DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga)

by R. A. Salvatore

  He and Francis locked stares from across the distance for just a moment, but it was not a harmonious joining of mind and spirit.

  Chapter 32

  Safeguarding

  IT FELT SO GOOD TO HAVE THE WIND ON HER FACE AGAIN—NOT THE LIMITED breeze that whistled through Castle Ursal’s windows, but the wide and strong wind, blowing across the fields, bending trees and grass, carrying the scents of the summertime flowers.

  Constance Pemblebury urged her horse on even faster, a full gallop, despite the cries of protest from Danube and Kalas behind her. She needed this moment, this brief, too brief escape from the grim realities of the rosy plague. King Danube had arranged it, had cleared a wide path to the gardens, lining them with vigilant Allheart knights so that he and his two friends could at last enjoy a morning outside the castle, out of sight and sound of any of the miserable plague victims. Danube had hoped that Merwick and Torrence would accompany them as well—he had even rigged a seat to put behind Constance’s saddle for Torrence—but Constance, though more than ready to take this chance for herself, would in no way allow her children out of the relative safety of the castle.

  Constance felt her hair waving out behind her, felt as if she had escaped the very bonds of Corona itself. But then she had to slow, for she was approaching the far end of the rectangular garden, Allheart knights were warning her back, and Danube and Kalas were calling out to her.

  She brought her horse to a trot and heard the approach of the two horses behind her. It was easy enough for her to turn in her sidesaddle and glance back at the King and Duke, and she did so with a wistful and mischievous smile. “Why haven’t we done this a thousand times?” she asked.

  Before either of the two men could answer, though, there came a tumult from the other direction, from the near end of the garden; and all three looked to see a mob of peasants bursting through the Allheart ranks, crying out for their king.

  “Ye must save us!” It started as a plea.

  “Where’s our God? Why’s he not hearing ye, me King?” Then the voices rolled in together, as if the whole mob had taken on a single heart and voice. From begging to questioning to, at last, and predictably, anger.

  “Ye’ve abandoned us! Ye’re lettin’ us rot!”

  The Allheart knights rushed around on their horses, trying to stem the tide; and under normal circumstances, they would have easily controlled the ragtag peasants. But nothing was ordinary about this scene—for the mob was too wild and uncontrolled, for these were people with absolutely nothing left to lose: people who would even, at some basic level, prefer the lance of an Allheart knight now compared to the slow and agonizing death they were facing. Also, the knights themselves didn’t attack with vigor, for they understood that these were plague victims, walking poison. To strike one was to wear the blood of one; and then even a noble Allheart knight could find himself on the other side of this line.

  “Run him again, and swiftly!” Duke Kalas called to Constance. Before the stunned and emotionally wounded King Danube could begin to react, quick-thinking Kalas grabbed the King’s horse’s bridle and pulled the beast in a turn with his own, then reached back and swatted Danube’s horse a sharp crack on the rump.

  Off they flew, all three, running fast for the southern gate of Castle Ursal, leaving the mob behind, and approaching, Danube saw to his dismay, a line of archers preparing their deadly volley.

  “Bobbed arrows alone!” he commanded, referring to the practice, headless arrows the archers often used in Castle Ursal’s wide courtyard.

  “But, my King—” the leader of the brigade began to protest. Danube shot him such a scowl that the words stuck in his throat.

  Satisfied that the brigade would do as he commanded, Danube thundered away for the southern gate, urging his horse into a rough lope and running purposely on the cobblestones now, the sound of the hooves drowning out plaintive and angry cries from the field behind.

  An upset and dejected Danube sat on his throne later that day, his hands out before his face, fingers tapping.

  “Only a handful were seriously injured,” remarked Duke Kalas, sitting next to him. “Only one peasant was killed.”

  “Your Allhearts performed with their usual brilliance,” Danube offered, but that recognition hardly seemed to brighten his mood. “Though I fear we’ll not know the full extent of the disaster until weeks have passed,” he added, a clear reference to the fact that several of those Allheart knights might have become exposed to the rosy plague in the riot.

  And all of it, both men understood too clearly, was due to the fact that the King merely wanted a day out in the sunshine, a day out of the tomb that Castle Ursal had become.

  “We should be looking to the greater fortune of the day,” said Constance, standing a short distance away. Behind her, Merwick and Torrence played in the bliss of youthful ignorance, making toys out of relics, smudging priceless tapestries, laughing and crying with equally fervent passion. “Had we not reacted as swiftly as we did, it is possible that all three of us would have found ourselves in the midst of the plague-ridden.”

  “They would not have unhorsed us,” Duke Kalas said with a fierce and determined look.

  “Would they have had to?” Constance answered. “Or would the King of Honce-the-Bear soon be facing the same executioner as they?”

  It was true enough, and no one had an answer against it. The plague victims had come close to the King himself, far too close.

  “We will not be able to do such a thing again,” Danube announced. Kalas, whose stress had grown with each passing day, scowled all the more. “We were foolish even to go out there at this time.”

  “The plague has never been thicker about Ursal’s streets,” Duke Kalas admitted grimly.

  “And whether we take chances or not, there remains the possibility of its finding a way into our house,” Constance added. Both Kalas and Danube eyed her curiously, for her tone showed that her statement was leading to something more.

  “These are dangerous times,” she said, moving closer, but pointedly glancing back at her two children as she did, “more dangerous to the Throne of the kingdom, I would argue, than ever was the dactyl or its evil minions.”

  King Danube nodded, but wasn’t so certain of that. Of course, he had never shared the little secret of Father Abbot Markwart’s vengeful spirit making several threatening visits to his private bedchambers. On the surface though, and except for that one point, Constance’s argument was well taken. The dactyl’s war, for all its terror and trouble, never got anywhere near Ursal, but remained in the northern reaches of the kingdom.

  The plague, on the other hand, loomed all about Castle Ursal’s walls.

  “I am not certain that this latest plague is not another manifestation of the dactyl’s evil minions,” King Danube did argue.

  “For all of our cautions,” Constance went on, “for all the soldiers lining the walls, and for all the thickness of those walls themselves, we cannot guarantee that the plague will not find us, any of us. And if it does, even if it is you, my King, then all the monks in all the world will likely prove useless against its workings.”

  Duke Kalas snorted loudly at that statement, for he had long ago determined the Abellican monks to be useless against any sort of illness. Was it not a disease, after all, and one far less powerful than the rosy plague, that had killed young Queen Vivian? And that right before the eyes of Abbot Je’howith?

  “I thank you for the cheerful warning,” Danube said dryly. “But in all truth, Constance, this danger has been known to us since the beginning.”

  “Then why have you taken no steps to solidify the kingdom in its event?” the woman bluntly asked.

  A puzzled King Danube stared at her.

  “Merwick and Torrence,” Duke Kalas said quietly, catching on, and before King Danube could pick up on that, he went on. “The line of succession is already in place. Have you forgotten Prince Midalis of Vanguard?”

  “We do not even know if my brother
is alive,” Danube admitted before Constance could reply. “We have had no word from Vanguard in many months.”

  “Surely if he had fallen, then word would have been passed south,” Kalas argued.

  Danube nodded. “Probably,” he admitted, “but we cannot be certain, nor can we be certain that my brother is not now lying feverish in a bed, heavy with plague.”

  Kalas sighed.

  “It is the truth, if an unpleasant one,” King Danube added, then he turned to Constance. “What solution do you see?” he asked, though it was obvious to him and to Kalas what she was hinting at.

  Constance eyed the King directly, then turned her gaze, taking his with her, toward her—toward their—two children.

  Duke Kalas gave a laugh. “How fortunate,” he muttered sarcastically.

  But King Danube wasn’t seeing things that way at all. “How fortunate indeed,” he echoed, but in a very different tone. “And our experience this day reminded me of how fragile is our existence.” He rose from his chair and walked deliberately toward Constance. “You are my witness in this, Duke Kalas,” he said solemnly.

  “Yes, my King,” came the obedient answer, for even stubborn Kalas knew when he could not push the boundaries with his friend.

  “In the event of my death, the throne passes to my brother, Prince Midalis of Vanguard,” Danube said formally. “In the event that Prince Midalis is unable to ascend the throne, then Merwick, son of Constance, son of King Danube Brock Ursal, shall be crowned King of Honce-the-Bear, and a regent shall be appointed from the dukes of the land to oversee the kingdom until he is old enough and trained enough to assume the responsibilities of the Throne.

  “Beyond Merwick, the title and claim lie with young Torrence, again under the tutelage of a properly appointed regent. And I should like you, my friend Kalas, to serve as that regent if you are able.”

  Constance beamed but said nothing; nor did Duke Kalas, who wore a very different expression, somewhat of a cross between amusement and disgust.

  “Go and fetch the royal scribe,” Danube instructed Constance, “and the abbot of St. Honce and any of the other noblemen who are about the castle. We will make this proclamation again, in full witness and with all the propriety demanded of such a solemn occasion.”

  Constance was gone in the blink of an eye.

  “I hope she made you as happy in the moment of conceiving the children as you made her now,” Duke Kalas remarked. Danube turned a dangerous stare on him, warning him that he might again be crossing the very thin line that separated the words of a friend to a friend from the words of a Duke to his King.

  “I am weary of the road, my friend,” Prince Midalis told Andacanavar as the two at last came into the more familiar reaches of Vanguard, nearing home. “I do not understand how you can live such a nomadic life.”

  “It is the way of my people,” Andacanavar explained. “We move to follow the caribou herds and the elk, to escape winter’s bite in the far north and summer’s plague of insects in the south.”

  Midalis nodded and smiled, obviously unconvinced of the benefits of such a life.

  “This road was more lonely than most,” the ranger went on. “Few contacts, out of necessity. Trust me, my friend, you will enjoy another such journey someday, after the plague has passed, when we can dine with the farmers along the road or speak with the hardy woodsmen of the Timberlands across a tavern table.”

  “And perhaps we shall do just that,” said Midalis. “But for now, I am glad to be home.”

  Soon after, the pair came in sight of St. Belfour, walking their mounts along the trail climbing to the lea that lay before the abbey.

  And then they saw them, the refugees, strewn across the lawn before St. Belfour. Miserable, plague-ridden wretches, many near death.

  The rosy plague had beaten Prince Midalis back to his homeland.

  “Would that I was born with a womb,” Duke Kalas snickered as Constance walked by him later that night in a torch-lit corridor in Castle Ursal, “and all the charms to catch a nobleman’s fancy.”

  Constance glared at him, but he relieved the tension with a burst of laughter. “I blame you not at all,” Kalas went on.

  “And I do not appreciate your sarcasm,” she coldly replied. “Can you deny the responsibility of my decision? Would you have Honce-the-Bear without a proper line of succession should King Danube die?”

  Kalas laughed again. “Pragmatism? Or personal gain?”

  “Can they not be one and the same?”

  “I am not angry with you, dear Constance,” the Duke explained. “Jealous, perhaps, and filled with admiration. I believe that you became pregnant by King Danube deliberately, both times. You conceived Merwick on the barge south from Palmaris, when you knew that another woman had caught Danube’s oft-wandering eye.” He noted that Constance did wince a bit at the reference to Jilseponie. “And so you struck your love coup, and brilliantly, and you have patiently awaited the time to gain the declaration that you hold so dear.”

  Constance stood, steel jawed, staring at him, not blinking.

  “You used those tools and weapons available to you to insinuate yourself into the royal line,” Duke Kalas stated bluntly, and he gave a great bow and swept his arm out wide. He staggered a bit as he did, and only then did Constance catch on that the man might have indulged himself with a few potent drinks.

  She started to comment on that, but stopped herself. How could she judge Kalas at this unsettling time, after the terrifying incident in the garden? In truth, Constance, too, would have liked to spend that night curled up with a bottle!

  “You can think whatever you wish of me,” she said instead calmly, “but I do love him—”

  “You always have,” Duke Kalas replied. “And do not misunderstand me, for I’ll say nothing to King Danube to change his mind or his course, nor do I consider that course ill for Honce-the-Bear.”

  “You judge me,” Constance accused, “but I do love him, with all of my heart.”

  “And he?”

  Constance looked away, then shook her head. “He does not love me,” she admitted. “He’ll not even share my bed any longer, though he proclaims that we remain friends—and indeed, he treats me well.”

  “He asked you to ride today,” Duke Kalas said, and his voice took on a different, sympathetic tone.

  “Danube has always held me dear as a friend,” Constance said. “But he does not love me. Never that. He loves the memory of Vivian. He loves …”

  “That woman,” Kalas finished, his voice low. “The hero.”

  His obvious enmity surprised Constance. She was no friend of Jilseponie Wyndon’s, of course, but it seemed from Duke Kalas’ tone that he cared for the woman even less than she. Wounded pride, Constance figured, for hadn’t Jilseponie refused his advances in Palmaris?

  But then Kalas surprised her even more.

  “Pity the kingdom if King Danube finds his love,” he said.

  Constance stared at him curiously.

  “The marriage of Church and Crown,” Kalas said dryly, “the end of the world.”

  “If you feel that way, then it is good that you do not oppose me,” Constance said after a long and considering pause. She gave a little snicker and started away.

  “A pity that you have no connections in Vanguard,” came Kalas’ voice behind her, and she stopped and turned on him suspiciously. “Else you could eliminate the last barrier to your glory.”

  Duke Kalas bowed again and wisely ran away.

  His remark had been said in jest, Constance knew, but still, she could not help but retrace the actions that had brought her to this point. She was not without guilt, but that was only a minor twinge against the reality of her current situation. The kingdom was better off for her deliberate course, and now Constance had insinuated her bloodline, her children, into the royal line. Even if neither of her sons actually got to the throne, their children would remain in the line of ascent, and so on throughout the coming generations.

&
nbsp; One day in the future, near or far, Constance Pemblebury would be remembered as the Queen Mother of Honce-the-Bear.

  Chapter 33

  The Abandoned Flock

  HE LOOKED AT HIS LOVER AND BLAMED HIMSELF. THERE WAS NO AVOIDING IT. Dainsey had wanted to come back to Palmaris for a visit—the plague had arrived in all force in Caer Tinella, anyway—but Roger had argued against the course.

  But he hadn’t argued strenuously enough, and the two had traveled south. Now, less than a month later, Dainsey stood beside him on wobbly legs, her eyes sunken and listless, her brow beaded with the sweat of a fever, her body marked by rosy splotches ringed in white—though Roger had taken great pains to cover the woman enough to hide those telltale marks before venturing here to St. Precious.

  Still, it would not be enough, he knew, to get them through the gatehouse. They had been admitted over the tussie-mussie bed immediately, for Abbot Braumin’s invitation to them remained in force. However, inside the gatehouse came a second test, where several monks, trained with soul stones, sent out their spirits to inspect any who would cross into the abbey.

  With that uncomfortable scrutiny ended, Roger now could only wait and hope.

  The minutes stretched on and on, and Roger understood that if the monks had failed to detect the illness, they would have already let them in. No, they knew the truth of it, he realized, and had gone to speak with Abbot Braumin.

  Roger knew what was coming even as the small panel slid away at the end of the narrow gatehouse corridor, and the grim face of a brother appeared beyond.

  “You may enter, but the woman cannot,” came the voice—a voice that Roger recognized.

  “She is my heart and my soul, Brother Castinagis,” Roger argued.

  “She is thick with plague,” came the reply, firm but somewhat tempered by compassion. “She cannot enter St. Precious. I am sorry, my friend.”