was at its end?

pony slumped in her bed, overwhelmed, and she reminded herself she had to move slowly. whatever happened, she decided, she would find a way to do battle against wicked de'unnero.

brother francis knelt on the floor in the corner of his room, facing the wall. his face was in his hands, a sign of humble submission to god - one not often used in the modern-day abellican church. but now the brother felt every gesture was important, as if somehow giving himself fully to his prayers would bring an end to the confusion that tore at him.

of late, francis had almost managed to forget the death of grady chilichunk. francis believed his helping braumin herde and the others escape from st.-mere-abelle somehow made up for that - at least in part. now, though, the image of grady, lying lifeless in the grave francis had dug, was haunting him. he remembered grady. he saw again blasted mount aida, avelyn's arm protruding from the ground. and most vivid of all, he couldn't stop seeing father abbot markwart sitting cross-legged beside a pentagram - a pentagram! - candles burning at every point and a wicked book,the incantations sorcerous, lyingopen on the floor beside him.

but as horrifying as that image was, francis tried to hold on to it - both to try to make sense of it and to block the more frightening image of grady, dead in the hole.

but grady's lifeless face would not go away.

francis's shoulders shuddered as he sobbed - more from the fear he was losing his mind than from guilt. everything seemed wrong, upside down. another image - jojonah's torso bursting open from the heat of the pyre - flitted through his mind. the memories mixed together into a great jumble of agony.

soon the image of markwart sitting cross-legged drifted to one side and the other three to another: avelyn and his friends against the father abbot. francis now saw there could be no peace, no reconciliation, be-tween the two.

he sighed, then froze. he'd heard a slight rustle behind him. he held still concentrating, listening intently, terrified, for he knew who had entered.

a long moment passed. francis suddenly feared he would be brutally slain.

"you are not at your appointed duties," came markwart's voice, calm and pleasant.

francis dared to turn and lift his face from his hands to regard the man.

"your duties?" markwart reminded.

"i ..." francis started, but he surrendered at once, unable even to remember where he was supposed to be.

"you are troubled obviously," markwart remarked, walking into the room and closing the door. he sat on francis' bed and stared at francis, his face a mask of peace.

"i ... i only felt the need to pray, father abbot," francis lied, pulling himself up from the floor.

markwart, calm and serene, continued to stare at him, hardly blinking - too much at peace. the hairs on the back of francis' neck stood up. "my duties are covered by others," francis assured the father abbot and started for the door. "but i will return to them at once."

"be calm, brother," said markwart, reaching out to grab his arm as he passed. francis instinctively started to jerk away, but markwart's grip was like iron and held him fast.

"be calm," the father abbot said again. "of course you are fearful, as am i, as should be any good abellican in these troubling times." markwart smiled and guided francis to the bed, forcing him to sit down. "troubling, yes," markwart went on. he stood up, moving between francis and the door. "but with a promise not seen by our order in centuries."

"you speak of palmaris," francis said, trying to remain calm though he wanted to run out of the room screaming - maybe all the way to the sea wall, maybe over the sea wall!

"palmaris is but an experiment," markwart replied, "a beginning. i was just conversing with abbot je'howith ..." his tone was leading, as was his gesture - his arm pointing toward the hallways and especially to his room.

francis thought he had not changed his expression, but he saw from markwart's eyes that he had betrayed himself. "i did not mean to enter your chambers unbidden," francis admitted, lowering his gaze. "i knew that you were there, and yet you did not answer my call. i feared for you."

"your concern is touching, my young friend, my protege," markwart said. francis looked up at him curiously.

"ah, you fear de'unnero has replaced you as my closest adviser," mark-wart said.

francis knew the father abbot was diverting the conversation, knew that the words were ridiculous. still, he found that he could not ignore them, and he hung on the father abbot's every word as markwart continued.

"de'unnero - bishop de'unnero - is a useful tool," markwart admitted. "and with his energy and dominating spirit, he is the right man for the experiment in palmaris. but he is limited by ambition, for all of his goals are personal. you and i think differently, my friend. we see the larger picture of the world and the greater glories in store for our church."

"it was i who told brother braumin and the others to leave," francis blurted out.

"i know," markwart replied.

"i only feared ..." francis began.

"i know," markwart said again with conviction.

"another execution would have left a foul taste with many in the order," francis tried to explain.

"brother francis included," said markwart, stopping the younger monk cold. francis slumped, unable to deny the charge.

"and with father abbot markwart as well," the old man said, taking a seat next to francis. "i do not enjoy that which fate has thrust upon me."

francis looked up suddenly, surprised.

"because of the times, the awakening of the demon, the great war, and now the opportunity that has been laid before us, i am forced to explore everything about our order, the very meaning of the church. even the dark side, my young friend," he added, shivering. "i have brought minor demons into my chambers to learn from them, to be certain that bestesbulzibar is truly banished."

"i - i saw the book," francis admitted.

"the book jojonah meant to use for ill," markwart went on, seemingly unconcerned that francis had seen him. "yes, a most wicked tome, and happy i will be on the day that i can once more relegate it to the darkest corner of our lowest library. better for all if i just destroyed it outright."

"then why not?"

"you know the precepts of our order," markwart reminded him. "all but a single copy of a book may be destroyed, but it is our duty, as pro-tectors of knowledge, to keep one copy. fear not, for soon enough the wicked tome will be back in its place, to remain unused for centuries to come."

"i do not understand, father abbot," francis dared to say. "why must you keep it? what might you possibly learn?"

"more than you would believe," markwart replied with a great sigh. "i have come to suspect that the awakening demon was no accident of fate, but an event brought about by one within st.-mere-abelle. jojonah, pos-sibly with avelyn, tampered with this tome secretly. he - or they - may have gone places, perhaps accidentally, where they should not have ventured, and may have awakened a creature better left dormant."

the words hit francis hard, left him gasping. the dactyl demon awak-ened by the actions of a monk in st.-mere-abelle?

"it is possible that avelyn and jojonah were not as evil as i believed," markwart went on. "it is possible that they began with good intentions - as we earlier discussed, the basis of humanism is good intent - but that they were corrupted, or at the very least, horribly fooled, by that which they encountered.

"no matter," the father abbot added, patting francis on the leg and standing. "whatever the cause, they are responsible for their actions, and both met an appropriate end. do not misunderstand me. i may feel com-passion for our lost brothers, but i do not grieve over their deaths, nor do i forgive their foolish pride."

"and what of brother braumin and the others?"

markwart snorted. "all the kingdom is ours to take," he said. "i care nothing for them. they are lost lambs, wandering until they meet a hungry wolf. perhaps i will be that wolf, perhaps bishop de'unnero, or, more likely, perhaps another unrelated to the church. i care not. my eyes are toward palmaris. and so should be yours, brother francis. i expect that i will be journeying there, and you will accompany me." he went to the door, but before he left he threw out one last tantalizing tidbit. "my entourage will be small, including but one master, and that man will be you." markwart left.

francis spent a long time sitting on the bed, trying to digest all he had heard. he replayed markwart's words, seeing them as an explanation for the evil tome and the pentagram. those horrid images swirled about him, but now the one of markwart did not seem so troubling. it struck francis that the father abbot was incredibly brave and stoic, accepting these bur-dens for the greater good of the church, and, thus, of all the world. yes, this battle was a wretched thing - and put in that context, francis found it much easier to forgive himself for grady. the fight was a necessary one, and when theologians and historians looked back at this pivotal time, they would recognize that, for all the painful personal tragedies, the world emerged a better and holier place.

francis found his perspective again.

"master francis?" he asked aloud, hardly daring to speak it openly.

father abbot markwart was pleased with himself when he returned to his room. the truth of real power, he understood, was not a measure of destruction, but of control.

and how easy it had been for him to play on francis' weakness. on the guilt and the fears, on the flickering speck of compassion and the desperate ambition.

so easy.