The moment passed quickly, and Aydrian obediently walked over and placed the graphite in Dasslerond’s hand, offering only a shrug and a quick flash of a sheepish smile as he did.
Dasslerond saw that smile for what it was: a feint. If Aydrian’s true feelings at having to relinquish that gemstone had been honestly expressed in a smile, she figured, he would have had to grow fangs.
Brynn Dharielle was down in the field below him, tacking up Diredusk, the smallish but muscular stallion that Belli’mar Juraviel had brought to Andur’Blough Inninness for her training several years before. All the Touel’alfar were there this night as well, most sitting among the boughs of the trees lining the long, narrow field and many holding torches. Juraviel, whom the other elves were now calling Marra-thiel Touk, or Snow Goose—a teasing reference to his apparent wanderlust—and another elf, To’el Dallia, were on the field with Brynn, chatting with her, and probably, Aydrian figured, instructing her.
Because that’s what the elves always did, the young man thought with a smirk. Instruct and criticize. It was their unrelenting way. How many times Aydrian had wanted to look To’el Dallia, who was his secondary instructor after Lady Dasslerond—or even the great lady of Caer’alfar herself—square in the eye and scream for them to just leave him alone! Several times, particularly in the last year, such an impulse had been nearly overwhelming, and only Aydrian’s recollection that he really did not have much time—a few decades, perhaps—coupled with the understanding that he had much left to learn from the Touel’alfar, had kept his tongue in check.
Still, the boy, who thought of himself as a young man, would not always play by the rules of his “instructors.” Even on this moonlit night, for he had been explicitly told to stay away from Brynn’s challenge, had been told that this event was for her eyes and the eyes of the Touel’alfar alone.
Yet here he was, lying in the grass of a steep knoll above the narrow field. He had already congratulated himself many times for learning well the lessons the elves had taught him concerning stealth.
His thoughts turned outward a moment later, when Juraviel and To’el moved away from the saddled and bridled horse, and Brynn Dharielle—the only other human Aydrian had ever known, a ranger-in-training several years his senior—gracefully swung up into the saddle. She settled herself comfortably with a bit more shifting than usual—a certain indication of her nervousness, Aydrian knew—and shook her long hair from in front of her face. She didn’t look anything like Aydrian, which had surprised him somewhat because in his eyes most of the Touel’alfar looked much alike, and he had presumed that humans would resemble one another as well. But he was fair-skinned with light hair and bright blue eyes, while Brynn, of To-gai heritage, had skin the golden-brown color of quiola hardwood, hair the color of a raven’s wing, and eyes as dark and liquid as Aydrian’s were bright and crystalline. Even the shape of her eyes did not resemble his, having more of a teardrop appearance.
Nor did her body resemble his, though, as with Aydrian, Brynn’s years of superb training had honed her muscles to a perfect edge. But she was thin and lithe, a smallish thing, really, while Aydrian’s arms were already beginning to thicken with solid muscle. Elven males and females did not look so disparate, for all were thin, skinny even, and while the female elves had breasts, they didn’t look anything like the globes that now adorned Brynn’s chest.
Looking at her did something to Aydrian’s psyche, and to his body, that he could not understand. He hadn’t had much contact with her in his early days in Andur’Blough Inninness, but in the last couple of years, mostly because of Juraviel, she had become one of his closest companions. Of late, though, he often found himself wondering why his palms grew so sweaty whenever he was near her or why he wanted to inhale more deeply when he was close enough to her to catch her sweet scent …
Those distracting thoughts flew away suddenly as Brynn pulled back on Diredusk’s reins, urging the horse into a rear and a great whinny. Then, with the suddenness of a lightning strike, the young ranger whirled her mount and galloped down to the far end of the field. Another elf came out of the trees there, handing Brynn a bow and a quiver of arrows. Only then did Aydrian notice that six targets—man sized and shaped and colored as if they were wearing white flowing robes—had been placed along the opposite edge of the field.
The young man chewed his lower lip in anticipation. He had seen Brynn ride a few times, and truly she was a sight to behold, seeming as if she were one with her steed, rider and mount of a single mind. He had never seen her at work with the bow, but from what he had heard—or overheard, for he had listened in on many of Dasslerond’s conversations with Juraviel concerning the young woman—Brynn was spectacular.
It seemed to Aydrian, then, as if all the forest suddenly went quiet; not a night bird calling or a cricket chirping, not a whisper of the seemingly ever-present elf song. Even the many torches seemed supernaturally quiet and still, a moment of the purest tension.
Only then did young Aydrian appreciate the gravity of the night and the weight of his intrusion. This was no simple test for Brynn, he realized. This was something beyond that, some essential proving, a critical culmination, he suspected, of her training.
He had to consciously remind himself to breathe.
She saw the distant targets, mere silhouettes in the torchlight and moonlight. It somewhat unnerved Brynn that the elves had chosen to fashion these targets in the likeness of Behrenese yatols, the hated enemies of the To-gai-ru, like her parents. Their resentment of the eastern kingdom’s conquest of To-gai and of the yatols’ insinuation into every tradition, even religion, of the nomadic To-gai-ru, had led to her parents’ murder. The yatols served the Chezru chieftain, who ruled all Behren. He was, it was rumored, an eternal being, an undiminished spirit who transferred from aged body to the spirit of a soon-to-be-born Behrenese male child. Thus, the loyalists of To-gai hated the present Chezru chieftain as much as his predecessor, who had sent his armies swarming into To-gai.
The young ranger knew her duty to her homeland. And so, apparently, did the elves!
She inspected her quiver—they had given her only eight arrows—and Juraviel’s last words to her had been unequivocal: “One pass.”
Brynn pulled back on the bow, which had been fashioned of darkfern by a prominent elven bowyer. Its draw was smooth and light, but Brynn had no doubt that it could send the arrows flying with deadly speed and precision.
She checked the arrows again; all were of good design and strength, but one seemed exceptional. Brynn put this one to the bowstring.
“Are you ready, Diredusk?” she asked quietly, patting the small stallion’s strong neck.
The horse neighed as if it understood, and Brynn smiled despite her fears, taking some comfort in her trusted mount.
She took a deep breath, called to the horse again, and touched her heels to Diredusk’s flanks, the stallion leaping away, thundering across the field. She could have taken a slower approach, she knew, so that she could get several shots away before having to make her first turn, but she let her emotions guide her, her desire to do this to perfection, her need to impress Lady Dasslerond and Juraviel and the others, her need to vent her anger at the cursed Behrenese.
At full gallop, she let go her first shot, and the arrow soared to thunk into one of the targets. A second was away even as the first hit, with Brynn leaning low to the right of steady Diredusk’s neck; and then the third whistled off as the second hit home.
Another hit, but to her horror, Brynn heard Juraviel cry out that it was not a mortal wound.
She had to take up the reins then, bending Diredusk to the right, but she dropped them almost immediately as the horse turned, set another arrow to her bowstring, and let fly, scoring a second, and this time critical, hit on the third target.
She had corrected her slight error, but Brynn had lost valuable time and strides in the process. She grabbed the reins in the same hand that held her bow and pulled forth an arrow with her other hand
. She turned Diredusk to the left, bringing the horse into a run parallel with the line of targets, straight across the narrow width of the field.
Brynn threw her left leg over the horse, balancing sidesaddle as she took aim and let fly.
The fourth target shook from the impact, and then the fifth, just as Brynn started her second left turn, back the way she had come.
She heard Juraviel start to cry out—no doubt to remind her that one remained alive—but the elf’s voice trailed away as Brynn executed a maneuver she had been practicing in private, one that the To-gai-ru warriors had long ago perfected. She stood straight on Diredusk’s left flank, with only her left foot in a stirrup, and facing backward!
Off went her seventh arrow, and then her last, just in case.
She needn’t have worried, for the first shot struck the last target right in the heart, and the second hit home less than an inch from the first!
Brynn rolled back over Diredusk’s back, settling easily into her saddle and slinging her bow over one shoulder.
Her smile was brighter than the light of the full moon.
Up on the hillock, Aydrian lay with his mouth open and his eyes growing dry, for he could hardly think to blink!
The younger ranger-in-training could not deny the beauty of Brynn Dharielle, nor the beauty and grace and sheer skill of her accomplishment this night. Whatever test the Touel’alfar might have intended for her, she had surely passed, and well enough to draw admiration, even awe, from her strict and uncompromising instructors. Aydrian could certainly appreciate that, would even be thrilled to see the elves flustered by the human’s incredible talent.
But at the same time, young Aydrian wished that he had a graphite gemstone in his possession that he might blow Diredusk right out from under the heroic Brynn.
Chapter 2
Skewing the Cards
ALWAYS BEFORE, SHE HAD THOUGHT OF THIS TIME OF YEAR, THE SPRING, AS HER favorite, a time of renewal, of reaffirming life itself. But this year, like the last few, brought with it a springtime that Lady Constance Pemblebury of the court at Ursal dreaded. For King Danube—the man she so adored and the father of her two sons—was leaving again, as he did every spring, loading up his royal boat and sailing down the Masur Delaval to the city of Palmaris and that woman.
Baroness Jilseponie Wyndon. The very thought of her brought bile into Constance Pemblebury’s throat. On many levels, she could respect the heroic woman. Had their situations been different, Constance could imagine the two of them as friends. But now there was one little impediment: Danube loved Jilseponie.
He wasn’t even secretive about that anymore. In the last couple of years, he had often proclaimed his love for the woman to Duke Kalas, his closest friend, trusted adviser—along with Constance—and the leader of his Allheart Brigade. To his credit, King Danube had tried to spare Constance’s feelings as much as possible, never mentioning Jilseponie in Constance’s presence. Unless, of course, Constance happened to bring up the matter, as she had that morning, pleading with Danube to remain in Ursal this summer, practically throwing herself at his feet and wrapping her arms about his ankles in desperation. She had reminded him that Merwick, their oldest son, would begin his formal schooling in letters and etiquette this summer, and that Torrence, a year younger than his brother, at ten, would serve as squire for an Allheart knight. Wouldn’t King Danube desire to be present at Merwick’s important ceremony? After all, the boy was in line to inherit the throne, after Danube’s younger brother, Prince Midalis of Vanguard, and who knew what might befall Midalis in that northern, wild region?
So of course King Danube would want to personally oversee the training of one as important as Merwick, Constance had reasoned.
But Danube had flatly denied her request; and though he had tried to be gentle, his words had struck Constance as coldly as a Timberlands’ late winter rain. He would not stay, would not be denied his time with the woman he so loved.
It hurt Constance that Danube would go to Jilseponie. It hurt her that he no longer shared her bed, even in the cold nights of early winter when he knew that he would not see the Baroness of Palmaris for many months to come—and Constance found it humorous that even when he was in Jilseponie’s presence, Danube was not sharing her bed. What was even more troubling to her was that Jilseponie was still of child-bearing age, and any offspring of Danube’s union with her would surely put Merwick back further in the line of succession.
Perhaps Jilseponie would go so far as to force King Danube to oust Merwick and Torrence altogether from the royal line.
All of those thoughts played uncomfortably in Constance’s mind as she looked out from the northern balcony of Castle Ursal to the docks on the Masur Delaval and the King’s own ship, River Palace. Duke Bretherford’s pennant was flying high atop the mast this day, a clear signal that the ship would sail with the next high tide. That pennant seemed to slap Constance’s face with every windblown flap.
A strong breeze, she thought, to carry Danube swiftly to his love.
“You will not join King Danube on his summer respite?” came a strong voice behind her, shattering her contemplation. She swung about and saw Targon Bree Kalas, Duke of Wester-Honce, standing at the open door, one hand resting against the jamb, the other on his hip. Kalas was her age, in his early forties, but with his curly black hair, neatly trimmed goatee, and muscular physique, he could easily pass for a man ten years younger. His eyes were as sharp as his tongue and more used to glancing up at the sun and the moon than at a ceiling, and his complexion ruddy. He was, perhaps, Constance Pemblebury’s best friend. Yet, when she looked at him of late it only seemed to remind her of the injustice of it all; for while Kalas appeared even more regal and confident with each passing year, Constance could not ignore that her own hair was thinning and that wrinkles now showed at the edges of her eyes and her lips.
“Merwick will begin his formal training this summer,” Constance replied after she took a moment to compose herself. “I had hoped that the Duke of Wester-Honce would personally see to his initiation into the knightly ways.”
Kalas shrugged and grinned knowingly. He had already discussed this matter at great length with King Danube, the two of them agreeing that Merwick would be tutored by Antiddes, one of Duke Kalas’ finest commanders, until he reached the ability level suitable for him to begin learning the ways of warfare, both horsed and afoot. Then Duke Kalas would take over his supervision. Constance knew that, too, and her tone alone betrayed to Kalas her true sentiments: that he should not be going along with Danube when Danube was going to the arms of another woman.
And as Constance’s tone revealed that truth, so did Kalas’ grin reveal his understanding of it. The Duke’s constant amusement with her predicament bothered Constance more than a little.
Constance scowled and sighed and turned back to the rail—and noted that Danube’s ship was gliding away from the dock, while an escort of several warships waited out on the great river. Surprised, the woman turned, noting only then that Duke Kalas wasn’t dressed for any sea voyage, wasn’t dressed for traveling at all.
“Danube told me that you were to go along,” she said.
“He was misinformed,” the Duke answered casually. “I have little desire to lay eyes upon Jilseponie Wyndon ever again.”
Constance stared long and hard, digesting that. She knew that Kalas had tried to bed Jilseponie several years before—before the onset of the rosy plague, even—but he had been summarily rebuffed. “You do not approve of Danube’s choice?”
“He will make a queen of a peasant,” Kalas replied with a snort and without hesitation. “No, I do not approve.”
“Or are you jealous?” Constance asked slyly, glad to be able to turn the tables on Kalas for a bit. “Do you fear Jilseponie will not rebuff his approaches, as she rebuffed your own?”
Duke Kalas didn’t even try to hide a sour look. “King Danube will pursue her more vigorously this year,” he stated knowingly. “And I fear that she will di
ssuade his advances, insulting the King himself.”
“And you fear more that she will not,” Constance was quick to add.
“Queen Jilseponie,” Kalas remarked dramatically. “Indeed, that is a notion to be feared.”
Constance turned away, looking back out over the great city and the distant river, chewing her lips, for even to hear that title spoken caused her great pain. “There are many who would disagree with you—Danube, obviously, among them,” she said. “There are many who consider her the hero of all the world, the one who defeated the demon dactyl at Mount Aida, who defeated Father Abbot Markwart when he had fallen in evil, and who defeated the rosy plague itself. There are many who would argue that there is not another in the world more suited to be queen of Honce-the-Bear.”
“And their arguments would not be without merit,” Kalas admitted. “To the common people, Jilseponie must indeed seem to be all of that and more. But such rabble do not appreciate the other attributes that any woman must, of necessity, bring to the throne. It is a matter of breeding and of culture, not of simple swordplay. Nor do such rabble appreciate the unfortunate and unavoidable baggage that Jilseponie Wyndon will bring along with her to Ursal.”
He stopped abruptly, stalking over to stand at the railing beside Constance, obviously agitated to the point that Constance had little trouble discerning that he was jealous of Danube. Targon Bree Kalas, the Duke of Wester-Honce and the King’s commander of the Allheart Brigade, was not used to rejection. And though Jilseponie’s refusal had occurred a decade before, the wound remained, and the scab was being picked at constantly by the knowledge that Danube might soon hold her in his arms.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 67
