B raumin Herde felt better, physically, but hardly so emotionally, given all the news filtering in from the surrounding countryside, of the securing of Palmaris in the name of King Aydrian and the triumphant march of Duke Kalas. The former bishop stood in the great audience hall of St.- Mere-Abelle, to the side of the wide staircase, staring up at the huge stained-glass window that bore the image of the upraised arm of Avelyn.

In that miraculous arm lay the promise of eternal life, and it was one that Braumin Herde needed to hear in his mind clearly now, with his own mortality looming so close. For the armies were coming, there could be no doubt, and resistance to King Aydrian seemed practically nonexistent.

Staring up at the image brought Braumin back across the years, the long years, to his days huddled in the catacombs of this very abbey, listening to kind old Master Jojonah recount the tales of Avelyn and Elbryan and the coming of the demon dactyl. He remembered his flight from St.-Mere- Abelle and the deranged Father Abbot Markwart, alongside Brothers Viscenti and Castinagis, and Dellman. Yes, Brother Dellman! Braumin Herde hoped that the man fared well up in cold St. Belfour of Vanguard. Loyal Brother Dellman would stand with Prince Midalis, Braumin knew, all the way to his death beside the nobleman, if need be.

The distinct clicking of heels on the hard floor caught Braumin's attention. He knew from the cadence and steadiness of the footfalls that it was Father Abbot Bou-raiy crossing the floor before the man even sidled up to him.

"You approve?" Bou-raiy asked, and like Braumin, he was staring up at the great window.

Braumin Herde considered the question and the man's distinctly defensive tone. For up in that depiction of the Miracle of Avelyn loomed another figure, a one-armed Abellican. "No tribute might we offer to Brother Avelyn to fully appreciate his worth," Braumin replied. He noted that Fio Bou-raiy shuffled a bit, seeming uncomfortable.

"I came to see the truth of that, you know," the Father Abbot said after a long pause.

"I know." Braumin turned to the man and stared at him until that gaze brought Fio Bou-raiy's attention from the window. "The piece is beautiful," Braumin stated. "The artisans have outdone themselves, which is only fitting since they depicted perhaps the greatest miracle in the history of mankind. And fitting, too," he added, because he knew that Bou-raiy needed to hear it in this desperate time, "that the image of the Father Abbot possessed of the foresight to so magnificently illustrate the beauty of St. Avelyn is depicted, as well. I can see the doubt on your face in that depiction, Father Abbot, and your reluctance to travel to the Barbacan to partake of the miracle only makes the image all the more powerful."

"You are too kind," the Father Abbot replied.

Braumin Herde looked back at the window. "We all live with our doubts, every day," he said quietly. "We all question our faith, and when our lives are imperiled, we question the worth of our principles, as well.

Certainly that was true of St. Avelyn. Did you know that he was a drunkard when Jilseponie found him?"

Fio Bou-raiy gave a little laugh - something so uncharacteristic from the always-serious man.

"The true miracle of Avelyn is his gift to us of insight," Braumin Herde went on. "He understood that the Abellican Church must be for all people, or it is for none. He understood that the powers of the sacred gemstones must not be hoarded for personal or institutional gain, but must be wisely and discreetly used to better the lives of all the people.

"He was terrified when he faced the demon dactyl," Braumin reasoned. "I know that he was. For a moment, at least. He knew that he was facing his own death. He was terrified."

"But he persevered, to the benefit of all the world," said Father Abbot Bou-raiy.

"As shall we, brother," Braumin Herde assured him.

"One of our couriers returned this morning," the Father Abbot said.

"Bearing, intact and still with seal, the declaration of Avelyn as saint.

I was too late. I should have completed the process long ago - or certainly with greater haste once I learned of the rise of King Aydrian and the return of Marcalo De'Unnero. Many of my couriers have been captured, I fear, or have fled back in terror before the darkness that is Aydrian.

The people will not know."

"The people will know," Braumin replied, and he looked again at the older man. "The truth cannot be buried, not for long. Do you not remember Master Jojonah and his fellow conspirators, myself among them?"

"I remember," Fio Bou-raiy replied, his voice growing gravelly, his tone husky.

Braumin watched the man wince, more than once, and suspected that he was remembering the execution of Master Jojonah, a sentence that Bou-raiy had approved of, like so many of the other followers of Father Abbot Markwart.

"Perhaps that is the second true miracle of Avelyn," Braumin offered.

"That we all err - terribly so. Avelyn was a sinner and surely played a role in the death of Master Siherton. Yet he was forgiven, obviously, for how else might one explain the Covenant? We are the children of a merciful God."

"De'Unnero does not understand that," said Bou-raiy. "His is the God of fire and vengeance."

"Then let us hope that our merciful God is also a God of justice."

That brought a smile back to the tortured face of Father Abbot Bou-raiy.

"The defensive preparations continue?" Braumin asked.

"Night and day. More than a thousand able commoners have flocked in to St.-Mere-Abelle since the onset of the march of Duke Kalas, and all are being trained to fight, or to man the engines of war, thus freeing up more brothers to do battle with the sacred stones."

"I remind you that St.-Mere-Abelle has never fallen," said Braumin. "Not to any enemy. Not to the great powrie fleet that attacked us in the time of the demon. Not to the goblin hordes that descended upon the civilized lands in the time of Father Abbot Des'Coute. Not to the errant judgments of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart. Not to the plague, in all its incarnations. Our walls are strong, though not nearly as strong as the faith that truly holds us firm."

"Fine words, brother," said Bou-raiy. "We will speak them together, and loudly, for all to hear, when King Aydrian comes knocking."

Bou-raiy offered a slight bow to Braumin and left the room.

Braumin remained there for a long while, staring up at the grand depiction of the arm of Avelyn, considering the implications of the many pivotal decisions of his life.

He believed that St.-Mere-Abelle and the entire Abellican Order was now facing its greatest challenge in the history of the Church. He doubted that the abbey walls would hold back the tempest that was Aydrian and fully expected that he would be dead before the turn of the autumn season.

But he was at peace.

"Pireth Tulme and now St. Gwendolyn," Duke Kalas fumed, crumpling the parchment. He took a step forward and the runner who had arrived with the disturbing news of Prince Midalis' victory blanched and seemed ready to faint dead away. "I knew that we should have left greater forces to defend each."

"Prince Midalis' army was not that powerful, by all reports," said Sir Blaxson Tre'felois, one of Kalas' finest commanders, the field general of the Allheart Brigade's most dependable company. "We could arrive at St.

Gwendolyn within three days."

Kalas was shaking his head before the man ever finished the thought.

"Prince Midalis has already deserted the place, as he deserted Pireth Tulme," he explained.

"Because he knows that he cannot stand against us."

"And so he wears at our edges," said Kalas. "Hoping to erode support for King Aydrian among the populace. I would do the same if I were in his unenviable position."

"Unenviable because we know that he will achieve minor victories alone,"

Sir Blaxson remarked. "In the end, he must face us and must face King Aydrian."

"Where is King Aydrian?" Duke Kalas asked.

"Last reports placed him in Ursal with Father Abbot De'Unnero," Sir Blaxson replied. "Though by now, I suspect that he is back on the road, perhaps heading to join us as we complete the encirclement of St.-Mere- Abelle."

Duke Kalas shook his head. "We will reach the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle before his arrival. And I wish to construct batteries along the shore to either side of the abbey. If Prince Midalis' fleet has any intention of sailing into St.-Mere-Abelle's minor docks, we will defeat that notion."

"You believe that Midalis has turned back to the north from St.

Gwendolyn?"

Kalas nodded. "I would. Summer draws near and the sailing through the gulf is clear. Prince Midalis' retreat from both Pireth Tulme and St.

Gwendolyn show that he understands his weakness. He must seek more aid, and with Pireth Dancard closed to him, that can only mean St.-Mere- Abelle." Kalas nodded as he considered his own planning. "Send word to Palmaris," he instructed. "The rest of the Masur Delaval's fleet is to set sail at once for St.-Mere-Abelle."

"Prince Midalis' armada is formidable, by the words of King Aydrian himself," Sir Blaxson warned.

"We will not engage Prince Midalis at sea," Duke Kalas assured him. "Let us beat the prince to St.-Mere-Abelle. Our fleet need only to destroy the abbey's docks, and that should prove no difficult task with our soldiers pressing the monks hard at their wall. After that, let our warships settle under the protective range of our coastal artillery."

"Then St.-Mere-Abelle must stand alone, as Prince Midalis must stand alone," reasoned Sir Blaxson.

Duke Kalas squared his shoulders. "We must keep our two great enemies separate."

Braumin Herde was quite surprised later on when Master Viscenti entered his private chambers to announce a guest - a female. He was even more surprised when that guest, To'el Dallia of the Touel'alfar, walked in behind the nervous master! "Juraviel's kin?" he stammered. "How... what are you doing here?"

"The Touel'alfar have aligned themselves with our cause," Master Viscenti answered. "They serve as scouts and liaison between St.-Mere-Abelle, the forces of Prince Midalis, and another potential ally doing battle with Abbot Olin in Behren."

"In Behren?"

"Aydrian reaches far and wide," To'el Dallia replied. "Too wide, let us hope."

"The news is both good and bad," Master Viscenti explained. "Prince Midalis has won three minor victories and seeks his fourth, which will be the greatest yet. But he is in the far south, while Duke Kalas and his forces even now march to St.-Mere-Abelle. Prince Midalis will offer us no support for the early stages of defense."

"And if Prince Midalis wins in the south, Aydrian will likely attack St.- Mere-Abelle even more forcefully," the elf added.

"You sound as if you know him," said Braumin.

"I do indeed. I was his trainer in Andur'Blough Inninness. I taught him the ways of the ranger, though his temperament unfortunately did not match that calling. He has become the catastrophe of my home and my people, and will be the darkness of all the world if we cannot stop him."

The diminutive creature paused and nodded grimly at Braumin Herde. "And you must stop him here."

"You have spoken with Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy?"

"She has," Master Viscenti answered. "Though she was nearly attacked by the gate guards when she so boldly arrived before them!"

"To see such a legend come to life," Braumin reasoned. "I can understand their trepidation!"

"We will meet with Father Abbot Bou-raiy in a short while better to coordinate our plans," To'el Dallia explained. "But I wished for you to be there, as you are less a stranger to my race than your peers.

Jilseponie speaks highly of Bishop Braumin."

"Not as highly as Bishop Braumin speaks of Jilseponie," the man replied.

"This is all too surprising," Braumin went on, shaking his head and running his hand through his thinning hair. "And most welcome. If Aydrian easily claims St.-Mere-Abelle, then it will only be a matter of time before he catches up with Prince Midalis. Who will be left to oppose him?"

"We will hold," Master Viscenti said, his teeth gritted and chattering as he continued his typical trembling. "We will make Aydrian regret ever coming against the walls of St.-Mere-Abelle!"

"Let us hope, brother," said Braumin, rising and walking past the man into the hall. "Let us hope."

They came in sight of the great abbey's mile-long wall late one afternoon, and there set camp, their own lines so long that they were easily able to form a semicircle about the place, with men both north and south of the abbey looking out over the dark waters of All Saints Bay.

Assembly of great catapults and spear-throwing devices began immediately at both of those points, while all along the line other soldiers went about the task of setting up the tents.

From somewhere near the middle of that line, directly across the beaten field leading to the abbey's great gates, Duke Kalas sat and watched, and waited for word of the ships approaching from Palmaris. He could not attack St.-Mere-Abelle's docks by land, for they were located far below the abbey's eastern wall, which was built upon a cliff face. He needed the ships to take out the long wharf, and to patrol the waters under the watchful eye of his artillery crews.

Early the next morning, sails appeared along the coast to the west.

Duke Kalas went into action immediately, forming up the ranks about the center of his line. He used his Allhearts and Kingsmen more as prods against the peasant army than as a leading strike force, forcing the all- out assault upon the abbey's front wall. In short order, the ground was shaking under the charge of more than twenty thousand men. Behind them, the duke's batteries of catapults launched huge rocks high and far into the air to smash down among the structures of the abbey.

The response reaching out from St.-Mere-Abelle's walls was no less spectacular, with lightning bolts, lines of magical fire, and responding catapult fire slicing through the duke's ranks. Men died by the score, but they kept up the cry for King Aydrian and charged on.

The monks slaughtered them.

Duke Kalas, still sitting astride his pony across the field, grimaced with every magical discharge, with every scream. He glanced continually over to his left, awaiting the signal.

"You fool!" came an unexpected roar beside him, and he turned to see a fuming Marcalo De'Unnero. "Who gave you orders to attack the abbey? You were to encircle and besiege, nothing more!"

Even as the monk ranted along, Kalas noted the signalman to the north of the abbey waving his flags, red and blue. Red indicating that the docks had been destroyed; blue showing that the fleet had slipped away.

The diversion had worked.

Kalas called to the trumpeters beside him, ordering them to blow a retreat.

"You have lost hundreds!" De'Unnero yelled at him. "And what have you gained?"

"I - we - have gained the sea access to the abbey," Kalas calmly explained.

"St.-Mere-Abelle's docks are destroyed and the waters about the abbey are now secured - and will grow more unfriendly to Prince Midalis and his raiding fleet with every passing hour." The Allheart commander, his face a mask of complete confidence, looked back at St.-Mere-Abelle, seeming quite pleased with himself.

"Now they are isolated and properly besieged," he explained.

De'Unnero looked all around at the retreat, and at the many dead lying on the field near to the abbey's gates. "If Aydrian and his secondary force were here, we could have overrun them," he insisted.

"But Aydrian is not here, nor will he arrive anytime soon, from what my scouts have told me. Now the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle cannot flee, nor can Prince Midalis slip in to reinforce their ranks upon those strong walls."

Duke Kalas knew that it was tearing Marcalo De'Unnero apart to admit that he was wrong, and so he took the man's silence, even with the dismissive wave of his hand as he walked off, as compliment enough.

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