Robert Salvatore: Mortalis

Her responsibilities enabled her to put one foot in front of the other along the corridors of St. Precious.

When she turned the last corner into the hallway that ran in front of the meeting room, she came upon another whose stride, markedly different from her own, was full of eagerness and strength.

"Greetings, Jilseponie," Duke Kalas said, edging to walk close to her side. "I would have thought that you would have been inside with the brothers long before this, preparing for the King's visit."

"I have spoken with Brother Braumin many times," Pony casually replied, her reference to Braumin only-and not the higher-ranking monks, particularly Abbot Je'howith-speaking volumes about her stance on the present issues.

Kalas remained quiet; the only sound in the corridor was the soft padding of Pony's light shoes and the hard clacking of Kalas' military boots.

Before they reached the door, the Duke strode ahead of her and then turned back so that she had to look at him. "A difficult fight on yesterday's morn," he said.

Pony chuckled at his abrupt subject change. "Not so, I would think," she replied, "since so few were wounded."

"A testament to the power of the Allheart Brigade," the proud Kalas quickly added. "The powries were many and were eager for battle, but our precision formations and practiced coordination cut their ranks asunder and sent them running."

Pony nodded despite her nagging suspicions. She had no hard proof, after all, to dispute the Duke's words.

Kalas moved in front of her and forced her to stop abruptly. "I was pleased to see you on the wall when I rode back into Palmaris," he said, staring at her intently. "It is good that you should witness such a spectacle as the Allheart Brigade in these troubled times, that you might gain confidence that we, you and I, are fighting the same enemies."

It took all of Pony's considerable composure not to laugh in the man's face. He was making a play for her-oh, not for the present-for he, like everyone else, understood that she, less than four months widowed, was still grieving for Elbryan. No, Kalas was being far more subtle and polite. He was sowing seeds-she saw it so clearly. In truth, such occasions had become quite common. She was able to easily put aside her vanity and harbor no illusions that her beauty and charm were winning the hearts of the visiting nobles of Danube's court. She knew she was a beautiful woman, but so were many of those who had followed the King and his court to Palmaris, courtesans well versed in the arts of seduction. Pony understood the truth behind Kalas' words. She was an important figure now, with more potential for power within Church or State than any other woman in the kingdom, including Delenia, the abbess of St. Gwendolyn, the highestranking woman in the Abellican Church. Pony had been tentatively offered the highest position in the Order by several of the monks in Palmaris and certainly would have been given, at least, the Abbey of St. Precious as her own with a mere word. And she had been offered Palmaris by Danube, to serve him as its baroness.

If Pony was at all interested in this game of political intrigue, she could, in a matter of days, step into the thick of the highest levels of power.

Duke Kalas, a political animal if ever Pony had seen one, understood that, of course, and so he thought his charms well placed. Except that, to Pony, those charms themselves were the most lacking.

"If injured upon the field, I would have insisted on Jilseponie for my healer," the Duke went on; and it was obvious that he thought he was paying her the highest compliment.

Again, Pony had to work hard not to laugh. She understood Duke Kalas very clearly. The man could have nearly any woman in the kingdom; he could snap his fingers or run them through his thick black mop of curly hair and bat those pretty dark eyelashes of his and have the ladies of Ursal's court fainting on the floor. Pony knew that, and didn't deny that the man was physically handsome, beautiful even.

But how that image faded next to her Elbryan! Kalas was like a magnificently painted landscape of majestic mountains, an image of beauty, but Elbryan's beauty went far deeper. Elbryan had been those mountainswith the crisp, fresh air, the sounds, the sights, the smells, the exhilarating and real experience. Kalas was mere swagger, but Elbryan had been the substance; and this man, for all of his pride and puff, seemed a pale figure beside the ghost of Nightbird.

She recognized that she wasn't keeping enough of her true feelings off her face when Duke Kalas stiffened and moved aside suddenly, clearing his throat.

Pony turned her head away from him, chewing her bottom lip, hoping that she had not done too much damage to Brother Braumin's cause, and hoping that she would not burst out into mocking laughter.

"The King was delayed," came a voice behind them, and they turned to see Lady Constance Pemblebury moving fast to catch up to them. The woman repeated her message, eyeing Pony directly as she spoke. Neither Pony nor Kalas missed Constance's point: King Danube had been delayed because of her.

Pony rolled her eyes, fighting the feeling of mocking helplessness in the face of such abject stupidity. Constance-who, by all rumors, had been seducing King Danube for years-saw the attractive Pony, ten years her junior, as a threat and wanted to openly lay her claim to Danube.

How could Pony explain it to her? Could she grab the woman by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled?

"He bids that we wait for him before entering the audience chamber," Constance went on, shifting her gaze to Duke Kalas. "Of course, you may go," she said dismissively to Pony, who chuckled, shook her head, and turned back for the door, acutely aware that Duke Kalas' eyes were following her every step.

She had rebuffed the man, perhaps had even embarrassed and insulted him, but likely, she knew, he would take that as a challenge and would come after her all the more blatantly in the days ahead.

A man like Kalas always had something to prove.

"It was only a year ago since the last College of Abbots was convened," Brother Braumin said to Abbot Je'howith when the two were alone at the side of the large audience hall. "How much the world has changed since then!"

Je'howith eyed the younger monk with suspicion. That last College of Abbots had been a disaster, of course, considering all that had occurred since then. Markwart had declared Master Jojonah a heretic and had used the King's own soldiers-for some reason that even Je'howith had not understood and still did not understand-to have the doomed heretic dragged through the streets of St.-Mere-Abelle village and then burned at the stake. At that same College, Markwart had issued a formal declaration of Brother Avelyn as a heretic; and now, it seemed as if the Church might begin the process of canonizing the man!

Braumin read Je'howith's expression correctly, and he gave a helpless chuckle to alleviate the tension. "We have learned much since then," he said. "Hopefully, the Abellican Church can begin to mend the wounds it has opened."

"By canonizing Avelyn Desbris?" Je'howith asked skeptically.

Braumin held up his hands. "In time, perhaps that process will find enough support to begin," he said noncommittally, not wanting to start that fight now. "But before we begin to discuss any such action, before we even begin to determine who was correct-Father Abbot Markwart or Master Jojonah and Brother Avelyn-we must, by the King's own command, put our present house in order."

Je'howith's skeptical glare returned tenfold. "You have long ago decided which of them chose the proper course," he said accusingly.

"And it is a case I intend to make against you, and strongly, should you decide, after all that we have seen, to side with Markwart," Brother Braumin admitted. "But, again, we have not the time, nor the folly, to begin such a batde at this hour."