them and to kiss the hand yourself." She looked deeply into Shamus' eyes, her pleading expression reminding him of who she was and of all that they had gone through together. " Bradwarden leads the Timberland folk. Shamus should help lead the folk of these two towns.
"And Shamus should remain in the northland," Jilseponie continued. It was clear to him that she was making up plans as she went. "To stand guard with whatever force he can muster. To keep the road to the Barbacan clear for those who must make the pilgrimage."
Shamus Kilronney, who had traveled the long, long road to the Barbacan, scoffed at the notion. "You will need the King's army for that!" he insisted.
"I intend to enlist the King's army," Jilseponie answered, her tone so strong and grim that Shamus rocked back in his chair and found, to his absolute surprise, that he did not doubt her for a second. But that only reminded him of another pressing problem.
"Palmaris," he said gravely. "The people are rioting, and Duke Tetrafel encourages it. For he, too, has contracted the plague, and Abbot Braumin can do nothing to help him."
Jilseponie nodded, seeming hardly surprised, and not overconcerned.
"The folk are being prodded, too, by the Brothers Repentant," Shamus explained, "a group of wayward monks claiming that the plague is a result of the Church going astray, away from Markwart and toward Avelyn."
Jilseponie did wince a bit at that information.
"They are led by Marcalo De'Unnero, so I have been told," Shamus went on. He poured another strong drink, for he could see, without doubt, from her stunned expression and from the way the blood drained from her face, that she surely needed one. * * *
Stone after stone slammed against the wall or soared over it, making those few monks on the outside parapet duck for cover.
Down in the square below, De'Unnero and his black-and-red-robed brethren ran all about, urging the rabble on.
And on they came, shouting curses, throwing stones, and hoisting makeshift ladders up against the abbey walls. Another group charged the front gates, a huge battering ram rolling along between their two lines.
"Abbot Braumin!" Castinagis cried from up front, for the abbot had bidden the monks to use all restraint. With that battering ram rolling at them, though, they had to act fast.
"Defend the abbey," Braumin agreed, his voice a harsh whisper, and he turned and walked away.
He heard the sharp retort of a lightning stroke behind him, heard the cries of pain and of outrage, heard the continuing rain of stones, and heard, above all else, the voice of Marcalo De'Unnero, rousing the crowd to new heights of frenzy.
For hours they assaulted the abbey; for hours, the monks drove them away. Wherever a ladder went up, a brother was on the spot, pushing it away; while others launched magic crossbow bolts, even hot oil, at the would-be invaders. Dozens died at the base of St. Precious' ancient stone wall, while scores more were wounded.
The next day, they were back again, even more of them, it seemed; and this time another force accompanied the Brothers Repentant and the angry peasants. The sound of great horns heralded the arrival of Duke Tetrafel and his soldiers, all of them outfitted for battle.
Abbot Braumin was on his way to the front wall even before the messenger came running for him. "It is the Duke," the younger brother tried to explain as they hurried along. "He has brought an army and claims that we must surrender our abbey!"
Braumin didn't answer, just hurried on his way, arriving at the parapet above the front gate tower beside his three closest advisers.
"Abbot Braumin!" came the cry from the herald standing at Tetrafel's side.
"I am here," Braumin replied, stepping forward into plain view-and well aware that many of Tetrafel's archers had likely just trained their arrows on him.
The herald cleared his throat and unrolled a parchment. "By order of Duke Timian Tetrafel, Baron of Palmaris, you and your brethren now secluded within the abbey are declared outlaws in the city of Palmaris and are ordered to vacate St. Precious posthaste. Because Duke Tetrafel is a generous and noble man, you will not be prosecuted, as long as you depart the city this very day and promise not to return!"
Abbot Braumin stared hard at Tetrafel all through the reading, purposely keeping all emotion off his face. "We have spoken of going to Caer Tinella to open the chapel ofAvelyn," Viscenti remarked.
Braumin turned and stared at him, but shook his head determinedly. "Duke Tetrafel!" he cried out powerfully. "You have no jurisdiction here and no power to make such demands."
The herald started to respond, but Tetrafel, obviously still possessed of some amount of vigor, grabbed the man and pulled him back. "All the city has come out against you!" he yelled at Braumin. "How can you claim the rights of a Church when you have no followers? "
"We did not give you the plague, Duke Tetrafel," Abbot Braumin bluntly answered.
"But you did!" came a cry from the side, from De'Unnero. He ran out before the gathering, waving his arms at the crowd. "They did! Their sacrilege has brought the vengeance of God upon us all! Unseat them and He will be contented, and the plague will lift from our lands and our homes!"
"Duke Tetrafel!" Braumin called out, "We did not give you the plague, nor have we the power to cure your sickness. But how many times have the brothers of St. Precious-"
"Out!" the Duke interrupted, leaping out of his carriage and stumbling forward. "Out, I say! Get you gone from that building and from my city!"
Abbot Braumin stared down at him; his cold expression gave the frightened and angry man all the answer that he needed.
" Then you are besieged, I say!" Duke Tetrafel declared. " If the night has passed and you have not fled the abbey and the city, then know that you leave your walls at your own great peril. Besieged! And know that our patience is not great. Your terms of surrender worsen with each passing hour!"
Braumin turned and walked away. "If they come on again, defend the abbey with all necessary force," he told his friends. "And, please, for my own peace of mind, if the opportunity presents itself, strike Marcalo De'Unnero dead."
Castinagis and Talumus nodded grimly at the request, but Viscenti, more familiar with De'Unnero's reputation, blanched at the mere thought of it. He watched Braumin go back into the abbey and wondered if he had been foolish to talk his friend out of going to Duke Tetrafel's aid, wondered if they should not take the offer and vacate Palmaris at once. All of them, every one.
Viscenti looked back to the courtyard, to see De'Unnero leading a prayer session with hundreds-no, thousands!-of folk gathering about the square, lifting their voices in response to his own. The Brothers Repentant filtered through the crowd, enlisting allies.
No, this would be no traditional siege, Viscenti knew. The outraged peasants would come at them again and then again, until St. Precious was no more than a burned-out husk of broken stone. And what would happen to the brothers? he wondered. Would they be dragged through the streets and tortured to death? Burned at the stake, perhaps, like poor Master Jojonah?
He heard the prayers and, more clearly, the words of anger, the prom- ises that the brothers of St. Precious would pay for bringing the plague upon them.
A shudder coursed down Viscenti's spine. He did not sleep at all that night.
"Here they come," Brother Talumus said grimly to the monks standing at his side between the outer wall parapets a few mornings later. He knew, and so did the others, that this would be the worst assault yet. Duke Tetrafel had declared a siege, but in truth, the actual attacks against the abbey had increased daily, for the common folk, roused by De'Unnero and with many of them plague-ridden and thus short of time, had no patience for any lengthy siege.
A hail of stones led the way, followed by the ladder bearers and many with makeshift grapnels attached to long lengths of rope. A group stubbornly picked up the battering ram, which had been repelled three times already-the last time with a dozen peasants toting it slain-and started toward the main gate, cheering with each grunting stride.
Monks scrambled along the outer wall, some with gemstones, some with crossbows, some with heavy clubs or knives. They threw lightning and shot quarrels, pushed aside ladders and slashed ropes.
A hail of arrows soared in just above the wall. Several brothers dropped, some groaning, some lying very still.
"Tetrafel's archers!" Brother Talumus cried, scrambling in a defensive crouch. "Lightning to the back! Lightning to the back!"
Abbot Braumin rose up bravely down the line, graphite in hand. He brought forth a streaking white bolt, slamming into the archer line, scattering men. He started to duck back for cover, but saw a figure he could not ignore: De'Unnero, rushing madly among the charging peasants, cheering them on to certain death.
A second bolt, much weaker in intensity, erupted from Braumin's hand, but De'Unnero saw it coming, and with the reflexes of a cat, he skipped aside, just getting clipped on one leg.
With a yell that sounded more like a feral growl, the wild monk charged the abbey.
Braumin glanced all about, seeking the rope or ladder that De'Unnero might use, and in his distraction, he did not note that the monk's strides resembled more the gallop of a tiger than the run of a man. Hardly missing a step, De'Unnero came to the base of the wall and leaped up, up, clearing the twenty-five-foot height, catching hold of the crenellated wall and pulling himself up with frightening agility and ease right before the stunned Braumin. He hit the abbot with a blow that dropped him to the stone, A pair of brothers rushed De'Unnero, but he dipped, thrust one leg out and tripped one, then pushed the tumbling man off the parapet and down to the courtyard; then he rolled under the lunge of the second, catching the scrambling man on his shoulder. De'Unnero's left hand snapped in with a sharp blow to the monk's throat and then, with hardly an effort, he flung the man right over the wall.
The unfortunate monk was still alive when he hit the ground outside the abbey. The peasants fell over him like a flock of ravenous carrion birds.
A third brother approached De'Unnero, loaded crossbow out before him.
De'Unnero locked his gaze, studied his eyes, and anticipated every movement, and even as the man squeezed the trigger, the powerful tiger legs twitched, launching De'Unnero skyward. The bolt crossed harmlessly beneath him.
De'Unnero came down, exploding into a charge that had the crossbowman helpless. He hit the man repeatedly, his fists smashing bone, and this monk was dead before he ever went over the wall.
Still more monks charged the savage warrior, heedless of their doom, thinking only to protect their fallen abbot. De'Unnero went for Braumin and rolled him over as he raised his fist for the killing blow, wanting Braumin to see it coming.
A lightning bolt hit the weretiger in midchest, sending him rolling over the wall. He landed lightly-miraculously to the stunned peasants!-and shook away the stinging pain.
He could not go right back up, for many monks had then converged on the area, many of them with crossbows and all of them aiming his way.
De'Unnero quickly melted back into the crowd.
Despite that setback, the rabble came on furiously, scaling the walls, pounding at the doors. The brothers responded with everything they possessed, but their magic was fast weakening and their numbers, though they took care to stay protected, continued to dwindle under the rain of arrows from Tetrafel's archers.
Abbot Braumin, dazed from the punch and bleeding from the nose-but refusing any help from a brother with a soul stone-looked around at the confusion, at the sheer mass of people coming at the abbey, at Tetrafel's deadly archers raining death from the back of the square, and he knew.
St. Precious would fall this day, and he and all of his brethren would be executed.
She heard the too-familiar sound of battle as she approached the northern wall of Palmaris, the cries of rage and of pain, the slash of steel, the thunder of magical lightning and a deeper, resonating sound: a battering ram thumping against a heavy gate.
Jilseponie urged Symphony into a faster trot, trying to get a bearing on it All. She noted that no soldiers manned the wall, that the gates were closed but apparently unguarded.
"Open!" she cried, now urging Symphony into a canter. "Open for Jilseponie!"
No response.
She knew then that it was St. Precious under attack, and the absence of city soldiers made it apparent to her that Shamus' warning about Duke Tetrafel was on the mark.
"Come in with care, as you may," she said to Dainsey, who rode Greystone beside her. Jilseponie slowed Symphony just enough so that she could fumble within her gemstone pouch, pulling forth several stones, and then she sent her thoughts to him, straight on, asking him for a full and flying gallop.
And flying it was indeed, for as they approached-the horse not slowing at all but taking confidence in his rider-Jilseponie activated the malachite. Squeezing her legs and urging Symphony into a great leap, they went up, up, lifting nearly weightlessly into the air, their great momentum keeping them flying forward, rather than merely levitating.
Over the wall they went, but Jilseponie didn't then relinquish the magic. Her thoughts, her energy, flowed into the stone powerfully, keeping them aloft. She liked the vantage point, and the image she might bring this way to the battlefield.
But how to steer? And how to maintain speed if Symphony's strong legs couldn't contact the ground?
Another thought-Avelyn-inspired, she knew-came to her, and she reached into her pouch and took out another stone, a lodestone. Jilseponie fell into this one, as well, looking out across the city, to the raging battle she could now see over at St. Precious abbey. She focused on the abbey, on the great bell hanging in the central tower. She felt the metal distinctly through the stone, and while ordinarily she would have gathered that attraction into the lodestone, building energy until she could let it fly as a super-speeding missile, this time she used the attraction to bring the stone and the bell together; and as she was holding the stone, and she and her mount were nearly weightless, they flew off toward the tower.
Jilseponie saw the insanity clearly, and the image nearly had her turning herself right around and running off to the sanctuary of the northland. A wild mob seethed about the base of the abbey walls. Up on the parapets, men were being hurled to their deaths, brothers pulled down and torn apart, lightning bolts and arrows and crossbow quarrels killing in numbers that would humble the total felled by the rosy plague!
She brought up a third stone then, her energies not diminishing in the least as the rage rose within her. She was fully into the magic-levitating, magnetically "flying"-and now both herself and her great horse were limned in a bluish white glow, a serpentine fire shield.
Over the battleground she soared, reversing the lodestone energy to break her momentum to slow her, even to angle her out above the main square and the bulk of the fighting. Some heads turned up to regard her, but most, too engaged in the battle, didn't notice.
But then everyone noticed indeed! For Jilseponie brought forth the powers of the ruby: a tremendous, concussive fireball that rocked the ground beneath their feet, that shook the walls of St. Precious more violently than the battering ram ever could. Then she loosed a tremendous lightning strike, angling it for the bell tower, the great gong immediately following the thunderous report.
Duke Tetrafel's archers turned their bows toward her, but not one had the heart and courage to fire. On the abbey walls, the brothers of St. Precious stared in awe, knowing, as each came to recognize the rider, that their salvation was upon them.
Down went Jilseponie and Symphony, onto the square, the horse neighing and stomping the ground.
"What idiocy is this? " Jilseponie demanded, and the battlefield had gone so quiet that she was heard in every corner. "Is not the rosy plague a great enough enemy without us murdering each other? What fools are you who diminish yourselves to the level of powries and goblins? "
Men about the square shied away from her, some ducking, some falling to their knees in fear.
"They are to blame!" one of the Brothers Repentant cried.
"Silence!" Jilseponie roared, and she lifted her handful of gemstones in the man's direction and he scrambled away.
But another brother did not similarly run, but rather came forward deliberately, slowly pulling back his hood, his intense gaze locked upon her. "They are to blame," he said with perfect calm.
Jilseponie had to fight hard to maintain her seat in that moment of recognition, of painful memories and the purest hatred. For she knew him, indeed she did. Despite the long hair and the beard, she recognized Marcalo De'Unnero as clearly as if they had both suddenly been transported back to that fateful day in Chasewind Manor.
"They follow a demonic course," De'Unnero added, still approaching,
"They follow Avelyn," Jilseponie replied.
The man smiled and shrugged, as if she had just agreed with him.
Jilseponie growled and pulled her gaze from the man. "Hear me, all of you!" she cried. "Avelyn was your savior in the time of Bestesbulzibar, and so he is again!"
"Avelyn brought the plague," the leader of the Brothers Repentant, the self-proclaimed Brother Truth, declared.
Various shouts, of hope and of denial, came at her; but Jilseponie hardly heard them, as De'Unnero continued to approach. She understood then that she would not reach them with any effect as long as this figurehead stood before them, denying her every claim. And at that moment, Jilseponie hardly cared. Suddenly, at that moment, the scene about her mattered not at all. Not the fighting, not even the suffering. No, all that mattered to Jilseponie at that moment was this figure coming toward her, this murderous monster who had begun the ultimate downfall of her dear Elbryan. She swung down from Symphony, dropping all but one of her gemstones back into her pouch, and in the same movement, drew Defender.
De'Unnero continued to smile, but slowed his approach. "Avelyn is a lie," he said.
"Says Marcalo De'Unnero, former bishop of Palmaris," Jilseponie returned. Many in the crowd gasped, telling her that she had guessed correctly: not many in attendance knew the true identity of the man.
"The same Marcalo De'Unnero who murdered Baron Rochefort Bildeborough, and his nephew, Connor," Pony declared. This time, the gasps were even louder.
"Lies, all!" Brother Truth cried, holding his outward calm. "Baron Bildeborough was killed by a great cat, so say the witnesses and all those who investigated his death."
"A creature that can be replicated through use of the gemstones."
"No!" De'Unnero yelled back before that thought could gain any momentum. "The gemstone may replicate but a limb of the cat, perhaps two if the wielder is strong enough. But that is not the tale told by the scene of Baron Bildeborough's death, and so your claim is the preposterous lie of a desperate fool!"
Pony looked around at the crowd, the uncertain and very afraid peasants. She could not begin any trial here, she realized, could not possibly slow all this down enough to turn the tide against De'Unnero.
"Let them decide their course later," she said to the man. "Let us finish our private business here and now." And she waved Defender before her, a motion for the dangerous monk to be on his guard.
With a laugh most sinister, De'Unnero shrugged off his robes and fell into a fighting stance, circling, circling to Pony's left.
"Do not!" Jilseponie heard Abbot Braumin cry from behind. "You do not know the power of-" She held up her hand to silence the man;
nothing would deter her from this fight. Not now. This was the man who had wounded Elbryan, who had, in fact, brought about his death in his subsequent battle with Markwart. This was the man who had brought the crowd against St. Precious, without doubt, the symbol of all that Jilseponie despised. This was the man, and no doubt, Jilseponie meant to wage this fight.
Quicker than she could believe, De'Unnero leaped forward, his left arm going under Defender, then coming up and out to keep the sword wide, while his other hand came straight in, a heavy punch aimed for Jilseponie's face. She thought that he would measure her, would take some feinting strides and punches, and so she was caught somewhat off guard, and had to skitter back defensively, taking a clip on the face as he followed the punch through to the end.
The fight would have been over, then and there, for De'Unnero continued ahead, launching another right, then a straight left, then another right.
But Jilseponie knew bi'nelle dasada, had mastered much of the danceparticularly the straightforward charge-and-retreat routines-perfectly, and she managed to elude the charging monk long enough to get her sword in line and force him back.
Now she came forward, a sudden charge and thrust; but De'Unnero, so agile-too agile!-leaped into a sidelong roll that forced Jilseponie to turn. By the time she had, he had already come inside her sword reach, and she had to skitter into another desperate retreat.
Only for a moment, though, for she slid down to one knee, under a wild right hook, disengaging Defender from the blocking arm, then slashed the sword across.
Up went De'Unnero, tucking his legs. Jilseponie stopped and pulled the sword in, then thrust straight out, and De'Unnero had to throw his hips to the side to dodge.
He rolled right about that pivot, lifting one leg high, then stomping down; Pony threw her free arm out to block-and then fell back, tucking the bruised limb in against her side.
She didn't let the pain deter her and retreated only a couple of steps before reversing and thrusting, charging ahead several fast strides, angled to keep up with De'Unnero, and thrusting again. Then it was the monk's turn to clutch a wounded limb, a torn forearm.
But if Jilseponie thought that she had any advantage, then she didn't understand the fiber of Marcalo De'Unnero. With a feral growl, he came on, his hands working a blur of circles in the air before him-a blur that Jilseponie didn't dare thrust her sword into, for if she missed any mark, he would certainly disarm her or at least deflect Defender out too far to the side. On he came, hands working a defensive frenzy and every so often launching a straight jab; legs working furiously, keeping perfect balance, and every so often launching a kick for her face.
And Jilseponie was backing, backing, trying to sort out the blur, trying to find some opening. She called to Elbryan then, to guide her.
But he was not there or could not answer. It was only herself against this man, this monster, and she understood clearly at that moment that she was badly overmatched. How she wished she hadn't so depleted her magical energies! How she wished she could activate serpentine and ruby and burn the skin from De'Unnero's bones!
Out came a jab, and she had to slash Defender to turn the punch away, and only then did Jilseponie realize that she had been duped. Down went De'Unnero, throwing his leg out wide, sweeping it forward, catching the retreating woman on the ankle and tripping her.
She fell with enough balance to prevent any real injury, but again, the monk leaped ahead too quickly and stood towering over her.
She couldn't get Defender in line this time. She noted then that the man's arm had become that of a great tiger.
For Marcalo De'Unnero, this was the moment of complete triumph, of full circle. Jilseponie would die, there and then, and all threat that the followers of Avelyn would somehow push back his brethren would die with her.
For he was the victor, he was the one who would stand among the masses, sending them with renewed fury against the diminishing defenses of St. Precious Abbey.
He had sensed that, had sensed the kill, even as his foot connected with her ankle, sending her tumbling to the cobblestones. He had smelled her blood, had felt the tiger awakening within him. The woman was goodvery good-and he knew that he would get only one strike in before she managed to come back on the defensive. But he had the great beast within him; his paw carried lethal claws.
He would need only one strike.
He started his swipe, her neck open to him. She could not possibly bring her sword in line, could not begin to roll out of death's way.
But she opened her other hand and a missile fired out, a small gemstone homing in on the metal in the one piece of jewelry Brother Truth wore: an earring dangling the evergreen symbol of the Abellican Church.
The magic stone drove up against the side of De'Unnero's head, tearing away his ear. His attack became a shriek as he brought his arm in reflexively to grab at the wound.
Jilseponie rolled back, setting her feet under her and coming up; and De'Unnero, too, retreated, howling with pain and outrage.
"Deceiver!" he cried.
"Tell me when I claimed to fight you fairly," she spat back.
"Deceiver!" he cried again.
"I did not use magic until you did!" Jilseponie yelled back. She came forward with a thrust, and De'Unnero leaped aside.
It churned in him, boiling, boiling, the primal rage, the primal beast. His head burned with pain; his brain swirled with red rage. He had won! He had victory right in his grasp, his clawed, tiger's grasp!
He hardly felt the transformation, the crackling and reshaping of bone, the beast overwhelming his control. He knew that he should not, must not, allow this! Not out here, in front of all the folk, not so soon after Jilseponie had just declared him the murderer of Baron Bildeborough!
But he couldn't stop it, not with the blur of pain, the red wall of outrage. His senses heightened; he saw Jilseponie, her horse behind her, rearing and neighing.
He heard them, all of them, gasping, and then crying out against him.
Desperation had given her the strength to launch the lodestone, but only luck had brought it into such a sensitive area as his ear. She produced another stone now, a graphite, but Jilseponie knew that the thunderbolt she brought forth from it would be of little real effect. Her magical energies were now depleted to the point where she doubted that her bolt would even slow the charge of this terrifying, tremendous cat.
She would have to use Defender alone to stop him; and when she considered the sword, magnificent as it was, Jilseponie realized that she was in dire trouble.
But De'Unnero didn't charge; and suddenly, she realized that their personal battle had come to an abrupt end. Tetrafel's archers had their bows low and level but not aiming at her; the cries from the peasants all about her did not call for her death.
No, De'Unnero had revealed the truth of himself to the folk of Palmaris, had shown them that he had been the murderer of their beloved Baron Bildeborough.
They knew now the truth of Brother Truth.
The great cat sprang-not at Jilseponie, but by her, breaking into a sprint. A volley of arrows followed, some hitting the mark; but on De'Unnero ran, away he leaped, clearing the dodging and ducking peasants, breaking for the city's outer wall with a host of arrows, of crossbow bolts from St. Precious, of charging horsemen, right behind.
Jilseponie stood calm through the storm, held her ground, and turned her attention away from the fleeing tiger toward the more important adversary.
Duke Tetrafel was there, staring back at her from the window of his decorated coach.
Pain and rage, primal hunger and blind hatred all swirled in his mind, along with abject despair at the deep-buried but deep-seated realization that he had failed. He had gone from victory to complete defeat in the blink of an eye, and now he was revealed and banished forevermore.
He charged for the wall, hearing the pursuit, feeling the pain of a dozen stinging arrows that had burrowed under his black-striped orange coat. Fear and rage alone kept him moving, running, running, for the northern gate.
He saw a woman on a familiar horse, but he couldn't stop to tear out her throat, to feast upon her warm blood. He had to get to the gate-and through the gate.
No, the great cat realized, and he quickly turned down a side alley. Not to the gate. The horsemen could follow him through the gate, and he was fast tiring. He was a predator, built for short bursts of speed, and he was sorely wounded, but those horses could run and run.
He headed for the wall again, but not near any gate. The pursuit closed, closed, but De'Unnero used his last remaining strength to get to the base of the wall and to leap high and far.
Another arrow caught him in midnight.
He landed heavily on the field outside, slumping to the ground, but then pulling himself back up and dragging his punctured body away into hiding.
He felt the darkness closing all about him, could hear the rasp of death and feel the cold and merciless hand closing in.