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Je’howith insisted.
    Brother Braumin slowly shook his head, making it clear to Je’howith and all who were watching—and that included every monk in the room, by this time—that he was not going to surrender this crucial point.
    Everyone in the room understood that if King Danube tried to insinuate himself into the Abellican Church now, it would be very difficult, given the lack of experienced and charismatic leadership, for the Church to hold him at bay.
    “Father Abbot Markwart attempted such a joining,” Master Francis reminded them, referring to the fairly recent appointment of Marcalo De’Unnero as bishop of Palmaris, a title that conveyed the power of both Church leadership and secular control over the city. The city had been without a baron since beloved Rochefort Bildeborough had been murdered on the road to Ursal—and the subsequent evidence had implicated De’Unnero and his preferred use of the tiger’s paw gemstone as the killer—and Markwart had tried to take advantage of the emergency.
    But that action had only prompted Danube to come north, with his army and his entourage, to protect his power base within the city.
    “A complete disaster,” Francis went on. “And so it will be again if the King asserts his power and influence where they do not belong.”
    Brother Braumin looked over at Francis and nodded solemnly. The two were not friends—far from it!—despite Francis’ apparent transformation since Markwart’sdeath, but Braumin did appreciate his support at this crucial time. All the Church could crumble around them, Braumin understood, if they did not act and choose wisely in the coming months.
    Braumin looked back at Je’howith and saw clearly that the man could become a difficult enemy. Je’howith had spent decades securing his comforts and his power, and both owed more to King Danube than to the Abellican Order.
    Braumin stared at Je’howith solemnly, then slightly nodded his head, indicating a quiet corner of the room where they might negotiate this disagreement less publicly.
    S he had a difficult time climbing out of bed that morning, as on almost every morning. By Braumin Herde’s estimation, the events of this day would be more critical than any powrie attack that ended short of the vicious dwarves conquering the whole of the kingdom. But to weary Jilseponie, it was just another in an endless, and futile, stream of meetings. Always they talked and organized, shifting the balances of power, but Pony had come to believe that in the overall scheme of things, in the history and the future of humanity and the world, all their little games would have very little impact.
    So many people viewed everything as momentous and important, but was it really?
    That question had haunted Pony since the death of Elbryan, had followed her every step, had stilled her tongue during those meetings when she knew the consensus was in error. In the end, what did it matter?
    Even the war with the demon dactyl. They had gone to Aida and destroyed its physical manifestation, but that seemingly important and heroic deed, in which Avelyn and Tuntun the elf had given their lives, had only led to more misery. Father Abbot Markwart, who was fearful of his power base, was on the road to declaring Avelyn a heretic and had sent out brothers to murder him. In Markwart’s desperate search to find the new keepers of the stolen gemstones—Elbryan and Pony—he had gone after Pony’s adoptive family, killing her stepbrother, Grady, on the road, and imprisoning Graevis and Pettibwa in his dungeons, where they had died horribly.
    That had only spurred more conflict that Pony had hoped would end it all. And so it had—for Markwart and Elbryan—but they were hardly cold in the ground before the bickering had begun anew, before new problems, grave problems according to Brother Braumin, had reared up to threaten the supposed fruits of all their sacrifices.
    As she considered it all, Pony put her hand to her belly, to her