JILSEPONIE STOOD ONthe brown field under the gray sky, staring at the towering walls, the gray stones chipped and weathered, speaking of the ages this bastion had stood, a tradition as deep and solemn as that of the kingdom itself. Not a man or woman of Honce-the-Bear, or even of the neighboring kingdoms, could look upon this great place, St.-Mere-Abelle, without some stirring deep within. Its walls stretched for nearly a mile along the rocky cliff face overlooking the dark and cold waters of All Saints Bay. Decorated and sometimes capped with statues of the saints and of all the father abbots, and with many other carvings, the great walls served as a testament to the Abellican Order, a symbol of lasting strength, for some comforting, for others . . .

Jilseponie could not dismiss the feelings of dread and anger that welled within her as she looked upon the abbey. Its dungeons had held Graevis and Pettibwa Chillichunk. Likewise had Bradwarden been imprisoned here, surely to be murdered or to die neglected in the cellars as had Graevis and Pettibwa, had not Jilseponie and Elbryan rescued him. Here started the macabre parade that had ended with good Master Jojonah burned at the stake in the village a couple of miles to the west. This place, these walls, had spawned the power that was Markwart, the man who had torn the child from Jilseponie's womb.

How she had once wanted to tear down this abbey!

She could suppress those emotions now, though, could put that which was past behind her. For St.-Mere-Abelle meant more than those deeds that had so enraged her, Jilseponie knew. The ideals that built these walls, the sense that there was something greater than self, greater than this meager life, had spawned the goodness that was Avelyn, that was Braumin Herde, and offered hope to all those shaded in gray between Markwart and Avelyn.

That point was made crystalline clear to Queen Jilseponie as she approached the gate and came to a familiar place, to see a marker set into the ground, proclaiming:

Here on the eve of God's Year 830

Brother Francis found his soul.

And here in the summer of 831

Died Brother Francis Dellacourt

Who shamed us and showed us the

Evil that is

PRIDE.

When we refused to admit that perhaps we were

Wrong.

Bishop Braumin had told her of the plaque and had smiled knowingly when he had explained that Master Fio Bou-raiy had eagerly endorsed the inscription.

"What men will do for the hope of gain," Jilseponie whispered, considering the plaque and the fiery one-armed master. She knew well that Fio Bou-raiy had denounced Francis when he had gone out to help the poor plague victims outside St.-Mere-Abelle. She knew well that Fio Bou-raiy -who refused to be shamed into going anywhere near the plague ridden - had been relieved, even glad, when Francis had fallen ill, seeing it as proof that his more cowardly course of hiding within St.-Mere-Abelle was the correct one for the Abellican brothers.

Jilseponie had witnessed Brother Francis' death, and she knew that he had died satisfied, fulfilled, and in the true hope that he had found redemption. A wistful smile found its way onto her fair face as she stood there staring at the plaque. Yes, Fio-Bou-raiy had battled Francis when Francis had turned against Markwart's ways.

And now here stood Jilseponie, preparing to enter the great abbey and cast her vote for Fio Bou-raiy as the next father abbot of the Abellican Church.

The irony of that was not lost on her. Word of Father Abbot Agronguerre's death had come to her at the beginning of Bafway, the third month, along with the invitation to the College of Abbots. She had set out soon after, and many times during her journey from Ursal, she had considered casting her vote and all of her influential weight behind Bishop Braumin instead. But Braumin was too young and too inexperienced, and would not get the support from the voting masters of St.-Mere-Abelle or, likely, from any of the other masters and abbots east of the Masur Delaval. And if she took with her stubbornness the votes of Braumin's friends and allies with her, she would be taking them away from Fio Bou- raiy.

That would leave one abbot in position to grab the coveted prize: Abbot Olin.

King Danube had begged his wife to ensure that Olin was not elected, and Jilseponie, whatever her feelings for Fio Bou-raiy, understood that electing the abbot of Entel, with his close ties to Behren, to lead the Abellican Church could prove disastrous for her husband and for all Honce-the-Bear.

And so Fio Bou-raiy had eagerly endorsed this plaque for Brother Francis. Likewise he had urged Jilseponie to become bishop of Palmaris and then sovereign sister of St. Honce, using that not only to gain a stronger hold for the Church in Palmaris but also to bring Jilseponie into the voting fold of the Abellican Church, knowing full well that as queen of Honce-the-Bear, she would prefer anyone, even him, above Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce in Entel.

She knew all this, and, in truth, it merely brought a smile to her face. The demon she knew, Master Bou-raiy, was not so difficult. As he wanted her support and the support of Braumin and his friends, so he wanted, desperately, to hold a great legacy among the people of Honce-the-Bear. Whatever his personal feelings or faults, Fio Bou-raiy would act in the best interest of that legacy, and thus in the best interest of the people of Honce-the-Bear. He saw the support for Avelyn - how could he not in these years so soon after the devastation of the plague! - and would try to spearhead that support.

Thus, Jilseponie could readily cast her vote with a clear conscience. She could hate the messenger while loving the message, and Father Abbot Bou-raiy's message at this time would be benign, perhaps even beneficent.

With a profound sigh, Jilseponie walked through the great gates of St.- Mere-Abelle.

"The beast returns," Sadye said to Aydrian, pulling aside the curtain that sectioned his room from hers and De'Unnero's in the small cottage.

Aydrian stared at her curiously. He had heard their passionate lovemaking and had heard, too, the discordant chords Sadye plucked on her lute - and he, with his instinctual understanding of magic, suspected that the sour notes and the emergence of the weretiger might be more than coincidence.

"If the beast comes forth, then we will again be without a home," Sadye said.

"This town is hardly our home," Aydrian remarked.

"And so Nighthawk will allow the weretiger to murder the townsfolk?" Sadye said slyly.

Aydrian stared at her hard. He cared nothing for the villagers - his contempt for his own race had only continued to grow in the weeks he had been on the road with Sadye and De'Unnero. The irony was not lost on him. Far from it. The only humans he had met since Brynn Dharielle had left him whom he truly respected were the man he believed had murdered his own father and the woman that man took as his lover.

"Control the rising beast," Sadye commanded. "Push it back within."

Aydrian took the hematite she held forth for him and pulled himself from his bed, walking determinedly into the adjoining area.

There lay De'Unnero in the throes of change, his legs already those of the great cat.

Aydrian easily fell into the magic of the gemstone, quickly sending his spirit out to connect with the human spark of the creature that lay before him, the rational being that was Marcalo De'Unnero.

Soon after, the three unlikely companions sat around the table, in silence that held for a long, long time.

Finally, De'Unnero nodded to Sadye and the woman hoisted Aydrian's pouch onto the table and pushed it to him. "You have earned these," she explained.

Marcalo De'Unnero clapped Aydrian on the shoulder and rose, walking toward his bed, and Sadye, with a final smile to Aydrian, rose to follow.

"I do not wish to live my days wandering from unimportant village to unimportant village," Aydrian called after them.

De'Unnero stopped and slowly turned to regard the young man. "Pal-maris, then," he said. "You will enjoy Palmaris."

Aydrian grinned from ear to ear and clutched his pouch of gemstones, the confirmation that he had won the trust of these new companions, that he had found some friends at last, ones that he could honestly respect. He was learning so much from them, from Sadye's old songs and Marcalo's incredible skills, an entire new perspective on the martial arts gleaned from the wisdom accumulated by the Abellican monks throughout the ages.

At that moment, in that nondescript, completely unremarkable and unimportant village, there happened a joining of Church and State as profound as the one that had placed the Queen of Honce-the-Bear as a sovereign sister of St. Honce: a joining of powers secular and spiritual that, when realized, would forever change the world.

At that same moment, hundreds of miles away, Queen Jilseponie watched as Fio Bou-raiy was elected father abbot of the Abellican Order.

Was that a good thing? Jilseponie wondered, for the best that she could say about Fio Bou-Raiy was that he was the lesser of two evils. That thought brought her attention to the side of the great hall, where sat a scowling older man, his gray hair thin and standing straight out as if it had been pulled. The top of his head was bald, and showed all the more clearly to Jilseponie because he sat hunched forward, a pronounced hump on his back. Even as Fio Bou-raiy took the sacred oath, the other man, Abbot Olin, rubbed a skinny, shaking hand across his eyes.

His arms were spindly and wrinkled, his skin leathery from so many decades in the bright southern sun. But there was no aura of weakness about this man, Jilseponie knew, and he wasn't quite as old as he appeared. He could deliver a speech with fire and passion, as he had during the nominating process. Jilseponie had seen several of his detractors shrink from his iron stare. Most of the abbots and masters in the hall recited communal prayer now, as Jilseponie should have been doing, but Abbot Olin was not praying for the health and wisdom of Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy. He sat there, staring hard at the man who had stepped ahead of him to win the Church, wincing every so often, his skinny hands clenching, fingers rubbing against his palms.

If Olin had a crossbow in hand at that moment, then Jilseponie did not doubt that Fio Bou-raiy would fall dead.

"There will be trouble in the Church," Jilseponie said to Bishop Braumin later on, when the two caught up with each other outside the great hall.

"There always is," Braumin replied flippantly. He started to chuckle, but when he saw that his companion was not sharing his mirth, he sobered. "Abbot Olin?" he asked seriously.

"He does not accept this," Jilseponie remarked.

"He has no choice," said Braumin. "The decision of the College cannot be questioned."

Jilseponie understood the truth of Braumin's words, but that did little to diminish the feeling in her gut, her perception of Abbot Olin. "There will be trouble," she said again.

Bishop Braumin gave a great sigh. "Indeed," he agreed - or at least didn't disagree - in a resigned tone. "It is the way of man, I fear, and even more the way of our Church, with its continual positioning for power."

"Fio Bou-raiy would say that those words are strange, coming from a bishop," Jilseponie pointed out. "Coming from a man still young, who has achieved so much in terms of personal gain, a man who was likely third behind Bou-raiy and Olin for the pinnacle of power in all the Church."

Braumin considered her words for a few moments, then chuckled. "That perception can be logically justified," he admitted. "But I seek no power for the sake of personal gain. Never that. I accept responsibility for the betterment of the people, nothing more." He looked at her directly and chuckled again. "Can you claim any different of your own ascension?"

Jilseponie stared at her friend long and hard, her grim expression gradually melting into a smile. For she knew the truth of Bishop Braumin Herde, the man who had stood beside her and Elbryan at risk of his own life, and she knew that he was speaking honestly now. And, indeed, Jilseponie could speak of her own ambitions in exactly the same manner.

"Perhaps God will take Abbot Olin to a more enlightened place before he can cause any mischief," Braumin said with a wink, "though I fear that our Church will prove more boring by far without the whispers and the subterfuge."

Jilseponie couldn't resist her friend, and she laughed.

Still, there remained an uneasiness within her, a sense that the pond was not as quiet and peaceful as the calm surface would indicate, either concerning the Church or the State.

PART THREE

THE AFTERNOON OF DISCONTENT

So much have I learned in the months I've spent with Marcalo De'Unnero and Sadye the bard! I shudder to think that I meant to kill this man, who has taught me so much about the history of the world long past and even the relatively recent events of which he was a great part.

He did not hate my father. That truth surprised me at first, nor did I believe his words, until I went to Oracle and confirmed them. The image in the mirror - and that image seems far more singular and unified now - that I can only assume to be the spirit of Nightbird imparted many feelings about Marcalo De'Unnero, respect being the most prominent. They were rivals, to be sure, but it is possible, I think, for rivals to love each other even as they engage in mortal combat.

Marcalo De'Unnero has taught me physically, as well. His fighting style is very different from the one the elves showed me.Bi'nelle dasada, I have come to understand, is mostly a balance and footwork technique, a method of fast retreat and fast attack. Uniting this with De'Unnero's flying hands and feet makes for a dangerous combination indeed, one that we both are experimenting with in our early sparring. I am truly thankful for that sparring! We have been at peace since we came to civilized Palmaris several months ago, with the only important action being a near- riot on the eve of God's Year 842. In previous days, when I walked the edge of the Wilderlands, I would have considered that night as nothing remarkable and certainly nothing dangerous, but here in Palmaris, it came as a welcome breath of excitement.

There are times in this interminable lull when I think I will simply go wild with energy!

But Marcalo De'Unnero is always there, calming me. These days, these months, are preparation, he says, a time for me to learn all that I can about this world around me. I do believe that he has something grand in mind for us three, though he won't begin to hint at it.

And so I spar and so I listen, and carefully, to his every word. And I take those lessons, physical and mental, with me to Oracle each night, where I find the other tutor, the spirit of my father - or perhaps it is the power of my own insight - and expand the knowledge Marcalo De'Unnero has imparted.

I listen carefully to the lyrics of Sadye, as well; and in these old songs, I have found confirmation of my suspicions. The immortals among my people are not the generous and the kind, not the meek and the quiet. Nay, those whose names are immortal are the warriors and the conquerors, the bold and the strong. Even the namesake of the Church, St. Abelle, was a warrior, a gemstone wizard who single-handedly - so say the ballads - tore down the front walls of a great fortress, a yatol stronghold.

Now he is the patron of the greatest church in all the world, a man whose name is uttered daily by thousands and thousands. Thus he is alive. Thus he is immortal.

They will remember Aydrian the Nighthawk in the same manner, I am sure, and my friend De'Unnero does not disagree with the claim. Whenever I speak of such things, he merely grins and nods, his dark eyes twinkling. He has a secret from me, concerning our road and concerning something else, something more important. I ask him about it every week, and he merely chuckles and bids me to show patience.

Patience.

If I did not believe that the gain would be so great, so monumental, I would have little patience during these uneventful days and nights in the city of Palmaris. But I have come to trust Marcalo De'Unnero and Sadye. They know what I desire, and have promised to show me how to find it. In truth, I suspect that Marcalo De'Unnero desires the same thing for himself

And so together, we two, we three, will walk into immortality.