Robert Salvatore - Mortalis

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!"