with the precepts upon which we build our faith. Bishop Braumin will not forsake St.-Mere-Abelle nor Father Abbot Bou-raiy in this, at the price of his own life! If Marcalo De'Unnero desires to enter St. Precious, it will either be as conqueror or in chains. There is no negotiating that point!"
The stirring words seemed to bolster Fio Bou-raiy and all the others in the room.
"You say that De'Unnero and Duke Kalas are marching north from Ursal toward Palmaris," the Father Abbot prompted.
"The last report I heard, before Captain Al'u'met sailed me out of the Masur Delaval, was that they had advanced halfway up the river to Palmaris," Viscenti explained. "They are absorbing all the countryside as they proclaim the new King Aydrian. There have been some skirmishes, but nothing of any note, for the people have no rallying call denouncing this treacherous usurper. It is likely that Prince Midalis in Vanguard has not even learned yet of the death of his brother and his nephew Merwick, nor that his other nephew, the only other person in the royal line, is missing. Captain Al'u'met sails even now for Vanguard, but it will be weeks, months perhaps, before Midalis can muster any reasonable response.
Until then, King Aydrian, with the legions of Ursal and Entel behind him, stands unopposed among the unwitting populace."
Fio Bou-raiy folded his fingers before him in a pensive pose and spent a long time digesting the words. "Then we must inform the people," he decided. "Then we must hold out against this treachery and rally the resistance against phony King Aydrian until Prince Midalis arrives."
"Thousands will die," Master Donegal remarked.
It wasn't really Viscenti's place to speak, for the remark had been directed to Fio Bou-raiy, but he among all the others held the weight of his previous actions and not just his convictions to answer, "Some things are worth dying for, brother."
Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy sat up straighter and gave an appreciative nod to Viscenti. "You must return with all speed to St. Precious," he instructed the nervous master. "Tell Bishop Braumin that he must lock down Palmaris against this army. If Aydrian declares himself as king, then the army he commands is not the army of Honce-the-Bear, is not the army of the Ursal line, and must not be given admittance to a city loyal to that line."
Strong words, Master Viscenti knew, especially coming from the man who had the most to lose, and who was secure in what was arguably the most fortified bastion in all the world. But Viscenti didn't disagree with the reasoning. Some things were indeed worth dying for, and worth asking others to die for.
"Dispatch official emissaries to every abbey outside of Ursal, even to St. Rontlemore," Fio Bou-raiy instructed Master Donegal, referring to the second abbey of Olin's hometown of Entel, a place that had long been under the shadow of the more prestigious St. Bondabruce and powerful Abbot Olin. "Let none forget the truth of Marcalo De'Unnero, and let none misinterpret the actions of Abbot Olin here as anything other than treachery and blasphemy."
"Do we know for certain that Abbot Olin will not approach us civilly and with explanation?" Abbot Glendenhook dared to ask.
"He has overstepped his boundaries here, and there is little he could say to convince me not to excommunicate him," Fio Bou-raiy declared flatly, and that brought more astonished and nervous gasps, and more than a few concurring grunts.
Master Viscenti was among those concurring, and he dipped a low bow and begged his leave.
"Our wagons are at your disposal to return you to the Masur Delaval," Fio Bou-raiy told him, and Viscenti left at once, determined to stand beside Bishop Braumin when the darkness fell, a darkness that he couldn't help but believe would be the end of the world as he knew it.
Duke Bretherford sat on the edge of his cot in his private room on River Palace, leaning forward and rubbing his hands repeatedly over his grizzled face. He heard the stirring on the deck outside of his room and saw the light around the edges of his dark curtains and supposed that it must be morning.
Another night had passed him by with only fitful short periods of sleep.
It had been that way since he had returned to Ursal, rushing in upon hearing the news of Danube's untimely death.
His whole world had changed, so quickly, and Bretherford couldn't sort through it. He spent hours tossing and turning, trying to find a place of acceptance, as had