“This town is hardly our home,” Aydrian remarked.
“And so Nighthawk will allow the weretiger to murder the townsfolk?” Sadye said slyly.
Aydrian stared at her hard. He cared nothing for the villagers—his contempt for his own race had only continued to grow in the weeks he had been on the road with Sadye and De’Unnero. The irony was not lost on him. Far from it. The only humans he had met since Brynn Dharielle had left him whom he truly respected were the man he believed had murdered his own father and the woman that man took as his lover.
“Control the rising beast,” Sadye commanded. “Push it back within.”
Aydrian took the hematite she held forth for him and pulled himself from his bed, walking determinedly into the adjoining area.
There lay De’Unnero in the throes of change, his legs already those of the great cat.
Aydrian easily fell into the magic of the gemstone, quickly sending his spirit out to connect with the human spark of the creature that lay before him, the rational being that was Marcalo De’Unnero.
Soon after, the three unlikely companions sat around the table, in silence that held for a long, long time.
Finally, De’Unnero nodded to Sadye and the woman hoisted Aydrian’s pouch onto the table and pushed it to him. “You have earned these,” she explained.
Marcalo De’Unnero clapped Aydrian on the shoulder and rose, walking toward his bed, and Sadye, with a final smile to Aydrian, rose to follow.
“I do not wish to live my days wandering from unimportant village to unimportant village,” Aydrian called after them.
De’Unnero stopped and slowly turned to regard the young man. “Palmaris, then,” he said. “You will enjoy Palmaris.”
Aydrian grinned from ear to ear and clutched his pouch of gemstones, the confirmation that he had won the trust of these new companions, that he had found some friends at last, ones that he could honestly respect. He was learning so much from them, from Sadye’s old songs and Marcalo’s incredible skills, an entire new perspective on the martial arts gleaned from the wisdom accumulated by the Abellican monks throughout the ages.
At that moment, in that nondescript, completely unremarkable and unimportant village, there happened a joining of Church and State as profound as the one that had placed the Queen of Honce-the-Bear as a sovereign sister of St. Honce: a joining of powers secular and spiritual that, when realized, would forever change the world.
At that same moment, hundreds of miles away, Queen Jilseponie watched as Fio Bou-raiy was elected father abbot of the Abellican Order.
Was that a good thing? Jilseponie wondered, for the best that she could say about Fio Bou-Raiy was that he was the lesser of two evils. That thought brought her attention to the side of the great hall, where sat a scowling older man, his gray hair thin and standing straight out as if it had been pulled. The top of his head was bald, and showed all the more clearly to Jilseponie because he sat hunched forward, a pronounced hump on his back. Even as Fio Bou-raiy took the sacred oath, the other man, Abbot Olin, rubbed a skinny, shaking hand across his eyes.
His arms were spindly and wrinkled, his skin leathery from so many decades in the bright southern sun. But there was no aura of weakness about this man, Jilseponie knew, and he wasn’t quite as old as he appeared. He could deliver a speech with fire and passion, as he had during the nominating process. Jilseponie had seen several of his detractors shrink from his iron stare. Most of the abbots and masters in the hall recited communal prayer now, as Jilseponie should have been doing, but Abbot Olin was not praying for the health and wisdom of Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy. He sat there, staring hard at the man who had stepped ahead of him to win the Church, wincing every so often, his skinny hands clenching, fingers rubbing against his palms.
If Olin had a crossbow in hand at that moment, then Jilseponie did not doubt that Fio Bou-raiy would fall dead.
“There will be trouble in the Church,” Jilseponie said to Bishop Braumin later on, when the two caught up with each other outside the great hall.
“There always is,” Braumin replied flippantly. He started to chuckle, but when he saw that his companion was not sharing his mirth, he sobered. “Abbot Olin?” he asked seriously.
“He does not accept this,” Jilseponie remarked.
“He has no choice,” said Braumin. “The decision of the College cannot be questioned.”
Jilseponie understood the truth of Braumin’s words, but that did little to diminish the feeling in her gut, her perception of Abbot Olin. “There will be trouble,” she said again.
Bishop Braumin gave a great sigh. “Indeed,” he agreed—or at least didn’t disagree—in a resigned tone. “It is the way of man, I fear, and even more the way of our Church, with its continual positioning for power.”
“Fio Bou-raiy would say that those words are strange, coming from a bishop,” Jilseponie pointed out. “Coming from a man still young, who has achieved so much in terms of personal gain, a man who was likely third behind Bou-raiy and Olin for the pinnacle of power in all the Church.”
Braumin considered her words for a few moments, then chuckled. “That perception can be logically justified,” he admitted. “But I seek no power for the sake of personal gain. Never that. I accept responsibility for the betterment of the people, nothing more.” He looked at her directly and chuckled again. “Can you claim any different of your own ascension?”
Jilseponie stared at her friend long and hard, her grim expression gradually melting into a smile. For she knew the truth of Bishop Braumin Herde, the man who had stood beside her and Elbryan at risk of his own life, and she knew that he was speaking honestly now. And, indeed, Jilseponie could speak of her own ambitions in exactly the same manner.
“Perhaps God will take Abbot Olin to a more enlightened place before he can cause any mischief,” Braumin said with a wink, “though I fear that our Church will prove more boring by far without the whispers and the subterfuge.”
Jilseponie couldn’t resist her friend, and she laughed.
Still, there remained an uneasiness within her, a sense that the pond was not as quiet and peaceful as the calm surface would indicate, either concerning the Church or the State.
So much have I learned in the months I’ve spent with Marcalo De’Unnero and Sadye the bard! I shudder to think that I meant to kill this man, who has taught me so much about the history of the world long past and even the relatively recent events of which he was a great part.
He did not hate my father. That truth surprised me at first, nor did I believe his words, until I went to Oracle and confirmed them. The image in the mirror—and that image seems far more singular and unified now—that I can only assume to be the spirit of Nightbird imparted many feelings about Marcalo De’Unnero, respect being the most prominent. They were rivals, to be sure, but it is possible, I think, for rivals to love each other even as they engage in mortal combat.
Marcalo De’Unnero has taught me physically, as well. His fighting style is very different from the one the elves showed me. Bi’nelle dasada, I have come to understand, is mostly a balance and footwork technique, a method of fast retreat and fast attack. Uniting this with De’Unnero’s flying hands and feet makes for a dangerous combination indeed, one that we both are experimenting with in our early sparring. I am truly thankful for that sparring! We have been at peace since we came to civilized Palmaris several months ago, with the only important action being a near-riot on the eve of God’s Year 842. In previous days, when I walked the edge of the Wilderlands, I would have considered that night as nothing remarkable and certainly nothing dangerous, but here in Palmaris, it came as a welcome breath of excitement.
There are times in this interminable lull when I think I will simply go wild with energy!
But Marcalo De’Unnero is always there, calming me. These days, these months, are preparation, he says, a time for me to learn all that I can about this world around me. I do believe that he has something grand in mind for us three, though he won
’t begin to hint at it.
And so I spar and so I listen, and carefully, to his every word. And I take those lessons, physical and mental, with me to Oracle each night, where I find the other tutor, the spirit of my father—or perhaps it is the power of my own insight—and expand the knowledge Marcalo De’Unnero has imparted.
I listen carefully to the lyrics of Sadye, as well; and in these old songs, I have found confirmation of my suspicions. The immortals among my people are not the generous and the kind, not the meek and the quiet. Nay, those whose names are immortal are the warriors and the conquerors, the bold and the strong. Even the namesake of the Church, St. Abelle, was a warrior, a gemstone wizard who single-handedly—so say the ballads—tore down the front walls of a great fortress, a yatol stronghold.
Now he is the patron of the greatest church in all the world, a man whose name is uttered daily by thousands and thousands. Thus he is alive. Thus he is immortal.
They will remember Aydrian the Nighthawk in the same manner, I am sure, and my friend De’Unnero does not disagree with the claim. Whenever I speak of such things, he merely grins and nods, his dark eyes twinkling. He has a secret from me, concerning our road and concerning something else, something more important. I ask him about it every week, and he merely chuckles and bids me to show patience.
Patience.
If I did not believe that the gain would be so great, so monumental, I would have little patience during these uneventful days and nights in the city of Palmaris. But I have come to trust Marcalo De’Unnero and Sadye. They know what I desire, and have promised to show me how to find it. In truth, I suspect that Marcalo De’Unnero desires the same thing for himself.
And so together, we two, we three, will walk into immortality.
—AYDRIAN THE NIGHTHAWK
Chapter 20
Constance’s Dark Descent
THE WINTER WAS LONG AND SEVERE. THE TURN OF 842 HAD COME TO URSAL AMID a raging blizzard, the snows piling unusually high about the castle and St. Honce. Jilseponie was one of the few who regularly ventured out of the castle, aiding the poor and healing the sick with her soul stone, but the severity of this storm stopped even the determined Queen from her daily rounds, or slowed them considerably, at least.
Her husband was busy with Daween Kusaad, the ambassador from Behren. She found the man distinctly unpleasant, so rather than remain at Danube’s side, trying constantly to hide her dislike of Daween, she had opted to wander about the immense castle, enjoying the intricate designs on the tapestries and the magnificent carvings on doors and walls, the delicate glass of the larger windows, and simply the views of the snow-enshrouded city.
On one such foray into the castle’s east tower, Jilseponie heard the cracking sound of wood striking wood and recognized it immediately as a sparring match. It seemed strange to her that any would be fighting up here, but as soon as she made her way to the room and recognized the participants, she understood.
Merwick Pemblebury Ursal was fourteen now, a year older than his brother and several inches taller. But Torrence favored his father, King Danube, in build, and was the stockier of the two.
Jilseponie watched in amusement, and a bit of admiration, as the two continued their fight, apparently oblivious of her. She could see Merwick’s mistakes clearly—he was fighting like a brawler, when his superior reach and speed could have been used to keep the more ferocious Torrence at bay.
She had seen many who fought in Torrence’s style—it was the most customary one, using heavy weapons to bash and chop and bludgeon an opponent to the ground. It was the style best suited to the weapons made by the crude smithing skills of the day, of inferior metals that made a larger and thicker sword or other weapon more likely to survive a heavy strike.
It was the style that bi’nelle dasada was designed to defeat. And easily.
Jilseponie continued to watch the two boys at their match, and the fact that the frenzied pace had not lessened spoke well of their training and their determination, and, to Jilseponie, said something important about their characters.
It did not surprise her how much she liked these two, though she didn’t often see them, for Constance worked hard to keep them away from her. But the truth was, she liked their mother, too, and always had. The customs of court called for women to be ornaments, rarely speaking their minds, and never in public; but Constance had ever been one of Danube’s closest advisers, an outspoken and strong person, with a good heart. The fact that she had been Danube’s lover in the years before he had come to love Jilseponie was of little concern to Jilseponie, for she trusted Danube’s love for her and could no more begrudge him his past than he could her own.
Her relationship with Constance was surely strained, now, though. The fact that Constance could hardly hide her feelings when she saw Jilseponie told the Queen that Constance was still in love with Danube and that she also wanted to protect the inheritance of her children.
For that, too, Jilseponie could hardly fault Constance.
So they were not friends, by circumstance rather than personality, and Jilseponie did not envision how their relationship might mend. One thing she was fairly certain of, though, was that she was no threat to the inheritance of Merwick and Torrence. These were Danube’s heirs, behind Prince Midalis of Vanguard. Watching from afar, as they grew, Jilseponie believed that they were training well for their lot in life.
Perhaps it was that, perhaps some unconscious desire to try, at least, to mend some of the open wounds between her and Constance, that made her walk into the room then.
“Greetings,” she said with a smile, and both boys stopped their sparring and turned to face Jilseponie, surprise and trepidation evident on their young faces. Torrence took a step back from Jilseponie, but Merwick, perhaps bolstered by his brother’s obvious fear, stepped forward and presented his wooden sword in a proper salute.
“Queen Jilseponie,” he said and bowed low.
Jilseponie’s first instinct was to smile and tell the boy to relax, that such formalities were not necessary, but she suppressed that instinct and instead offered what was called the regal nod, a stiff-shouldered posture with a slight tip of her chin.
Merwick snapped his sword down to his side.
“You fight well,” Jilseponie remarked, and she looked over at Torrence. “Both of you.”
“We practice often,” said Merwick.
“Constantly,” Torrence found the courage to chime in.
“As you should,” Jilseponie said. She held out her hand, and Merwick gave his sword to her. “And not only because you may find need to defend yourselves or the kingdom some day, but because …” She paused, not sure of how to put this so that such young men, boys really, might truly understand. “When you are confident of your abilities with the blade,” she explained, “truly confident—then you will find less desire to put those blades to use. And when you are secure in your ability to fight, you will find your spirit free to choose wisely on many issues and you will view others less as potential challenges and more for their true character.”
She noted that both boys hung on her every word. She didn’t doubt that Constance had gone a long way in poisoning their attitudes toward her, and yet her reputation, it seemed, somewhat overweighed even the words of their mother.
“May I offer some advice?” she asked.
“I thought that you just did, m’lady,” Merwick said with a bit of a charming smile.
“I meant, about the weapon,” Jilseponie replied with a laugh. “I know that you have the finest instructors—”
“Commander Antiddes, and sometimes even Duke Kalas, himself,” Torrence interjected, but he lowered his gaze when Jilseponie glanced at him.
“Yes, of course,” she remarked. “But I have some experience with the blade.”
Merwick’s snicker told her that he recognized her claim to be a bit of an understatement.
“It is just something I noticed,” Jilseponie went on. “Do come at me in the same manner as you attacke
d your brother,” she bade Torrence, and she moved away from him a step and brought the wooden sword up before her.
Mental alarms sounded clearly to her, along with a crisp recollection of Lady Dasslerond’s uncompromising warning to her that she must not reveal the secrets of bi’nelle dasada. And so she wouldn’t reveal it—not the style, not the precise and balanced movements, not the training techniques, but perhaps just a bit of the philosophy behind the fighting style. She set herself evenly, a seemingly defensive stance, but one from which she could quickly turn the attack, as Torrence prepared his strike.
She meant to defeat him quickly, a simple parry, catch and disengage, followed by a straightforward charging burst and sudden thrust. Even as Torrence began his charge, though, they all heard a crash at the side of the room and a gasp.
There stood Constance Pemblebury, a broken plate and spilled food on the floor at her feet.
“Mother!” said Merwick and Torrence together.
“I was only trying …” Jilseponie started to say, but Constance was hardly listening to any of them.
“What are you doing here?” the woman asked, her voice sounding more like a serpent’s hiss. “How dare you?” she went on before Jilseponie could begin to answer. “You two—out!” she roared at her children, and they rushed to obey, Merwick pausing only long enough to retrieve his mock weapon from Jilseponie. He gave her a look as he did, a silent apology, and then he and his brother were gone, running out of the room, not daring to disobey their mother.
“You have no business here, and no right,” Constance protested, as openly angry and bold with Jilseponie as she had ever been.
“I was merely—” the Queen started to respond.
“They are the heirs to the throne!” Constance roared at her. “They. Not you! The impropriety of your actions is staggering! One of my sons could have been gravely injured by you—do you not understand the war that might ensue, the charges of treason?”
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 93
