The soldiers bustled about and seemed unsure what to do, until one of them took careful note of the black, white-booted stallion pulling her wagon, and cried out, "Symphony!" They knew then that it was indeed Pony returned to them, and they threw the gates wide. Several mounted their own horses and led Pony's wagon through the winding streets of Palmaris, clearing the road all the way to the doors of St. Precious.
The brothers who met the unexpected caravan reacted with equal fervor, bringing Abbot Braumin and the other leaders, Viscenti, Talumus, and Castinagis, in short order.
Pony saw the bed of flowers laid out in front of the abbey, half buried by wet snow, most of them dead. Shaking her head, she came down from the wagon and fell into Braumin's arms. "Help her," she pleaded, and then, overcome with exhaustion, Pony collapsed.
She awoke in a plain but comfortable cot, dressed only in a long white shirt, but covered by many thick blankets. She was in the abbey, she recognized by the narrow, rectangular window and the plain, gray stone walls. A shaft of sunlight streaming in through that narrow window told her that the storm had ended.
Pony pulled herself out of bed and went over to the window, looking out to the Masur Delaval and the rising sun. Only then did she realize that she had slept for the better part of an entire day, and only then did she remember the harrowing journey through the dark night and the snow.
She searched for her clothes, but, finding none, wrapped a blanket about her and charged out of the room. She knew the layout of St. Precious well from her days there after the fight at Chasewind Manor, and so she ran straight off for Abbot Braumin's office.
He was there, along with Viscenri and Talumus, arguing over some philosophical point concerning the origin of Man and how the Original Man had become diversified into the various races: Alpinadoran, Bearman, Behrenese, and To-gai-ru.
That conversation ended abruptly when Pony came crashing through the door.
"Jilseponie," Abbot Braumin said. "How good it does my heart to see you awake and well. Ah, yes, your clothing-"
"Where is she?" Pony asked.
Abbot Braumin looked at her curiously for just a moment, and then a cloud passed over his face. He looked at his two companions, nodding for them to leave the room.
They both did so without question, Viscenti pausing only long enough to drop a comforting pat on Pony's shoulder.
Then the door shut hard behind her, and Pony nearly jumped off the floor. Hardly able to draw breath, she asked again, more somberly, "Where is she?"
"She is very ill," Abbot Braumin replied, standing up and coming around the desk. He moved near Pony, but she visibly stiffened and so he sat instead on the edge of his desk.
"Is? " Pony echoed. "Then she is still alive."
Abbot Braumin nodded. "But not for long, I fear."
Pony started to respond, but nearly choked as Braumin's blunt response registered fully.
"She is afflicted with the rosy plague," Braumin said quietly. "The red spots, the fever… there can be no doubt."
Pony was nodding with each word. "I was told as much already," she said. "But you do not understand what that means, I fear," Braumin replied, "else you would not have driven so hard to bring her here."
Pony stared at him incredulously. "Where, then?" she asked. "Where am I to bring one so ill if not to St. Precious Abbey? Who am I to turn to for help if not Abbot Braumin Herde, my friend? "
Braumin put his hand up in the air as she spoke the words-words obviously painful for him to hear. "The rosy plague," he said again. "Do you not know the song? "
Pony stared at him curiously, and Braumin began to sing the children's rhyme.
Ring around the rosy, Gather bowls of posies
Burn the clothes
And dig the holes And cover us with dirt.
Help to one in twenty Dying people plenty
Stupid priest
Ate the Beast And now can't help himself.
Praying people follow Into graves so hollow
Take their gems
Away from them And cover them with dirt'.
Pony continued to stare, but the words began to sink in, began to ring in her heart the truth about her doomed friend. "Where, then?" she asked weakly.
Braumin came forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. "You make her comfortable, as much as possible, and you say good-bye," he whispered.
Pony let that hug linger for a long, long while, needing the support. Finally she pushed Braumin back far enough so that she could look into his compassionate face. "Where is she?" she asked quietly.
"There is a house not so far from here that already knows the plague," Braumin started to explain.
"She is not within St. Precious?" Pony asked, her voice rising with her surprise.
"I could not," Braumin answered. "I should not have let you in so soon after you spent such intimate time with her." Pony's eyes widened.
"But I could not refuse you," Braumin went on. "Never that! And yet you must understand that I had to send several brothers to you with soul stones, to search your body for signs of the plague. Still, I should not have let you in, in accordance with Abellican canon."
Pony's eyes stayed very wide.
"Did you not understand the words of the rhyme?" Braumin asked, turning away from her with a withering glare. "One in twenty we may help, but one in seven will afflict the tending monk. The words are true. We of the Order, even with the gifts of God's gemstones, cannot wage battle against the rosy plague."
"One in twenty, you say," Pony replied, a distinct edge to her voice. "Will you not, then, try? For Colleen? For me?"
"I cannot. Nor can any of my brethren. Nor should you."
"Is she not your friend? "
"I cannot."
"Did she not stand strong with us against the darkness of Markwart? "
"I cannot."
"Did she not escape De'Unnero, to spread news of my capture and of the march to the north? "
"I cannot."
"Did she not suffer imprisonment without denouncing us, or Avelyn, or any of the principles that we held dear? " Pony continued to press, coming closer with each statement, so that she was, by this time, leaning heavily over the desk, staring Braumin in the eye from a distance of less than a foot.
"I cannot!" Braumin answered with even more emphasis. "It is our law, without exception."
"It is a bad law," Pony accused.
"Perhaps," said Braumin, "but one without exception. If the King of Honce-the-Bear became ill with plague, the Abellican Church would offer only prayers. If the Father Abbot became ill with plague, he would be forced out of St.-Mere-Abelle, beyond the tussie-mussie bed." Braumin settled back, his voice going low and somber. "There is but one exception I would make. If you, Jilseponie, became ill with plague, I would abdicate my post and my calling, take one soul stone in hand, and would go to you with all my heart and soul."
Pony just stared at him, too stunned by this unbelievable information even to find the words to respond.
"But even if I was successful, even if you proved the one in twenty, then I would be banished for my actions and not allowed back within my abbey until after the plague had abated," Braumin explained, "a decade, perhaps. By that time, I would likely have met with my own death. And if not, it is even possible that I would be branded a heretic for offering such false hopes to the general population. This is much larger than you or me, my friend. It is a matter of the very survival of the Church."
"I am going to Colleen," Pony remarked.
"Do not," said Braumin.
"What stones might I combine with hematite to help shield my work? "
"There is nothing," Braumin said bluntly, his tone rising. "Hematite will bring you to the disease, and there you will succeed if you are fortunate and its hold is not great, fail if moderate, and fail utterly, and sicken yourself, if it is thick within the victim."