"Truly a miracle," Brother Francis mumbled in disbelief when he saw Father Abbot Markwart exiting his room at St. Precious, seemingly as fit and strong as he had been before the attempt on his life, walking with that same eager bounce that had so recently returned to his step. At the very least, Francis had expected some bitterness from the old man: outrage and uncertainty, and fear. But Markwart, from the first moment he had regained consciousness after being so brutally struck, had exhibited none of those negative attitudes. He had very publicly thanked God for saving his life - with a jaw that was working well, a jaw that had seemed all but gone only hours before! - and then had explained his sudden inspiration that this might provide an even deeper benefit. The recall Bishop De'Unnero had begun of the gemstones would be more wel-comed by the doubting and tentative King Danube. To hear Markwart express it, the potential growth of power for the Abellican Church seemed perfectly astonishing.
And for Brother Francis, confused and still trying to shed that unbear-able guilt, it rang out as proof that he had chosen right in believing in the Father Abbot.
He had to hustle to catch up to his mentor, and then had to continue a swift stride to pace the man. Danube Brock Ursal had come into St. Pre-cious, surrounded by a host of guards, to offer comfort to the wounded Father Abbot. How surprised he was when Markwart strode confidently into the audience chamber, a wide, though somewhat crooked smile splayed on his old, leathery face. He took his seat opposite King Danube, while his escort scurried to place chairs respectfully behind him.
"Greetings, Father Abbot," Danube managed to say after the shock of Markwart's obvious health wore off. "I had heard that you were more seri-ously injured - some of your monks expressed their fears that you would not survive, even with their magical healing."
"And so I would not have," Markwart replied with a slight lisp, "had not God chosen to keep me in this place."
Duke Kalas, sitting behind the King, snorted, then tried, not so hard, to disguise it as a cough.
Markwart's glare cut off those impertinent sounds, the Father Abbot's dark eyes narrowing dangerously, the tension suddenly palpable. Kalas, normally so cocksure and determined, blanched at the sight, and so did King Danube, who had seen this old man before, during that terrible night-time visit.
"He knows that I still have much to achieve," Markwart went on, letting it end at that.
"He?" Danube asked, losing track of the conversation, noticeably shaken by that imposing glare.
"God," Markwart explained.
"How often have men justified their actions by proclaiming the name of God," Kalas dared to utter.
"Not as often as doubters have come to know the truth too late in their miserable lives," Markwart replied. "Too many have prayed for forgive-ness on their deathbeds, realizing at long last that, despite their doubts, God holds the only true meaning; for the only future that really matters is the future we find when we shake off this fragile and imperfect mortal coil."
Brother Francis locked stares with Constance Pemblebury then, the two of them sharing the same incredulous feelings about the less-than-civil undercurrent of the exchange. At that moment, it was not hard for either of them to understand who would walk out as victor should Kalas continue this fight with the Father Abbot.
Markwart would utterly destroy him.
King Danube saw it, too.
"Now you understand the recall of the gemstones," Markwart said to him. "These are tools not meant for the common man."
"I would hardly call the nobility of Honce-the-Bear 'common,' " Duke Kalas argued.
"Nor would I label them 'holy,' " Markwart replied calmly. "And that is the distinction I draw. The stones are the gifts of God, meant for the chosen of God."
"You and yours," Kalas said dryly.
"If you wish to join the Order, then prove yourself worthy of it and I will personally see to your admission," Markwart answered.
Kalas glared at him. "Why would I want to do such a thing?" he asked.
"Perhaps that question perfectly illustrates my point concerning the gemstones," said Markwart. "We of the Abellican Order preach emo-tional control before granting such power as is afforded by the gemstones. Without that safeguard, the potential for destruction is simply too great. Thus, the stones are to be recalled. Every one of them."
It came as a startling proclamation, one that had even Abbot Je'howith, who was standing dutifully behind Markwart, reeling. For Je'howith had assured King Danube that the program of recalling stones was confined to Palmaris and would not affect him and his court. Now Je'howith held his breath, expecting the King to explode with outrage.
But Markwart riveted him with his stare, reminding him silently of the nocturnal visit and of the power he should not oppose.
"I will need assurances that the power of the gemstones, when all are placed under Church control, will continue to be used in concert with the desires of the throne," King Danube replied, to the utter amazement of his secular advisers, even of Je'howith.
"The details will be negotiated," Markwart said, shifting his threatening stare to Kalas, for the man was obviously ready to cry out in protest.
The Father Abbot stood up then, signaling the end of the meeting with-out so much as an acknowledgment from the King. "I do hope you will find your stay in our accommodating quarters at the house of merchant Crump acceptable, King Danube," he said. Constance and Kalas both gasped, for from the tone of his voice it came clear that Markwart was not offering the words as a groveling kindness toward a superior, but rather as a conde-scending gesture toward one he would tolerate.
And even more startling came Danube's accepting nod.
Brother Francis was the last of the monks out of the room, glancing back once to see the ruffled King and his court still sitting in their assigned chairs, their impotence affirming yet again that Francis had thrown his loy-alty behind the right faction.
Markwart's cheerful mood after the meeting with King Danube did not last the day. He had called for a second meeting that morning, one with the commanders of the soldiers and the higher-ranking brothers of St. Precious to determine the progress of the search for his attacker. Not one of them offered a plausible direction for the search or a hint of who might have been behind the attack. Most suspected the Behrenese, but Markwart didn't believe that for a moment: he knew the yatol religion's disdain of gemstone use and had never heard a single report of a Behrenese man or woman showing any proficiency with the magic. And whoever had attacked him, he knew without doubt, was proficient with the magic, was very powerful. The soldiers had located three suspected attack positions, all on rooftops far from the parade route. For someone to drive a lodestone such a distance with such force indicated a level of mastery and power that would outdo many, perhaps all, the masters of St.- Mere-Abelle - that would rival the power of Markwart himself!
That, along with the fact that a lodestone had been among the stones stolen by Avelyn Desbris, told the Father Abbot much about his attacker. The name "Jill" came to his mind often during the meeting.
One other clue struck him. One of the soldiers, a bristling red-haired woman named Colleen Kilronney, kept insisting that the attacker must have been a rogue merchant, or an assassin hired by a merchant. As Francis and the others questioned her more deeply, they found little practical basis for the claim, but still, Colleen Kilronney held stubbornly to it.
Too stubbornly, perhaps?
That was only one of many things on Markwart's mind when he walked from the meeting to his private chambers. He had no pentagram inscribed on the floor here, of course, but he cleared a place in one corner of the room and sat down facing the corner, washing his mind to find a deep state of meditation. That now-familiar voice followed him into the emptiness.
He tried to sort through the many differing opinions he had heard, bounced the notion of a Behrenese plot against the anger of a rogue mer-chant, perhaps one who had managed to hide a lodestone from the searches of Bishop De'Unnero. But while the attacker might have been a merchant, or, an assassin hired by merchants, that possibility did not stand up against Markwart's suspicions that his attacker really was Jill or some other disciple of Avelyn Desbris.
Through it all, the voice kept whispering about the red-haired soldier woman. Markwart argued, thinking the voice was trying to convince him of the plausibility of the woman's theory concerning merchants; but soon he realized that it was telling him something completely different, something about the source and not the information.
"A distraction," the Father Abbot whispered, and as he considered any possible reason the warrior woman might have for putting forth such a theory, he knew the direction of his personal search.
He stormed out of his quarters, ordering Brother Francis to bring Colleen Kilronney to him at once.
And then he waited, a spider at the center of its web.
Colleen came tentatively into the room, and Markwart recognized that she was on her guard - yet another sign that the voice had steered him correctly.
"You were adamant that the attacker was a merchant, or one hired by merchants," he said, getting right to the point and motioning for Colleen to take a seat opposite his desk, and then motioning for Brother Francis to leave them.
"Seemin' the obvious direction," she said.
"Is it?" The simplicity of the question made suspicious Colleen tilt her head to better study the old man, another movement that was not lost on perceptive Markwart.
"Yer Bishop's made a few enemies among them," Colleen explained, "mostly with the friends o' Aloysius Crump. Murdered him, ye know, and in a horrible way and in a public place."
Markwart held up his hand, not the least interested in pursuing any dis-cussion with this inconsequential woman about Palmaris policy or De'Un-nero's shortcomings.
"Might it not have been a friend of Avelyn Desbris?" he asked innocently.
"I'm not knowin' the name," Colleen insisted at once, but her body lan-guage told a different story altogether.
"Ah," Markwart said, nodding. "That would explain your insistence on the merchant theory." He stopped and tapped his lips with one finger, dis-missively waving Colleen out of the room with his other hand. He called out to her as she opened the door, telling her to send Brother Francis back in immediately, and the confused woman merely nodded and grunted.
"Find me those who know her movements," Markwart ordered Francis a moment later, for he knew, and the voice was in full agreement, that Colleen Kilronney not only had recognized the name of Avelyn Desbris but also had been in recent contact - and knew it! - with one of the heretic's disciples.
Before the day was out, Father Abbot Markwart had discerned another spot for his personal search: Fellowship Way. His spirit walked out of St. Precious that stormy night.
With the rain and the wind and the brilliant strokes of lightning, few sol-diers were out that night, and so the company-starved folk of Palmaris dared to slip out of their homes. Fellowship Way bustled with patrons, all talking excitedly, trying to catch up on the momentous events since their last meeting, before the attack on Father Abbot Markwart. Some chatted about seeing the King; others hoped that King Danube would put the city in proper order and lessen Church influence.
More than one patron argued against that, saying that the brutal assassi-nation attempt on Markwart had sealed his position within the city, and that the King would never go against the Father Abbot so soon after the attack.
That line of reasoning, of course, hit Pony painfully hard as she moved from table to table. She still could hardly believe that the old man had sur-vived, but now that it was obvious that Markwart was alive, even well, she thought herself incredibly foolish. She still wished that she had found a way to kill him, but having failed to eliminate the old wretch, she had, in fact, only strengthened his position!
Many times did she sigh helplessly during that long night.
While the human folk of Palmaris who dared the night storm hustled to their destinations, eager to get to shelter, the Touel'alfar didn't mind the rain in the least. So attuned to nature, the elves accepted whatever she gave them. Blizzards were a time for quiet respite near a cozy fire, but as soon as the dangerous wind and blinding snow died down, they would be out in force, frolicking about the drifts, engaging in snowball fights or tunnel dig-ging. And so this late-winter rainstorm brought them little discomfort and only made easier their business of moving about Palmaris' streets.
Lady Dasslerond and Belli'mar Juraviel sat on the roof of Fellowship Way under an overhang, chatting calmly about recent events and their hoped- for course. Other elves moved about the house of Crump, seeking some way - a connection with an important soldier or noble, or even a secret passage into the King's private quarters - to find an audience for their lady with the King of Honce-the-Bear.
"Glad I will be when our business here is finished and we can return to the quiet meadows of Andur'Blough Inninness," Lady Dasslerond said.
Juraviel didn't disagree. "I left Nightbird so that I could again walk those meadows," he explained. "I had hoped to spend the entirety of the spring in our valley."
"Just the spring?"
"And all the seasons after that," Juraviel clarified. "I have seen enough of human problems. Too much, I fear."
To Dasslerond, Juraviel's words came as a welcome admission. She feared for him and his deep love for Nightbird and Pony. She considered Nightbird, as she did all the rangers, as almost her child; and from all she had heard, she believed that she could come to love the woman, Pony, too. But she was Touel'alfar, and they were not - no small matter to the clannish elves. And she was the leader of Andur'Blough Inninness, with responsibili-ties to no human, but only to her elvish people.
"I do look forward to my future meetings with Nightbird and Pony," Juraviel admitted. "And with their child, who may be heir to a greatness not seen, and sorely needed, among the humans."
"Perhaps I will accompany you on that future date," Dasslerond said, and Juraviel did not miss the honor she had just bestowed upon him, and upon his friends, with those kind words. "As the years pass and the human world calms, we might do well to venture out again, if for no other reason than personal enjoyment. Or perhaps we will lift the blocking veil over Andur'Blough Inninness and invite Nightbird and his wife and child to come and visit us."
Juraviel stared at her long and hard, thrilled by her softening tone and words. He knew that Dasslerond remained disappointed in Nightbird for showing Ponybi'nelle dasada, and outraged at Pony for acting so rashly against Father Abbot Markwart, but the lady was trying to look past that, was hoping for a better future relationship with the ranger and his loved ones. So while the night seemed dark and stormy, Belli'mar Juraviel had reason to hope that the dawn would yet come.
But then he felt the presence, an absolute darkness and coldness, as he had one night in the forest with a band of human refugees.
Dasslerond felt it, too, and was up in an instant, one hand to her sword hilt, the other to a pouch at her side, a pouch that held her single gemstone, a mighty green emerald, a gift from Terranen Dinoniel to the elves centuries before, during the previous war with the dactyl Bestesbulzibar - easily the most powerful stone possessed by the Touel'alfar.
"Jilseponie," Lady Dasslerond breathed, and she and Juraviel rushed to the edge of the building, signaling another nearby elf to rally the forces.
Pony moved back to the bar to collect a tray of mugs from Belster. She stopped, though, feeling suddenly strange, and glanced all about, won-dering who might be calling her.
"You will have to move faster than that if you mean to keep them all happy," Belster said with a laugh.
Pony took a step closer, but stopped and glanced nervously about again, the hairs on the back of her neck tingling as her warrior instincts put her on her guard.
"Caralee?" Belster asked, taking care not to use her real name publicly.
Pony turned to him and gave a slight shrug, thoroughly confused. She came by swiftly then, pulling her apron from about her waist and setting it on the bar. "I will return soon," she promised, scurrying past Belster and through the door to the private rooms.
Before she even reached her room, she stopped again. She was not alone; she knew that beyond doubt. And then the truth of it, at least a small part of that truth, hit her hard: she was being monitored by a spirit- walking monk!
Pony rushed to her room, not knowing where to turn next. Should she find a stone to counter the spiritual intrusion? Should she go about her business calmly, as though nothing was amiss, playing the part of Bel-ster's wife?
Jill,came a call in her head. The woman stopped and concentrated, trying to identify the source.
You are Jill,came the voice, and she realized by that question that this was no friend! She spun about, thinking to rush back in the common room and blend into the crowd, but then she froze in place.
The specter of Father Abbot Markwart stared at her, hovering visibly in the doorway.
"Jill, friend of Nightbird, friend of Avelyn Desbris," came the Father Abbot's voice - aloud!
Pony didn't know how to respond. She had never witnessed this type of magical communication before, had no idea that spirit-walking could be taken to such a level!
"Jill the assassin," said the Father Abbot. "You hit me hard, my dear."
He gave a laugh as he finished, an awful, wicked laugh that sent a shudder through her.
"I believe you have something that belongs to me, Jill, friend of Avelyn," he went on, "something that Avelyn took from me."
"Be gone from this place," the woman replied in as strong a tone as she could muster. "You are not welcome here."
The spirit laughed at her more loudly. "I will have my gemstones back," Markwart said, "this very night. I know you, Jilseponie Chilichunk."
That name hurt - and moved a wall of anger against Pony's very real fears. This was the man who had killed her parents, the man she wanted to destroy; and yet she could not ignore the power of his presence, a strength she had never felt. ...
No, not never, she realized to her horror.
"Do you see what you have done to me?" the spirit asked, and it changed form then, its lower jaw all but disappearing, flaps of torn tongue hanging low from its blasted mouth. "You, I say! And only by the power of the gemstones am I able to paint an image of my face as it was, and only by the telepathic power of the soul stone am I able to communicate so that those around me think that I am speaking to them."
Pony's own jaw went slack as she considered the implications of the man's words - for she did not disbelieve him. The man's face was destroyed - she had destroyed it - and yet, using gemstones, he was maintaining an illusion of wholeness: using gemstones, he was creating an illusion of speaking audibly! Pony could hardly conceive of the power implied by such an illu-sion, the maintenance of gemstone magic for so long!
"I know you, and I am coming for you," the spirit promised.
The woman exploded into motion, pulling her disguise off and collecting Defender and the gemstones. "I deny you!" she growled at the hovering specter, and she ran right through the image - a most unsettled experience! She thought to go to Belster, but realized that the best course she could take for her friends was to simply run away from them.
Dainsey Aucomb found her before she reached the back door.
"Ah, Miss Pony, are ye all right then?" the woman asked. "Belster said ye'd run out without - "
"Hear me well, Dainsey," Pony said, after a nervous glance around told her that the specter had not followed. "I am leaving now, and likely forever."
"But yer child - "
Pony cut that thought short, terrified that Markwart might hear. "You do not know the truth of me," Pony said, rather loudly, hoping to take some of the blame from her vulnerable friends. "Take Belster and run and hide. Better that you two are not involved."
"M-miss Pony," Dainsey stuttered.
"That is all I have time to explain," Pony insisted, grabbing the woman by the shoulders and giving her a good shake to focus her. "Good-bye, Dainsey. Know that you have been a dear friend." She kissed the woman on the cheek. "Kiss Belster for me, and run and be safe."
Dainsey just stood there, stunned.
"Promise me!" Pony insisted. "Go now. Right now! Promise me!"
The dumbfounded woman nodded, and then Pony ran out into the stormy night, her thoughts whirling. She had been discovered, and more of her loved ones might pay dearly for her errors, but she knew then that the best thing she could do for Belster and for Dainsey and all the others was to get as far away from them as possible. Understanding just how far she might have to run, recognizing the only real destination open to her, she went not for the alleys of the city but for the northern gate and the stable near it, where she boarded Greystone.
Belli'mar Juraviel and Lady Dasslerond watched her run out into the storm.
"It was him," Juraviel breathed. "He knows."
Another elf rushed to join them. "Gather all," Lady Dasslerond explained quickly. "To the north gate and beyond."
"We must help her," Juraviel declared, and he looked up at his lady, at the elven queen who had, just moments ago, talked of future meetings with Pony and Nightbird and the child, and he recognized the uncertainty on her fair face.
At least they were moving in the right direction, shadowing Pony to the north.
She was relieved to find Greystone's stable quiet and with no soldiers about. All the way to the place, Pony had feared that Markwart had found out all her secrets and that all escape routes would be cut off. But the stable boy helped her ready the horse, even offered her some old saddlebags and some supplies to put in them.
And then she went out onto the streets again, wincing at every loud clip-clop of freshly shod hooves. She tried to formulate some plan that might get her quietly through the northern gate - in the guise of a farmer's wife, perhaps - but she dismissed that. She might be recognized by soldiers put on the alert, and few folk would dare this storm except in an emergency.
She took a different route instead, moving far to the side of the guarded gate, to a quiet and dark place along the city wall. She brought Greystone into a short run, then, well before the base of the wall, fell into the mala-chite gemstone, extending its magic not only to herself but to her horse as well. The two lifted weightlessly from the ground, their momentum car-rying them toward the wall.
Greystone kicked and whinnied in terror, but Pony held him steady and sent more energy into the stone, lifting them higher, lifting them right over the wall, to touch down on the grassy fields beyond. She heard the commo-tion back at the wall, as guards rushed around, trying to find out what, if anything, had just happened. She hardly cared, urging Greystone into a swift canter across the darkened fields.
By the time the physical Markwart and his entourage arrived at the Fel-lowship Way, she would be far to the north, she hoped; and she could only pray that Dainsey would not fail her, that she and Belster would also be long gone - perhaps with Captain Al'u'met, perhaps into the secret caves of the Behrenese.
She couldn't bear the thought of yet another loved one being killed for her crimes, and thought for a moment that she should go back and sur-render herself to Markwart so that all her friends in Palmaris would not be persecuted, tortured for information about her.
But then she thought of her unborn child, of Elbryan's child, and she knew that she had to trust Belster and Dainsey and all the others. Oh, what a fool she thought herself for attacking Markwart! For putting them all in danger!
Tears mingled with the driving rain on her cheeks.
But she would run on, she determined, all the way to Caer Tinella, all the way to Dundalis and into Elbryan's loving arms. Together they would face Markwart.
Together.
Greystone shuddered and skidded suddenly, neighing wildly and rearing up; and Pony was thrown to the muddy field.
She rolled and groaned, and started to move her hands instinctively to her belly, fearing for her child. The shooting pain in one shoulder stopped her, though, and then so did something else, a feeling of dread beyond any-thing she had ever known. Growling away the stinging pain, she rolled over, looking for her horse. Greystone stood very still, head down.
Pony struggled to her feet and moved her good arm to her pouch of stones.
And then he was there - not in physical form but in spectral - so clearly that Pony could make out every detail of his features. "Running away?" Markwart said to her. "Coward. From all that I had heard concerning the mighty Jilseponie, I would have thought you would have welcomed the chance to test your strength against me."
"No coward, Markwart the murderer," Pony answered with as much cour-age as she could muster. Indeed, in another time and place, she would have welcomed this fight. Now she could not forget the promise she had made to Juraviel before she had left the northland - the promise she had made, in effect, to her unborn child.
"How your names do hurt me," the Father Abbot teased.
To Pony's amazement, the image strengthened then, seemed to grow solid, as if Markwart had just stepped through the connection between body and spirit!
"If you surrender to me, I promise you a quick death," the Father Abbot remarked, "a merciful one, so long as you publicly disavow the heretic Avelyn."
Pony laughed.
"Otherwise, I promise only that I will torture you until you disavow Avelyn," the Father Abbot added, "and then I will kill you slowly, savoring every moment. But you will accept even that, do not doubt, for any course leading to death will seem preferable to the life I offer you."
"The life you offer all your subjects," Pony retorted. "How far from God you have fallen! You cannot begin to understand the truth of Avelyn, the light that shone about him. You cannot - "
The words caught in her throat as Markwart grabbed her - not physically but with some mental connection that choked her as surely as his hands might have. Pony clutched her hematite, not leaving her body, but focusing her thoughts into the spirit realm. There she saw the shadow of Markwart's spirit, a tangible thing, standing right before her, hands out and about her throat. Black shadow arms came up from Pony's side as well, grabbing at Markwart's spirit image, and she pushed with all her strength, backing Mark-wart until their two battling spirit images stood halfway between their bodies.
"You are strong!" she heard Markwart say, surprisingly with glee in his voice. "Too long have I waited for this challenge!"
Pony growled again and grabbed harder, driving his shadow back a bit more and rising over it, pushing it down. Her spirit seemed to thicken, to grow darker and stronger, while Markwart's diminished, fading to gray.
Then Markwart came back at her, tenfold in strength, pushing her, then forcing her spirit back, back toward her waiting form. And somehow she knew that if he got her spirit back into her physical body, with his spirit still clenching and pushing, she would be destroyed.
She fought back with all her strength, and her spirit held her ground. But she could make no progress, could push Markwart back not another step.
And the Father Abbot was laughing at her.
When the elves arrived at the point along the wall where Pony had crossed, they found several town guards searching that area.
But Dasslerond wouldn't be slowed, not now. She motioned to her elves, and over they went, quickly, their wings fluttering. Soldiers yelled and scrambled, trying to get at the rushing creatures, but the elves were over and out into the night before the guards ever came close, leaving them con-fused and whispering.
Dasslerond and her band rejoined in the field on the other side and started north immediately, but then the lady stopped suddenly, turning to stare curiously at her companions.
"What is it?" Belli'mar Juraviel prompted.
The lady of Andur'Blough Inninness wasn't sure. Something magical had passed them by, some disturbance in the very fabric of space. The elves possessed three separate forms of magic. First was their song that could lull a man to sleep and could part the perpetual mists that covered Andur'Blough Inninness each night and coax them back with the rise of the sun. Then - most crucial to the Touel'alfar - came the second magic, that of the plants. The elves knew every medicinal, nutritional, or other use of every plant. They could make healing salves, or even concoctions that could allow one to live without air to breathe for a long, long while. They could speak with the plants to learn of the passage of friend or enemy, or to learn the recent history of any place.
And the third magic had been given to them from a human, from a great hero, a man possessed of elvish and human blood - a rare combination indeed! Terranen Dinoniel was his name, and in the first great battle of the elves and humans against the minions of Bestesbulzibar, Dinoniel had given the emerald gemstone, among the most powerful magical stones in all the world, to the Touel'alfar. This was the stone of the earth, the gem that heightened Lady Dasslerond's awareness of the living things about her and her connection to them. This was the stone that helped support Andur'Blough Inninness in its preternatural beauty and brought security to the elven valley; for with it, Dasslerond could alter the trails surrounding the valley, could shift the directions of paths so that any would-be intruders would find themselves walking in circles.
Now that stone told her that some creature had magically walked right by her band.
She knew the source, and so when she came out of her meditation, she prodded her companions on even faster.
They held in a state of balance, fighting hard. Pony tried to conjure all her rage, her memories of Dundalis destroyed and, more particularly, of her murdered parents, of the demon-filled corpses that had arisen against her in the bowels of this wicked man's home. That rage seemed to be working for a moment, as her shadow grew darker and stronger, forcing Markwart's back another step.
But then came the waves of despair, the fear for the child in her womb, the desperation that she had stolen from Elbryan the most precious thing of all: his son.
Pony tried to focus, fought with all her will to quickly build a wall of rage, but it was too late. The spirit of Markwart came powerfully - and it seemed to Pony as if the shadow had grown huge, batlike wings!
Now she was back in her body and she felt the presence of those hands around her throat - icy cold and choking the life from her.
Darkness crept around the edges of her vision.
Markwart had her! He would defeat her, he decided, but not destroy her. Not yet. How sweet this would be!
The spirit drove Pony down to her knees, and Markwart watched with glee as the woman's physical hands came up to her throat, clawing and scratching - with no effect whatsoever on his shadow arms. No, he couldn't hold back, the Father Abbot realized. This moment was too powerful, filled with ecstasy as he destroyed his greatest enemy in all the world!
He saw the blood dripping from Pony's throat, heard her dying gasp.
But then he felt something else, another presence. At first he glanced about, thinking that some third party had joined against him.
A jumble of confusion, and then glee, overwhelmed him as he recognized the source of that little spirit, that infant spirit, as he looked down more carefully at the woman's swollen belly.
The darkness closed in about her, leaving her looking at the world as if through a long and dark tunnel. She could not draw breath, could not feel her fingers clawing into her throat, though she knew somewhere deep in her mind that she was digging deep lines there. But, even con-sciously knowing that her physical hands were having no effect on the shadowy arms, she could not stop, could not overcome her instincts for survival.
The shadow's grip suddenly lessened, and Pony felt a stab in her belly.
Horrified as she recognized the sudden danger to her baby, she released all her magical energy in one sudden, brutal burst, one spiritual scream that flung the Father Abbot away from her.
And then the ground rushed up as if to swallow her, and she lay on her back, completely exhausted, panting, dying. And he was there standing above her, looking down at her. The victor.
He reached down as if to scoop her broken body into his arms.
She could not resist.
But then there came a tremendous shaking of the ground and the spirit of Markwart glanced around in surprise. "Wretched elf!" Pony heard him shout - and even as he finished, his voice and form faded away.
But Pony was falling into a blackness more profound than anything she had ever felt before.
Lady Dasslerond had little energy left to give to the mortally wounded woman, for it had taken every ounce of her power to force the spirit of Markwart back into his physical body. Every ounce of her considerable power and every bit of power the mighty emerald could offer had barely been enough - and she had caught him by surprise! The implications of the Father Abbot's surprising strength horrified her.
And now the elves flocked about Pony, Belli'mar Juraviel leading the effort to minister to her wounds using the second elven magic, the healing salves of plants. Some of the wounds, like the scratches on the neck, were easily tended, but others went very deep, wounds to the soul. Despite all their efforts, when Belli'mar Juraviel reported to Lady Dasslerond, he had to shake his head.
"What of the child?" Dasslerond asked him.
Juraviel shrugged, for he did not know. "It may be the child that is killing her," he reasoned. "Perhaps Jilseponie hasn't the strength for both of them."
Another elf rushed over to inform the lady that the northern gates of Pal-maris were open, soldiers and monks streaming through.
Lady Dasslerond knew then what they had to do.
