But this went beyond any of that. This night, Brynn Dharielle seemed to him something far greater than the woman he watched at sword dance, something supernaturally and spiritually beautiful, something that transcended the lustful feelings of the flesh. She was naked and undeniably enticing, but Aydrian could not take his gaze from her serene face and her sparkling dark eyes. It seemed to him as if she was wearing her soul as her clothing tonight.
Suddenly Aydrian felt as if he didn’t belong in that place, as if he was violating Brynn’s privacy far more now than during his spying on her morning sword dances. Then, he had measured her training, her focus, had admired her physical skills and physical charms, but now …
Now he was peeking at her very soul.
The elven song began again as soon as Brynn walked over to take her place directly before Lady Dasslerond. But then it stopped suddenly, or perhaps it did not—perhaps, Aydrian thought, the elves had simply enacted one of their sound walls, a barrier through which their voices would not pass. Lady Dasslerond was talking to Brynn then, as Belli’mar Juraviel walked to the far end of the field, disappeared into the pine boughs, then emerged a moment later leading a large brown and white pinto pony, magnificently muscled, whose two eyes were so blue that Aydrian could make out their color even from this distance in the torchlight. The pony had a white mane with a single black tuft of hair and a black tail similarly adorned with a single white tuft. It seemed skittish at first, or at least too full of spirit, and tossed its head with sharp jerking motions that kept Juraviel working hard not to be thrown from his feet.
But then the pony was near Brynn, and the chemistry between the two was immediately obvious. The young stallion’s ears perked up, and though its eyes continued to take in all the scene before it warily, the pony allowed Brynn to stroke its face and strong neck without a single flip of its head.
The pony stood calmly by Brynn’s side then, to Aydrian’s amazement, while Lady Dasslerond began to speak again. Then all the elves began their song anew—though Aydrian still could hear none of the elvish voices, just the occasional nicker or whinny from the pony.
It took a long while for Aydrian even to notice that Belli’mar Juraviel had left the field once more, and when that realization at last came to him, it was too late for him to react.
He felt a strong hand grab the back of his hair even as he started to turn over. A sudden jerk by Juraviel pulled Aydrian back from the bank and to his feet.
“What are you doing here?” the elf demanded.
Aydrian snarled and reached back to grab Juraviel’s wrist, but the elf anticipated the move and sharply jerked his hand down, pulling hard enough to take Aydrian from his feet.
The boy hit the ground hard, but twisted quickly and started to scramble to his feet, growling with rage, intent only on pummeling Juraviel.
He got kicked in the face before he ever got near to vertical, and in the fog that followed that kick, he felt a sudden, sharp rain of blows that soon had him curled defensively on his side.
“In everything you do of late, you tempt the limits of Lady Dasslerond’s patience,” Juraviel said.
Aydrian slowly uncurled and rolled to his knees, then slowly and unthreateningly stood up. “I was not told to stay away from this place this evening,” he protested.
Juraviel’s steely-eyed gaze did not soften. “The answer to your protest lies within your own heart,” the elf said after a long, uncomfortable pause. “Did you not recognize that you were violating the privacy of Brynn Dharielle?”
“No one told me—” Aydrian started to argue again.
“No one should have to,” Juraviel interrupted. “You have been taught better than that. You have been given insight into your own heart and soul. Can you not measure that which is right from that which is wrong?”
Aydrian started to answer, but again, Juraviel cut him short.
“Can you not?” he said forcefully. “Will you try to deny the truth that is in your heart with twisted words?”
Aydrian stammered for a moment, then went quiet and stood perfectly still, eyeing Juraviel coldly.
He held that threatening posture for a long while, and Juraviel didn’t blink until he heard movement behind him. He turned to see Brynn coming off the field, wrapped in a shawl now, leading her pony.
“I did not mean to …” Aydrian started to say to her, but as Brynn passed by him, very near—and if she even saw him, she did nothing to acknowledge him—he noted that her dark eyes were glazed, as if she were walking in the midst of a dream.
“Brynn?” he asked, but the newly anointed ranger kept on walking.
Aydrian watched her for a moment. And then he knew. Without a doubt, the boy suddenly understood that Brynn, his only human friend, the only person in all Andur’Blough Inninness who could even remotely relate to him, would leave the elven valley that very night.
He started after her, but there was Juraviel between them, a slender sword drawn and ready—and he wore an expression that left Aydrian no doubt that Juraviel would use that sword against him.
“She is leaving,” Aydrian said quietly.
“As am I,” said Juraviel, “this night. We are off to the southland, young Aydrian, to a place where the grasses are ever bent by a relentless wind. Brynn Dharielle and Belli’mar Juraviel leave the tale of Aydrian Wyndon this night.”
“Will I ever … I mean … why did no one tell me?” Aydrian stammered, at a complete loss.
“It is not important to that which Lady Dasslerond plans for you,” said Juraviel. “I will speak to no one of your indiscretion this night. Now go, and quickly, back to your bed and never, ever let Lady Dasslerond know that you bore witness to that which you should not!”
Aydrian stared at him blankly, completely overwhelmed.
“Be gone!” snapped Juraviel, and before he even knew what he was doing, Aydrian found himself running along the forest paths, all the way back to his small cot under a sheltered bough on the outskirts of Caer’alfar.
As soon as he had started down the path, Lady Dasslerond walked down from the top of the bank, staring after him. She moved beside Juraviel and rubbed her delicate hand through her thick golden hair, her expression clearly fearful.
“He did not deny the truth when I forced him to look into his heart,” said Juraviel.
“But the mere fact that he could so deny that truth to commit the violation is what frightens me,” Lady Dasslerond replied. “There is a dark side to that one, I fear.”
Belli’mar Juraviel didn’t reply and didn’t have to. He and all the others of Caer’alfar, Lady Dasslerond included, had come to wonder about defiant, headstrong, and frighteningly powerful young Aydrian these last few weeks.
Juraviel could not worry about that now, though, for he and Brynn had a long and dangerous road before them. Their time in the tale of Aydrian Wyndon had come to its end.
So Belli’mar Juraviel believed.
Chapter 5
Scheming for Mutual Benefit
HIS FACE HAD GROWN SHARPER OVER THE LAST DECADE OF HIS LIFE, A LIFE FILLED with revelations and disappointments, with following a path that he truly believed would lead him to God but then had taken a sharp and unexpected turn with the revelations of the covenant of Avelyn. That covenant, the cure for the rosy plague, had effected some changes in Fio Bou-raiy, the most powerful master of St.-Mere-Abelle, perhaps the third most powerful man in the Abellican Church behind Father Abbot Agronguerre and Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce in Entel. Fio Bou-raiy had been dead set against the Abellican brothers going out of their abbey-fortresses to meet with the infected populace, had even chided and chastised Brother Francis when the monk, unable to bear the cries of the dying outside St.-Mere-Abelle’s great walls, had taken a soul stone in hand and gone out to the crowd, offering whatever comfort he might, and, in the end, sacrificing his own life with his valiant but futile attempts.
But then Jilseponie had found the cure at the arm of Avelyn, the former brother who would soon be s
ainted, a man of compassion. Too much compassion, in the eyes of many of the brothers, including the former father abbot Dalebert Markwart, who had presided over most of Fio Bou-raiy’s higher-level training. In the present world, it seemed very easy to make the case that Avelyn was right and that his followers, in striving for a more compassionate and generous attitude of Church to its flock, were following the desires of God, as was shown by the covenant itself.
Master Fio Bou-raiy could live with that possibility, for it did not make his entire life a lie, as it surely had that of Markwart and his more fanatical followers, such as Master De’Unnero. Indeed, in the years since the covenant, Bou-raiy’s position of authority in the Church had only strengthened. Father Abbot Agronguerre was an old, old man now, in failing health and with failing mental faculties as well. It fell to the masters around Agronguerre to guide him through his duties; and leading that group was Fio Bou-raiy, who often shaped those duties, those speeches and prayers, in a direction favorable to Fio Bou-raiy.
Despite all that, though, Bou-raiy’s road of ascension was not without bumps. He had been offered the abbey of St. Honce by Agronguerre after interim abbot Hingas had died on the road to the Barbacan in pilgrimage to the arm of Avelyn. But Fio Bou-raiy had refused, setting his eyes on a higher goal and thinking that goal more attainable if he remained near the Father Abbot. For that was the position Fio Bou-raiy coveted, and the inevitable election following Agronguerre’s seemingly imminent death would likely be his last chance.
And so he had thought that everything was moving along smashingly, but then, in one of his rare lucid moments, old Agronguerre had surprised Bou-raiy, and all the other masters in attendance, by announcing that he would not name Fio Bou-raiy as his successor. In fact, Agronguerre would name no one, though he had admitted that he hoped it would fall to Abbot Haney, his successor at St. Belfour, though the man was far too young to be nominated. “I will have to live another decade, I suppose,” Agronguerre had said in a voice grown thin and weary, and then he had laughed at the seemingly absurd notion.
The stunning denial of Bou-raiy had surprised everyone at St.-Mere-Abelle and had made those masters who understood the process and the implications very afraid. If not Bou-raiy, then certainly the position would fall to the only other apparently qualified man, Abbot Olin, and that, none of the masters of St.-Mere-Abelle wanted to see.
Indeed, the only men in all the Church with the credentials to challenge Olin were Bou-raiy or perhaps Abbot Braumin Herde of St. Precious. And Braumin faced the same problems as did Abbot Haney, for he, like so many of the new abbots and masters of the Abellican Order, did not have the experience to win the votes of the older masters and abbots, even those who were not overfond of Abbot Olin.
So it was with a lot weighing on his mind that Fio Bou-raiy had come to Palmaris this spring, ostensibly to be in attendance at the dedication of the Chapel of Avelyn in Caer Tinella, but in truth so that he could spend some quiet time with Abbot Braumin and his cronies, to win them over, to secure some votes.
He cut a striking figure as he walked off the ferry that crossed the Masur Delaval from Amvoy, with his narrow, hawkish features, his perfectly trimmed silver-gray hair, and his orderly dress, with the left sleeve of his dark brown robe tied at the shoulder. As he made his way along the busy docks of Palmaris, children shied away from him, but to Fio Bou-raiy that seemed more of a compliment, a granting of proper respect, than anything else. He would rather have respect than friendship from another person any day, whatever their age.
He brought with him an entourage of a half dozen younger brothers, marching in two orderly lines a respectful three steps behind him. He listened to the chatter on the streets as they made their way toward St. Precious; and all that gossip, it seemed, centered on King Danube Brock Ursal’s courtship of Baroness of Palmaris, Jilseponie Wyndon.
Fio Bou-raiy did well to hide his smile at that news. He had known, of course, of the budding relationship long before he had come to Palmaris, and he had thought long and hard about how it might benefit him in some way. Jilseponie was a friend of the Church, of Abbot Braumin at least. Would it suit Fio Bou-raiy’s designs to have her sitting on the throne in Ursal? Or might he even take that to a second and equally important level?
Yes, it was hard to hide his smile.
King Danube was a fine rider. He brought his horse right across the track cutting off Jilseponie on Greystone.
She pulled up hard on the reins, and Greystone skipped and hopped, even reared, neighing and grunting complaints all the while. Jilseponie thought to echo the horse’s complaints, but Danube’s laughter diffused her protest before it could really begin.
“And you tried to pawn that one off on me, insisting it was the better horse!” Danube said with a snort, and he urged his steed on. The horse lowered its head and its ears and galloped full out across the wide fields of the grounds behind Chasewind Manor.
Caught by surprise, by both his action and his attitude, Jilseponie couldn’t find the words to respond. She stammered a few undecipherable sounds, then simply took up the challenge and touched her heels to Greystone’s flanks.
The palomino leaped away. Once Greystone had been the favored riding horse of Baron Rochefort Bildeborough and not without reason. The horse was more than twenty years old now, but how he could still run! He stretched out his graceful and powerful neck, lowered his ears, and thundered on, gaining on Danube and the smaller gray with every long and strong stride.
“Tried to pawn you off, indeed!” Jilseponie said to the horse. “Show him!”
And Greystone did, gaining and then overtaking the King and the gray—of course, it didn’t hurt that King Danube outweighed Jilseponie by a hundred pounds!
Still, the grace and ease of both rider and horse could not easily be dismissed. They seemed in perfect harmony, the rider an extension of the horse, the horse an extension of the rider. So smoothly and so beautifully they ran, and as they flowed by King Danube, so, too, flowed away Jilseponie’s anger at the man. For Danube was grinning, telling her that it had all been a tease. When she thought about it, she came to realize that the King, in cutting her off so suddenly, had paid her an incredible compliment as a rider, had trusted her abilities and had not thought to protect her from potential harm, as so many others often tried to do.
Thus it was with a smile of her own that Jilseponie eased her horse into a canter and then a swift trot. She turned him as King Danube came trotting up to her, the long expanse of the field behind him.
“I told you that Greystone was the finest in all the stable,” she explained.
“Even at his age,” King Danube said, shaking his head. “He is indeed an amazing creature. As fine a horse as I have ever seen—except, of course, for one other, for that magnificent stallion, Symphony …” Danube’s voice trailed off as he finished the thought, and he looked at Jilseponie with alarm.
He knew that he had rekindled painful memories, she realized; and indeed he had brought Jilseponie’s thoughts careening back to her wildest days—storming through the forests with Symphony and Elbryan, killing goblins and powries and giants. She tried to keep the pain from showing, but an unmistakable shadow clouded her blue eyes. She hadn’t seen Symphony in a long time—not since her last visit to Elbryan’s cairn the previous summer.
Elbryan’s cairn. His grave. Where he lay cold in the ground while Jilseponie rode wildly about the countryside accompanied by another man.
“My pardon, dear woman,” Danube said solemnly. “I did not mean—”
Jilseponie stopped him with an upraised hand and a genuinely warm expression. Her memories were not King Danube’s fault, after all, nor his responsibility. As he did not treat her as physically delicate, so she did not want him to treat her as emotionally delicate. “It is all right,” she said quietly, and she tried very hard to mean those words. “It is time for me to truly bury the dead, to dismiss my own selfish grief, and take heart in the joys that I knew with Elbryan.”
/> “He was a fine man,” said Danube sincerely.
“I loved him,” Jilseponie replied, “with all my heart and soul.” She looked King Danube directly in the eyes. “I do not know that I will ever love another like that,” she admitted. “Can you accept that truth?”
That set Danube back, and his mouth dropped open in surprise at her bluntness and honesty. Yet his expression fast changed back to a warm and contented look. “You do me great justice and honor in speaking so truthfully,” he said. “And I am not ignorant of your situation, for I, too, once loved another deeply. I will tell you of Queen Vivian, I think, and perhaps this very night.”
He ended with a lighthearted expression, but Jilseponie’s stare did not soften. “You did not answer my question,” she said.
King Danube took a long and deep breath, sighing away his exasperation at being put on the spot. “You ride Greystone,” he said. “Can there be any doubt that you and the horse have formed a very special and magical bond?”
Jilseponie looked down at her mount and his golden mane.
“Have you ever known a finer, a greater, horse than Symphony?” King Danube asked her.
Jilseponie looked at him incredulously. “No, of course not,” she said.
“And yet you are content—more than content!—with Greystone,” said the clever King. “Correct?”
That brought another smile to Jilseponie’s fair face, and Danube’s heart leaped when he saw the glow there.
“Greystone is the swifter,” Danube said suddenly, whirling his mount the other way. “But he is too old for another run!” And with that, the King and his young stallion thundered back toward the distant Chasewind Manor. “You will not win the race this time!” came his trailing call.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 71
