“Do you suppose, dear brother, that this will be the summer when aloof Jilseponie at last allows King Danube to kiss her?” Braumin asked Viscenti.
“On the hand,” the skinny man replied.
“Then the side of your face will be wet when I slap you,” Jilseponie put in with a chuckle.
Both monks had a good laugh at that, but then Braumin’s expression grew serious. “You do understand that he will likely be more forward toward you with his intentions?” he asked.
Jilseponie looked away, back over the distant river. “I do,” she admitted.
“And how will you respond?” Braumin asked.
How indeed? she wondered. She liked Danube Brock Ursal well enough—who would not?—for the King had always been polite and fair and generous to her. Though he was several years older than she, near Braumin’s age, he was certainly not unpleasant to look at, with his dark hair and strong build. Yes, Jilseponie liked him, and would have had no second thoughts about agreeing to serve as his escort while he stayed in Palmaris, no second thoughts about allowing their relationship to develop, to see if love might blossom, except …
There was ever that one problem, Jilseponie knew, and clearly recognized. She had given her heart to another, to Elbryan Wyndon, her best friend, her husband, her lover, the man against whom she would ever measure all others and against whom, she knew, no others would ever measure up. She liked Danube sincerely, but she knew in her heart that she would never love him, would never love any man, the way she had loved Elbryan. Given that inescapable truth, would she be acting fairly if she accepted his proposal?
Jilseponie honestly didn’t know.
“Even Roger Lockless has come to see the union as a favorable event,” Brother Viscenti remarked, and this time Jilseponie’s scowl at him was not feigned.
“I—I did not mean …” the monk stammered, but his words withered, as did his heart, under her terrible gaze.
And Jilseponie did not relent for a long while. She understood the implications of all this, and, indeed, she knew that Roger Lockless, her best friend and closest adviser at Chasewind Manor, had changed his opinion of King Danube’s advances to her. So much so, in fact, that Roger and his wife, Dainsey, had left Palmaris before the first winter snows, bound for Dundalis, far to the north. Roger, a friend of dead Elbryan, had been adamant against Jilseponie’s having anything to do with the King or any other man—out of loyalty to Elbryan, Pony knew. But that position had softened gradually, over the course of the previous summer. Still, Jilseponie did not like Viscenti, or anyone else, using that sort of external pressure over what had to be, in the end, a decision based on her feelings. Yes, it might be a good thing for the common folk for her to wed King Danube and thus become queen of Honce-the-Bear. Certainly in that capacity she could act as mediator in the still-common squabbling between Church and State.
“Forgive my friend,” Abbot Braumin begged her a moment later. “We of the Church would certainly welcome your union with King Danube, should it come to pass,” he explained. “Of course, I would welcome it all the more if it was what was truly in Pony’s heart,” he quickly added as she scowled all the more fiercely.
Jilseponie had just begun to argue when Braumin had added the last sentence, and one word, “Pony,” surely stopped her short. That was her nickname, her most common name of many years ago, the one that, for a brief period, almost all of her friends and Elbryan’s used. After the onset of the plague, when Jilseponie had come to realize that she could not simply hide in Dundalis mired in her grief, she had purposefully abandoned the nickname, had taken on the more formal mantle of Jilseponie Wyndon. Now, to hear Braumin say it so plainly and so unexpectedly, it brought with it a host of images and memories.
“The King is not in Pony’s heart,” she said softly, all traces of her anger flown. “Never in Pony’s heart.”
Neither Braumin nor Marlboro seemed to catch her deeper meaning.
“And it seems that I must remind you, my friends, that I am officially of the State, not your Church,” Jilseponie added.
“We know the truth of that,” Brother Viscenti remarked with a wry grin.
“You are of both Church and State, it would seem,” Braumin quickly added, before Marlboro’s uncalled-for sarcasm could set her back on the defensive again. “You chose the position of State, of baroness, over any that the Church might have bestowed upon you, ’tis true; but in that capacity, you have worked to bring us together, in spirit and in practice.”
“Your Church would never have accepted me in any position of power without a tremendous fight,” Jilseponie said.
“I do not agree,” said Braumin. “Not after the second miracle of Mount Aida and the covenant of Avelyn. Even Fio Bou-raiy left that sacred place a changed man, left understanding the power and goodness of Jilseponie Wyndon. He would not have opposed your appointment to a post as great as abbess of St. Precious, even.”
Jilseponie didn’t respond; for in truth, she had heard the hollowness of her own proclamation that she was more of the State the moment she had spoken the words.
“Yet you chose to be baroness because in that capacity and with me, your friend, serving as abbot of St. Precious, you knew that you could do the most good,” Braumin went on. “And you chose wisely, as every person in Palmaris will attest. So again it will be for you to choose, weighing your heart against your desire to do great things for all the world. Doubt not that any ascension of Jilseponie Wyndon to the position of queen of Honce-the-Bear would be welcomed throughout the Abellican Church as a great blessing, a time of hope indeed for a brighter future!”
“The future of the Church looks bright already,” she reasoned.
“Indeed!” Braumin agreed. “For the covenant of Avelyn has brought many of our previously battling brothers together in spirit. For the time being, at least.”
There was a measure of ominousness in his last statement that perceptive Jilseponie did not miss.
“Father Abbot Agronguerre’s health is failing,” Braumin admitted. “He is an old man, growing tired, by all accounts. He may remain in power and in this world for another year, perhaps two, but doubtfully more than that.”
“And there is no clear successor,” Viscenti added. “Fio Bou-raiy will likely try for the position.”
“And I will back him,” Abbot Braumin quickly, and surprisingly, added.
“Will you not seek the nomination?” Jilseponie asked.
“I am still too young to win, I fear,” said Braumin. “And if I opted to try, I would be taking votes away from Bou-raiy, no doubt.”
“A man of whom you were never fond,” Jilseponie reminded him.
“But a far better choice than the alternative,” Braumin replied. “For if it is not Master Bou-raiy, then surely it will be Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce of Entel, a man who did not partake of the covenant of Avelyn.”
“Entel is a long way from the Barbacan,” Jilseponie said dryly.
“A man who quietly supported Marcalo De’Unnero and his Brothers Repentant during the dark days of the plague,” Braumin went on, referring to the band of renegade monks led by the fierce De’Unnero—who was Jilseponie’s most-hated enemy. Never officially sanctioned by the Church, the Brothers Repentant spread trouble and grief throughout much of the kingdom, inciting riots and claiming that the plague was punishment from God for the irreverence of many people, particularly those followers of Avelyn in the Church and the heathen Behrenese.
Braumin’s startling claim gave Jilseponie pause.
“And so it will likely be that Master Fio Bou-raiy—or perhaps Abbot Olin, no fool and no stranger to the games of politics—will win. In either case, the smooth voyage of the Abellican Church might soon encounter an unexpected storm. Better it would be for us, for all, if Jilseponie Wyndon had assumed a position of even greater authority.”
Jilseponie stared at her two friends long and hard, recognizing that responsibility had indeed come a-calling once again. She spent a long momen
t considering King Danube again, for he was a good and decent man, a handsome man.
But she knew that she would never love him as she had loved Elbryan.
Ten times my life span! Ten times! And for them, there is a promise of another life after this, while I’ll rot in the ground in blackness, not even knowing.
How could I not have been born Touel’alfar? Why this feeble human parentage, this curse, this sentence to a brief and fast-fading life, this invitation to nothingness? What unfairness to me! And doubly unfair that I have been raised among the Touel’alfar, these immortal beings, where the shortcomings of my heritage are so painfully obvious every moment of every day!
Lady Dasslerond told me the truth, told me that, unless some enemy or ill-timed disease fells me, I can expect to live six decades, perhaps seven or even eight, and that ten decades of life are not unknown among my kind. But no more than that. Dasslerond has seen the birth and death of six centuries, I have been told, and yet if I see one to completion, I will be rare and extremely fortunate among my kind. Likely she will still be around to witness my death.
Even worse, after six centuries, the lady of Caer’alfar seems as youthful and alive as the Touel’alfar much younger than she. She does not groan when she labors physically, but I have been told that I can expect to—and far sooner than my last days. I have lived for fourteen years and am barely an adult by human standards, though I am strong of limb and sharp of mind. I will flourish physically in my later teens and throughout my twenties, but after that, the decline will begin, slowly at first, throughout my fourth decade of life, then more rapidly.
What curse this?
How am I to experience all the wonders of the world? How am I to garner the memories of my companions, even those memories so trivial in the life span of a Touel’alfar but that would seem momentous to a short-lived human? How am I to unravel the mysteries of this reasoning existence, to sort out any kind of perspective, when my end will arrive so quickly?
It is the cruelest of jokes, to be born human. Would that I were of the people! That I were Touel’alfar! That I could find the wisdom of the ages by finding the increasing experiences of one such as Lady Dasslerond! I love my life, every moment of every day, and to think that I will be cold and dead in the ground while those around me are still young and vital tears at my heart and brings red anger to my eyes. Curse my human parentage, I say!
My guardians speak highly of my father, the great and noble Nightbird.
The dead Nightbird, cold and unknowing in the ground. For those few Touel’alfar who died in Nightbird’s lifetime, for Tuntun who fell in the attack against the demon dactyl in Mount Aida, there is another existence beyond this worldly life. They are in a place of beauty that overshadows even beautiful Andur’Blough Inninness, a place of wonderment and the purest joy. But for humans, so Dasslerond told me, there is only cold death and emptiness.
For, among the races of Corona, only the Touel’alfar, the demons, and the angels are immortal. Only these three can transcend their physical bodies.
Curse my human parents! I wish that I had never been born—for better that, better never knowing any of this, than to understand the cruel fate that awaits me!
Curse my parents.
—AYDRIAN OF CAER’ALFAR
Chapter 1
The Second Dimension
“YOUR BODY IS THE CONDUIT,” LADY DASSLEROND EXPLAINED, TRYING VERY HARD to hide her exasperation. She leaned back against a birch tree, ruffling her nearly transparent elven wings and tossing her head carelessly, sending her golden locks back over her delicate shoulders. She was the only elf who truly understood the magical gemstones, having worked intimately with her powerful emerald for centuries. Thus, Dasslerond had taken on this part of young Aydrian’s training herself, the first time a human had ever been trained in the gemstone magic by one of the Touel’alfar.
The young man, nearly a foot-and-a-half taller than Dasslerond’s four-foot height, grimaced and clutched the gemstone, a lightning-producing graphite, all the tighter, as if he meant to squeeze the magical energy out of it. He was built much like his father, strong and muscular, with wide shoulders and corded muscles, but many of his features favored his mother—of whom he knew practically nothing.
At first, Dasslerond thought to correct him again, but when she noted the intensity on Aydrian’s face, she decided to allow him these moments of personal revelations. The lady of Caer’alfar could hardly suppress her grin as she watched the concentrating Aydrian—her Aydrian, the young human she believed would become the savior of her people. Though she wasn’t overfond of the lumbering, larger folk, Dasslerond could not deny that this one was handsome, with his thick shock of blond hair and his piercing blue eyes; his lips, full like those of his mother; and his jaw strong and square, a chin and chiseled cheekbones quite familiar to the lady who had overseen the training of Elbryan the Nightbird. Yes, this one had the best features of both his parents, it seemed, a beauty brought out all the more because he was growing up in the splendor of Andur’Blough Inninness, a place of health and vitality. In just the last year, Aydrian’s lanky frame had thickened considerably, his weight blossoming from a slight hundred and twenty pounds to a hundred and sixty and more, and not an ounce of it was fat. He was all sinew and muscle, all cords of strength; but unlike other humans, there was a suppleness to the young man’s muscles, an incredible flexibility that made his work with bi’nelle dasada all the more graceful.
Aydrian was far from finished growing, Dasslerond knew. His father had topped six feet, and so would Aydrian, and easily; and the lady suspected that he would range well on the other side of two hundred pounds. Yes, physically he would be a specimen—he already was!—to make people stop and stare. But his real strength, Dasslerond hoped, would be less visible, would be in the pure focus of his well-disciplined mind. He would outfight any man and any elf, any goblin or even the great giants; but a greater woe would befall his enemies when Aydrian combined this second talent, this training with the magical gemstones. His mother was among the most powerful stone users in all the world, so it was said; and so, Dasslerond demanded, would this Aydrian be.
He grimaced and groaned, squeezing the gemstone, calling to it, demanding of it that it let its energies flow forth.
“It is not a contest of wills—” Dasslerond started to say, but before she could finish, there came a sharp crackle of arcing blue light, snapping out of Aydrian’s hand and flickering downward to slam into the grass at his feet. The resulting report sent both the young man and the elven lady into the air. While Dasslerond caught herself and retained her balance by using her small wings, Aydrian came down hard, stumbling back and finally just allowing himself to tumble into a momentum-stealing backward somersault. He came to his feet, staring incredulously at the small gray gemstone, looking from it to the blackened spot on the green grass of the hillock.
Lady Dasslerond looked from the boy to the spot, at a loss for words. She knew that he had done it wrong, so very wrong! Gemstone magic was a cooperative interaction between the wielder and the stone, and the powers of an enchanted gemstone could not be pulled forth by brute force of will. And yet Aydrian had just done that, had just fought a battle of wills with an insentient energy … and had won!
Dasslerond looked at him then, at the smug, satisfied smile on his handsome face. Something else showed there, something the lady of Caer’alfar found strangely unsettling. She had watched the progress of dozens of rangers in her life, and always there would be a series of breakthroughs that the humans in training would realize. Those breakthroughs were often met with smiles of joy, sometimes with a grim nod, but always with a profound satisfaction, for the tests of the Touel’alfar were not easily passed. So it was with Aydrian now, his expression falling into the latter category more than the first, for there was no joy on his face. Just grim satisfaction and, the lady recognized, even something a bit more than that, something akin to the look of a heartless conqueror, supremely arrogant and taking mo
re joy in the defeat of his enemy than in the attainment of any other goal. Logically, Lady Dasslerond knew that she shouldn’t have expected less from this young one—the elves had trained him from birth to be just that kind of force—but the look of sheer intensity on Aydrian’s face, the effort necessary for him to have forced out the gemstone powers in such a confrontational manner, gave Dasslerond definite pause.
There was an inner strength in this one beyond her expectations. Logically, and given the monumental task she had in mind for him, Dasslerond knew that to be a good thing, but still …
She started to go into her gemstone training litany again, the speech she had delivered to Aydrian several times already about working in unison with the powers of the stone instead of battling against them. But the lady was too tired of it all at that moment and too taken aback by the display she had just witnessed.
“You will work with the gemstones again, and soon,” she said finally, holding out her hand for Aydrian to give her back the graphite.
The young man’s blue eyes glowered fiercely for just a moment—an impetuous moment, but telling, Dasslerond realized, of his true desire to keep the stone. Clearly this work with the gemstones had awakened something within the boy, some deep emotion, a flicker, perhaps, of power beyond anything he had ever believed possible. And he wanted that power, the lady understood without the slightest doubt. He wanted to work it and master it and dominate it. That was good, for he had to be driven, had to achieve the very highest levels of power if her plans for him were to come to fruition. However, like the sheer willpower he had just shown in tearing the magic from the stone, this level of ambition, so clearly reflected in those striking and imposing eyes, warned Dasslerond of something potentially ominous.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 66
