DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) by R.A. Salvatore Read Free Book Online Page B

flatly.
    Je’howith nodded, his grin wry. “Perhaps, and perhaps the common folk will believe that. But do understand, my young friend, that Markwart was no enemy to the people of Palmaris.”
    “De’Unnero …” Braumin Herde started to argue.
    “Was not Bishop Francis,” Je’howith replied. “Yes, they hated De’Unnero, and they curse his name still, though I believe the man was misunderstood.”
    Braumin Herde nearly choked.
    “But they were not so badly disposed toward Francis.”
    “Who speaks ill of Markwart,” Braumin put in.
    “Not so,” Je’howith replied, “not publicly. No, Brother Braumin, the folk of Palmaris are nervous. They know the outcome of the battle at Chasewind Manor, but they do not know what that means. They hear the edicts of King Danube, proclaiming victory for all the folk, but they take in those words but tentatively, recognizing the truth of the rivalry between the two great men, Danube and Father Abbot Markwart.”
    Braumin Herde shook his head as if to dismiss the notion, but Je’howith stared at him hard and paused there, allowing him time to let the words sink in. The old abbot had a significant point here, Braumin had to admit. When Pony had tried to assassinate Markwart the first time—and had, by all appearances, succeeded—there had been open weeping in the streets of Palmaris. Markwart had done well in his last days to win over the folk, had come to the city under flags of honor, with glorious trumpets blaring. He had reconciled, through Francis, with the merchants by compensating them for De’Unnero’s confiscation of their magical gemstones. He had taken on King Danube privately; the peasants knew little of that skirmish. Perhaps old Je’howith was indeed speaking wisely, the young monk had to concede. Perhaps treating Markwart’s memory with a bit of mercy would serve them all well in the coming days.
    “What is your second demand?” Braumin asked.
    Je’howith paused, a telling hesitation to perceptive Braumin. “There is a vacancy within the Church, obviously,” the old man began solemnly.
    Braumin nodded for him to continue. Of course he knew what Je’howith might be hinting at, but he wasn’t about to make this any easier on the old wretch.
    “Master Engress is dead,” Je’howith went on, “and while Father Abbot Markwart might have desired to see young Master Francis as his heir, it is obvious that such a thing cannot come to pass now. Never would so young and inexperienced a man be accepted as father abbot. Many do not even truly accept him as a master.”
    “He would have been eligible for the title this coming spring,” Braumin replied. “His tenth year.”
    “And you?” Je’howith asked, his tone offering to Braumin a trade-off of support. “A year ahead of Francis and not yet even a master. Have you enough years, Brother Braumin, to be elected as an abbot of an abbey as prominent and important as St. Precious?”
    Braumin knew that Je’howith’s words of opposition against him and Francis would sound reasonable to any gathering of abbots and masters. If Je’howith was to claim that Markwart, delusional and ill, erred in promoting Francis prematurely, then how might Braumin and Francis, both attempting to discredit Markwart on just those grounds, make the opposite case? Despite that, Braumin remained steadfast and would not follow Je’howith to that which he apparently desired. “No,” he said simply. “You are asking me to support you in a bid for the title of father abbot, but that I cannot do.”
    Je’howith’s eyes narrowed and his lips became very thin.
    “Even Master Francis will not back you,” Braumin said bluntly. “And as he was deeply connected to the Father Abbot, as were you, his abandonment of your cause will ring loudly in the ears of the other electors.”
    Braumin did not blink, matching the angry man’s stare. “It will not be you, Abbot Je’howith,” he said. “Never were you prepared for such a