King Danube stared out the window of his temporary residence in Palmaris, the fact that this house was so much less spectacular than Chasewind Manor serving as a reminder that his rule here was in jeopardy. Indeed, for the King - who had ruled Honce-the-Bear for more than a quarter of a century, for more than half his life - the conflict with Markwart seemed the most threatening yet, even more than the war against the minions of the demon dactyl.

Only now, after having faced Markwart and his advisers, did Danube begin to appreciate the depth of this threat. The Abellican Church had always been a strong influence in the kingdom, oftentimes stronger than the Crown. During the beginning of his reign, when he was but a teenager, the Church had held great power; in fact, Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce had played a greater role in ruling Ursal than had Danube. That had been only temporary, Danube and his advisers had understood, a necessary aid given to the man who had been thrust into the role of monarch before he had been properly prepared. And when Danube had grown after he had learned the subtleties of gently bribing the populace into grateful submis-sion, or working with the ambassador from Behren, privately granting the man personal gains in exchange for policies that would favor Honce-the-Bear, the Church had backed away, Abbot Je'howith seeming satisfied with his comfortable role behind the scenes.

Now Danube understood that the situation had dramatically changed. This was no temporary power play by Father Abbot Markwart - and by his old friend Je'howith, he constantly reminded himself - for it had been Je'howith who had persuaded him to install a bishop instead of a baron to rule Palmaris. He had given the Church a firm foothold, and dislodging it would prove no easy task.

He should revoke the title immediately, he knew, should privately warn Markwart to remember his place and remain there, or else risk a war that would bring the power of the kingdom against the Abellican Church.

Danube would win such a war, he believed. He might not be able to con-quer St.-Mere-Abelle, that vast and mighty fortress, but his armies -  twenty thousand strong, including the powerful Allheart Brigade - could certainly pen the monks in their monasteries and keep them there.

It would never come to that, Danube could tell himself, for the Father Abbot, no fool, would certainly see the folly of his ways and back down.

But there was another factor, the King knew. Markwart had come into his private bedchamber in Ursal, walking by all the guards, unhindered by all the locks and stone walls. The kingdom could win, or at least force a favorable stalemate, against the Abellican Church, King Danube did not doubt; but that war might become a personal battle between him and Markwart, and that, he admitted to himself now, he could not win.

And so he stared out the window, more afraid than he had ever been, feeling helpless for the first time in his adult life.

"You summoned me, my King," came the gentle voice of Constance Pemblebury behind him.

Danube turned to regard the woman. Constance was still quite attractive, he realized. Some of the color had faded from her strawberry blond hair, but thirty-five winters had not taken the luster from her sparkling blue eyes or the softness from her dimpled cheeks. She had been Danube's lover many years ago - that was no secret to the Ursulan court - and many assumed that the liaison was the sole reason Constance had been catapulted to a high position as personal adviser, in line, perhaps, for a duchy of her own. But their personal relationship had played no role in her rise. The King respected her for her intelligence and insights. Constance was the best judge of character King Danube had ever met - better than Kalas, certainly.

"I am to go to the north with Duke Kalas," Danube explained.

Constance narrowed her eyes at her obvious exclusion.

"Father Abbot Markwart knows where this man Nightbird is hiding, and so he has decided to go out after the man personally with a contingent of a hundred Abellican monks, the former Bishop among them," Danube explained.

"And of course, you cannot remain behind," Constance agreed. "If the Father Abbot returned to Palmaris with the fugitive in tow, then his popu-larity would dramatically rise, to the detriment of King Danube."

"So it would seem," the King admitted.

"You bring Kalas as a counterweight to De'Unnero," the perceptive Constance went on. "Your champion against Markwart's?"

The King winced.

"Take care that such a competition does not arise," Constance warned. "I respect Duke Kalas and all that he has accomplished, as a warrior and a nobleman, but De'Unnero is far his superior, I believe, and Kalas' pride will never allow him to admit that. If Kalas is to fight against De'Unnero, then the Crown shall lose."

Good advice, King Danube understood, and that only reaffirmed his decisions concerning her. He crossed the floor then, moving to stand right before her, and he raised his hand to gently stroke her cheek. "I need you now," he explained, "perhaps more than ever before."

Unexpectedly, she kissed him, but it wasn't a kiss filled with passion. Then she backed off, nodding. "You do," she explained. "Abbot Je'howith is no friend of the Crown. He will stand beside you only if he believes you have the upper hand against Markwart. You saw where he chose to sit at the table."

"What am I to do?" Danube asked.

"Dissolve the office of bishop," she advised, "evict Markwart from Chasewind Manor, and appoint Duke Kalas as interim Baron until a suit-able replacement for Bildeborough can be found."

Fine words, Danube knew, but impractical given his private meeting with Markwart's specter.

"Father Abbot Markwart has already determined that St. Precious will have a formal abbot again," Constance went on. "That is enough power for the Abellican Church in Palmaris."

"I do not disagree, but it is not as easy as that," Danube replied, turning away. He almost told her the truth then, but he found that he could not admit his fear.

"How so?" Constance pressed.

Danube turned back to her suddenly and waved his hand to dismiss the subject. "We will discuss the disposition of Palmaris' ruling structure upon my return from the north," he explained. "For now, I need you in the city as my eyes and my ears. My strength in this northern crusade must be no less than that of the Father Abbot, I understand. Kalas and the Allheart Brigade will accompany me, a splendid display of power. You will be left with a strong contingent of King's soldiers and sailors to serve as your base of power from which to build an even stronger hold. Publicly you are to be my eyes and my ears, seeing and listening to the edicts of Bishop Francis, who, as I understand, will be left behind at St. Precious."

"Not Chasewind Manor?" Constance asked, wondering if there might be any significance to that.

"St. Precious, from what I have been told," the King replied. "Perhaps Markwart is not ready to entrust Bishop Francis with as much responsi-bility as he outwardly proclaims."

"Then it is likely that the new Bishop will do little in the Father Abbot's absence," Constance reasoned.

"That is my hope," the King replied. "And in the absence of Markwart and De'Unnero, of King Danube and Duke Kalas, the strongest voice in Palmaris may be that of Constance Pemblebury."

"And yet you have not declared me your mouth," the woman rea-soned.

"Not publicly," the King explained. "Our profile shall remain low. I ask you to keep a check on Bishop Francis, to ensure that he makes no overt moves to enlarge Church power. I give you great discretion in this matter. Turn your garrison against St. Precious if you decide you must."

Constance stepped back, her jaw hanging open in disbelief. "You ask me to start a war with the Abellican Church?"

"No, I do not ask any such thing," the King replied. "But I trust your judgment. If the Church makes a grab for power in my absence, then Con-stance Pemblebury must stop them."

The woman nodded.

"I need you, Constance," Danube said sincerely, moving closer and taking her by the shoulders. "If you fail me in this, then know that the Crown will suffer greatly - know that we may live out the rest of our lives in the shadow of the Abellican Church."

The weight of his words stole her breath. Then King Danube moved in even closer, pressing his lips against hers in a passionate kiss. He moved to take it further, but Constance stopped him, moving back.

"When I return from the northlands, you and I will have much to dis-cuss," King Danube said quietly.

"I am too old to be a mistress," the woman insisted.

The King nodded, letting her understand that he had much more in mind.

He left her, then, with only a small peck on the cheek and a promise to return before the turn of summer.

Constance stood quietly in the empty chamber for a long while. She remembered the first time that she and Danube had made love, when he was just over twenty years old and she a girl of seventeen. The same age as Vivian, whom Danube had married the next morning.

Their affair had continued for several months, nearly a year of passion and excitement. Vivian knew about it - she had to know! - but she had never once confronted Constance. Of course, if Vivian had meant to con-front all her husband's lovers, she would have found little time for her own lover.

Several years later, long after Vivian's death, Danube had come to Con-stance again, and she had allowed him into her bed. The King's passions had calmed by that point; Constance was fairly certain that she was his only lover for all the months of their affair. But he wouldn't marry her, explaining that he could not, that her bloodline was not pure enough to sat-isfy the nobles. Constance knew this was true. Only great personal accom-plishments could make her a suitable queen of Honce-the- Bear. Now, all these years later, with pressure strong on the aging King to produce an heir - a legitimate one, for Danube was rumored to have sired at least two illegitimate children - Constance had achieved those personal accomplish-ments and would be considered suitable.

But she was as close to forty as to thirty, nearing the end of her child-bearing years, and the King's main reason for marrying anyone must be to produce an heir.

Constance considered the reality of the situation, thought of the potential risks and the heartbreak that would come if she could not become with child. Then King Danube would quickly annul their marriage - if she was lucky - or, if the Church would not grant an annulment, perhaps he'd even be forced to have her murdered!

But the possible gains were too tempting for Constance Pemblebury to dismiss. She liked the thought of being queen, though she held no illusions of any real power coming with the title. Ursulan law was very explicit: Danube's wife would be queen as long as Danube was king, but if he died without children, then his brother, Midalis Brock Ursal, Prince of Vanguard, would assume the throne. And Constance also understood that even while the King lived, no queen would hold much power over the forceful Danube Brock Ursal. But still, the possibilities . . .

Constance liked the idea of having the King's ear on every matter, an influence above the troublesome Kalas and all the others; but more than that, she loved the idea of being the mother of the future King, of being able to mold the child into her image, to prepare him to rule the way she would have ruled had fate granted her the appropriate bloodline.

So, yes, she mused, she would indeed handle Palmaris wisely. Her actions here would please Danube greatly upon his return, she decided; then, when he came to her, she would press the issue, would force him to elaborate on that which he had hinted at before leaving her that morning.

From the window Constance watched the grand entourage, King Danube and Duke Kalas at its head, thunder out of the manor gates, a hundred splendid Allheart soldiers, their plate mail, spear tips, and great helms shin-ing in the morning light. They were, perhaps, the most powerful brigade in the world, the personal guard of the King of Honce-the-Bear.

And, Constance mused, the personal guard of the queen of Honce-the-Bear.

"I leave you with tremendous resources," Father Abbot Markwart told Bishop Francis, handing over a satchel of gemstones - mostly graphite and other potent offensive stones, Francis noted. "Your duty here will be critical in the weeks that I and Abbot De'Unnero are away."

"Tell me your will, and I shall execute it," Francis dutifully replied.

"In the best case, you are to do nothing," Markwart replied. "Maintain the present situation, with no overt actions to ruffle either the populace or whomever King Danube leaves behind as his voice in the city. That will be Constance Pemblebury, likely, and do not underestimate her; Abbot Je'howith regards her highly. Also, it is quite possible that other Dukes, perhaps the Duke of the Mirianic, will make their way to Palmaris, given the gravity of the situation here.

"Master Engress will be your second," Markwart went on. "Expect little from him. He is old and weary of it all, it seems, and he would rather have stayed in St.-Mere-Abelle - where, in retrospect, I should have left him, bringing a younger and stronger man with me. He remains the ranking master, though; and since he is here, we must take care to treat him with respect. But not to fear, for the situation shall be remedied, our ranks strengthened at the lower levels. A contingent of six score brothers is already on its way from our abbey to reinforce your ranks."

"But I am to do nothing," Francis dared to remark.

"In the best case," Markwart reminded. "I desire to find the balance of power in Palmaris as it is now upon my return. If I return and find Palmaris as I left it, then know that you will have done me a great service. Yet I fear that such a task will not prove easy. It might be that King Danube will use my absence to further his own gains within the city, and that, you must not allow."

"How so?" Francis asked. "He will have little official voice, since he will be gone and there is no Baron in place."

"The battleground will be the hearts of the city soldiers," Markwart replied, "many of whom are already in the court of the King. You must hold fast those loyal to the Church."

"I will not fail you, Father Abbot," Francis said, his duty clear.

Markwart nodded and started away, but stopped; almost as an after-thought, he added, "And move your lodging to Chasewind Manor. Let Master Engress preside over St. Precious in Abbot De'Unnero's absence, along with Brother Talumus, who will placate the Palmaris monks. I do not wish to break the tradition of housing the Bishop in the great house."

Francis did not reply, but he could not hide his surprise at the use of the wordtradition.

"Every tradition must begin somewhere and at some time," the Father Abbot said slyly. "You will live there, from this day forward, and take those monks who arrive from St.-Mere-Abelle into the manor house instead of the abbey, as well. Also, retain many of the city guardsmen. Treat them well, build their confidence and their loyalty, but do not, under any circum-stances, entrust them with anything important."

As Father Abbot Markwart left the room, and Francis stared out the window with the same determined expression Constance Pemblebury had worn that morning, his determination was no less than that of the ambitious woman.

They thundered out of the city's northern gate, King Danube and Duke Kalas and a hundred Allheart soldiers.

Flanking them came the Abellican entourage. In their middle was Father Abbot Markwart, riding in the horse-drawn carriage that still bore the hole where the gemstone had embedded itself, still, despite the best efforts of the brothers of St. Precious, stained by Markwart's dried blood. Abbot De'Unnero and a hundred monks, some from St.-Mere-Abelle, but the majority from St. Precious, walked beside the carriage, looking rather unre-markable in their brown robes.

Just outside the city gates, Duke Kalas stopped the brigade while the King moved to speak with Markwart.

"You had indicated that we would move with all speed," Danube remarked, giving a solid tug on the reins of his feisty To-gai-ru stallion, the eager horse obviously ready to gallop away.

"Indeed," replied the Father Abbot, shrugging as if to say that he did not understand why Danube would question him so.

The King looked around at the monks, replying with a shrug of his own. "They intend to keep pace with horses?" he asked.

"Only if my brethren choose an easy pace," Markwart replied.

King Danube cantered back to Kalas. "They think to pace us," he said to the Duke, smiling wryly. "Let us see about that."

Duke Kalas was more than happy to oblige, and away went the Allheart soldiers at a swift trot.

And away went the Abellican monks, superbly trained and conditioned, jogging easily. Amazingly, they did not fall behind after half an hour had passed. Amazingly, they kept up with impossibly long, loping strides.

The King turned an angry eye upon the Duke, but Kalas could only shrug helplessly. No man should have been able to maintain so swift a pace for so long a time! Duke Kalas figured that they would do more than thirty miles that day at their current rate, a brutal trek for a horse, a nearly impos-sible one for a man - and certainly one that could not be repeated by any man a second or third day in a row.

They broke for a midday meal, then trotted on; the monks, seeming hardly tired, easily kept up with the mounted Allheart soldiers.

When they camped that night, they had put more than thirty miles behind them, but it seemed to Kalas and Danube as if their soldiers and horses showed more wear than the monks.

"Not possible," the Duke remarked to the King. Though he wanted to argue that it was indeed, obviously so, King Danube could only sit and shake his head in disbelief.

For neither man understood the truth: Father Abbot Markwart, aided by his inner voice, had discovered a new use for malachite, the stone of levita-tion. Sitting comfortably in his carriage, the Father Abbot used a soul stone to make a mental connection with all his brethren. Then he, joined by sev-eral other monks, used the stone so that the monks ran almost with-out weight. Their feet, when they stopped to camp for the night, showed no blisters, their muscles no more weary than if they had merely taken a long walk.

The Father Abbot and De'Unnero sat together at the side of the encampment, both enjoying the obvious distress of the King and his men. Origi-nally, Markwart had planned for his monks to ride, but Abellican monks, never known as horsemen, kept no stables. Markwart realized his group would never be able to keep up with the To-gai-ru horses and the superbly skilled riders of the Allheart Brigade. It had brought great distress to both Markwart and De'Unnero to think that the journey north would show the King's men as superior to their own.

But then came that inner voice, showing Markwart a new use for an old stone.

Now it was Danube and Kalas who were distressed. Though their men seemed so splendid and grand in their shining armor and atop their mighty steeds, the monks on foot had certainly humbled them.