"Francis?" De'Unnero asked, loudly enough so that the man could hear.
"Yes," Bou-raiy answered.
That brought a chuckle from De'Unnero. He couldn't believe how quickly Bou-raiy had acted, seizing upon the injury of Brother Tellarese to turn against him. He should have seen it coming, he realized. His climb to power had left many sour faces in its wake.
"I can get the immaculate brothers also to agree with the request," Bouraiy said.
"Now I am to take my orders from immaculate brothers?" De'Unnero was quick to answer, "or from troublesome and jealous masters who fear, perhaps, that I will shake their comfortable world? "
Bou-raiy looked at him curiously.
"Yes, Master Fio Bou-raiy has carved out a comfortable niche for himself in the absence of Markwart and others," De'Unnero went on. "Master Fio Bou-raiy fears that I will come in and upset his coveted position."
"We have already had this argument," Bou-raiy said dryly, obviously seeing where this was heading.
"And we will have it again, and many times, I suspect," said De'Unnero. "But not now. I was just thinking that perhaps it would be better if I left St.-Mere-Abelle for a while, and if the masters wish that course to be to the south, then so be it."
"A wise decision."
"But I will be back for the College of Abbots, of course, a loud voice indeed," De'Unnero promised. Then more quietly, so that Francis could not hear, he added, "And I will watch the course of the nominating carefully, I assure you, and if Agronguerre of Belfour is to win, then I will back him as vehemently as Bou-raiy, and I will become indispensable to the man, as I was to Father Abbot Markwart."
"Abbot Agronguerre is no warrior," Bou-raiy remarked. "Every father abbot is a warrior," De'Unnero corrected, "or will be, as soon as he learns of the undercurrents among those he should most be able to trust. Oh, he will be glad of my assistance, do not doubt, and he is not a young man."
"Do you really believe that you could ever win the favor of enough in our Order to win a nomination as father abbot? " Bou-raiy said incredulously.
"I believe that I could prevent Bou-raiy from achieving the position," De'Unnero stated bluntly, and to his delight, his adversary's lips grew very thin.
"A fight for another day," De'Unnero went on. He looked past Bou-raiy, drawing Francis' attention. "You have an itinerary planned for me, no doubt? " he asked.
"Presently," a startled Francis answered.
"Soon," said De'Unnero. "I wish to be out of here before midday."
And he walked away, considering again this Church he had returned to find, this hollow shell, in his estimation, of what Markwart might have achieved. Yes, he would willingly go to the south, but not on any search for the plague. He would go to St. Gwendolyn, perhaps, or all the way to Entel, if time allowed, and seek out allies among the more forceful brethren of the southern abbeys. How would Abbot Olin react upon hearing that the ascension of Agronguerre to father abbot was all but assured?
Olin and De'Unnero got on well together, and he knew that Olin would not likely be pleased with the events occurring in the Church, as the man had been glad that Jojonah was put to the stake. And he knew from the previous College of Abbots that Olin-and Abbess Delenia, as well-were no friends to Bou-raiy.
Yes, De'Unnero mused, on the road he could stir up some trouble; and in his estimation, any chaos he might bring to this present incarnation of the Church-this pitiful Order that tried to find a hero in Avelyn Desbris, a heretic and murderer, and in Jojonah, who had admitted treason against St.-Mere-Abelle-could only facilitate positive changes.
Marcalo De'Unnero had been a political animal for most of his adult life, and he understood the implications of his path. And he knew, if Bou-raiy and Francis and the others did not, that Braumin Herde and his ill-advised friends could well split the Abellican Church apart. De'Unnero would wage that battle earnestly and eagerly, and if he had to burn St.-Mere-Abelle itself down to the ground, then he would do so in the confidence that he would rise atop the ashes.
He made one stop before receiving his itinerary from Francis, a visit to one of the lower libraries, where he slipped one of the few copies of a very special ocean chart into the folds of his robes.
His steps out of St.-Mere-Abelle were even more eager than the hopeful ones that had led him back to the place a few days before.
From the wall of St.-Mere-Abelle, Master Bou-raiy watched the man go. His own thoughts concerning the Church that morning were not so different from those of this man he considered an enemy. Logically, it seemed to Bou-raiy as if the appointment of Agronguerre-an event that seemed more and more likely to him-should signal the beginning of the healing process. Agronguerre was known for just the kind of gentleness and compassion that would be needed within the wounded Church; and Bou-raiy's remark to the surprised De'Unnero that the ascension of Agronguerre might be exactly what the Church needed at this time was not made in jest, nor for any subtle political reasons.
It seemed obvious and logical, and Bou-raiy was certain that enough abbots and masters would see it that way to elect the man easily.
But when he looked deeper than the seemingly obvious logic, Fio Bouraiy couldn't help thinking that this great living body that was the Abellican Church was now like some giant crouching predator, motionless in the brush, hushed and ready to spring.
And again-his thoughts ironically along the same lines as those of his avowed enemy De'Unnero-Fio Bou-raiy wasn't sure at all that he wanted to head off that predator's spring.
Chapter 17
"Arrgh! Put it back! Put it back!" Seano Bellick roared. He fell to his knees, grabbing at his bloody stump, his hand lying a few feet away, still clutching the handle of his axe.
Pony walked right by him, paying him no heed. " Belli'mar Juraviel? " she called. "Are you about? Or another of the Touel'alfar, then? To be sure, I know that arrow!"
"What're ye talkin' about, girl?" Belster O'Comely asked, coming around the wagon.
"My hand!" Seano howled. "Put it back, I say! Use your magic, I beg you!"
"I cannot put your hand back on your arm," Pony said sharply, turning on him with a snarl.
"You must!"
"There is no such magic!" Pony scolded, and it took all of her willpower to stop her from walking over and kicking the ugly brute in the face.
Seano Bellick wailed pitifully, still clutching at his torn stump. He reached for the hand with his remaining one, but recoiled as his fingers neared it, too afraid to even touch the gruesome thing. And he had to bring his hand back to his stump, for as soon as he let it go, the blood started spurting all over again.
"I'll bleed out!" the man cried. "Oh, but you killed me! Oh, you witch woman! You killed me!"
Belster walked up beside Pony, the two staring at the pitiful sight. "What're ye thinkin'?" Belster asked, for Pony made no move, either for her gemstone or for any bandages. She just stood there, staring at Seano Bellick as the man's lifeblood trickled forth.
"Girl?" Belster asked, after a long moment passed without her showing any intention of responding.
"Bleeding out," Seano said, his voice weaker, breaking with sobs.
"I believe that Belli'mar Juraviel or one of his kin is about," Pony said to
Belster, turning away from Seano. "The archer was felled by a Touel'alfar arrow, right through the eye."
"What of it?" Belster asked, motioning toward Seano.
"Am I not worthy of your healing, good woman?" Seano pleaded. "You then," he said to Belster.
"Are ye to be judgin' them ye mean to heal? " Belster asked in all seriousness, but to Pony's back, for she'd started away, looking up at the trees in hopes of catching a glimpse ofJuraviel.