Kalas knew where all of this had started. Constance and her many friends had begun a quiet campaign to discredit Jilseponie from the moment she had moved to Ursal, and even before, during all of those summers King Danube spent in Palmaris—an act that many of the common folk of Ursal had taken as an insult to their fair city.
Still, for all of the seeding done in the past and all the current damning rumors filtering down to this crowd from Constance’s cronies, all of whom were not pleased that Constance had apparently been “chased” out of the castle and Ursal by the “queen witch” Jilseponie, Kalas could hardly believe the relish the common folk took in fostering and elaborating upon those rumors.
They positively reveled in it, expressing their outrage and their derision with open glee, mocking and mimicking Jilseponie viciously.
Kalas could not deny his mixed feelings at hearing their talk. On the one hand, he hated their fickleness—had this woman not been their revered and cherished hero, not once, but twice? Had she not won a glorious victory, at great personal cost, against the corrupt Father Abbot Markwart? And even more important, had Jilseponie not shown the world the way to salvation during the horrible years of the rosy plague? Or at least, was that not what the peasants had wholeheartedly believed? Yet here they were, their love affair with Jilseponie Wyndon Ursal obviously ended and, Kalas had to admit silently, through no fault of Jilseponie’s. Or perhaps there was fault to be leveled at her: the fault of hubris, of unwarranted pride. The errant belief that she could somehow rise above her lowly station to mingle with those born of greatness. Jilseponie was not noble born, and she knew it; so why, then, had she agreed to come to Danube’s court as queen? How dare she pretend to be something that she obviously was not?
Duke Kalas took a deep pull of his ale, then slid the glass across the table to a barmaid, bidding her to get him another. As he had mixed feelings about the source of the peasants’ banter, so he had mixed feelings about its possible result. As a nobleman of Danube’s court, he wanted to draw his sword and cut down any peasant insolent enough to speak ill of any nobleman or noblewoman, and indeed, he could not separate their chides from insults aimed at King Danube.
And yet, Duke Kalas wasn’t sorry to see Jilseponie being made the butt of their jokes, to see them embracing every nugget of every rumor, though there might be no evidence at all. Let this woman, who had so wounded his dear friend Constance, be dragged through the mud of peasant gossip; let them pay her back for all the pain she had brought to Danube’s courtiers by her mere presence! And as for Danube’s failing image, had he not brought it upon himself by ignoring the advice of Kalas and many others and marrying a peasant?
His second ale arrived, and he downed it in one gulp, then took a third from the barmaid’s tray as she started away and swallowed that, motioning for her to go and fetch another.
He needed the drink. For there was one other thing behind all the justifications Kalas might make, though the Duke would never admit it to himself or to anyone else: Jilseponie had refused his advances years ago in Palmaris, before she had begun her love affair with King Danube.
Danube had chosen wrongly, and so had Jilseponie, and all the court was in tumult because of it. “Swill to satisfy the lowly tastes of peasants,” the Duke muttered under his breath, his voice full of sarcasm and anger. “How fitting for a Queen.”
She sat in a curtained room staring at the opaque veil that blocked her view of the outside world. Earlier, she had heard Torrence and Merwick out there, sparring and arguing, but they were long gone now, no doubt off to find some of the new friends they had made since moving to Yorkeytown.
Constance had made no new friends; and, in truth, the mere thought of it sent shivers along her spine. She looked horrible and she knew it—how, then, could she go out among the social elite of Yorkeytown?
It was midday out beyond that window. Yet Constance was still wearing her simple nightdress; and while it was not obviously dirty, she had not changed out of it for three days. How had she sunk so low, so fast? She had aspired to be queen of Honce-the-Bear, and then had attained a position that would likely place her as queen mother. And yet here she was, banished from Ursal by her hated rival, Jilseponie holding the proof of her crime over her head like the demon of death’s own scythe!
“She has conspired against me,” Constance muttered, “from the beginning. She has watched my every move and baited me, waiting, waiting, waiting. Ah, yes, the witch! Waiting, waiting, waiting for poor Constance to give in to her endless taunts and try to defend herself. And when I did—yes, when Constance tried to defend her position, to protect her children!—there you were, cursed witch, ready to go sobbing to your husband, the King. Oh, but aren’t you the pretty one and the clever one, Queen Jilseponie?”
She wept then, dropping her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking. She believed that she could actually feel the bags under her eyes, so bedraggled was she, for she had not slept for any stretch of time since she had come to Yorkeytown, since Jilseponie had chased her away from Ursal and away from Danube. Constance needed sleep, and she knew it; but she could not, did not, dare. For they found her in her dreams, Danube and Jilseponie, entwined as lovers.
She lifted her head and stared again at the curtain. She could hardly remember the days before the great changes in Ursal, before Jilseponie had come. The days when she rode out beside Danube and Kalas, when she often found Danube’s bedroom door open for her.
How far she had fallen! And all of it, Constance knew in her heart, was because of one reason alone, because of one woman alone.
More than a thousand miles to the east, the eighteen-year-old Aydrian stood at the prow of Rontlemore’s Dream, one of the largest sailing ships in all the world, a huge three master. Back in Honce-the-Bear, the people were preparing the celebration for the turn of God’s Year 844, or just battening down their houses to survive another winter.
But out here on the bright waves of the Southern Mirianic, there seemed no seasons, no sense of time at all. Just a sense of timelessness, of eternity, the endless rise and fall of the perpetual swells, the continuing cycle of life played out below the azure surface. Aydrian, so attuned to nature from his time with the Touel’alfar, could not deny the sense of peace and serenity; this was perhaps the first time in his life he had ever truly existed in the present, not considering the past or the future, or the implications of any action. Not taking any action at all. Simply being. He felt as if he was one big receptacle, allowing the spray and the sun and the smells to permeate his body and soul.
And it was strangely pleasant, though he understood better than to pause and consider the feeling, for that alone would dispel the moment.
Twenty feet back from him, near the center of the deck, Marcalo De’Unnero and Sadye were reacting to the voyage in a very different manner.
“The war in Behren will be to our benefit, if we handle it correctly,” De’Unnero reasoned, for Olin had told him and his companions of the tumult in the southern kingdom, a revolt in the western province of To-gai that had spread into general revolution against the Chezru chieftain and his strict yatol order. Aydrian had received the news with a smirk, guessing at the source.
“Olin fears that we invite the same revolt as the yatols,” Sadye reminded. “And his depictions of the action of common folk revolting against a Church did not fill me with warmth.”
“Olin views the situation from the wrong perspective,” De’Unnero assured her. “We will incite a secular revolt within Honce-the-Bear, using Aydrian—the rightful heir by Danube’s own words!—as our figurehead, and then we will use that circumstance to bring about the needed change within the Church.”
“Danube will not accept him,” said Sadye.
“You assume that Danube will ever learn of him,” De’Unnero replied slyly.
“Then Danube’s followers will accept him even less!” Sadye insisted, the same old arguments and doubts rearing up again.
De’Unnero tolerated her nervousn
ess. They had gone through this discussion many times over the months, and almost daily since they had met with Abbot Olin and had actually started to act on their grand plans.
“Abbot Olin was quite clear that he believed Aydrian could not take the throne without war,” Sadye finished.
The remark did not bother Marcalo De’Unnero at all. “Hence our present journey,” he replied. “You do not understand the power of wealth. For too many years, you traveled the fringes of society and civilization, where people were too concerned with their daily needs to think in grander terms.”
“How much of a treasury will we need to build this army you envision?” asked Sadye. “The Kingsmen are loyal to Danube, as are the Coastpoint Guards and the Allheart Brigade,” she said, naming the three branches of Honce-the-Bear’s formidable military. “His army numbers in the tens of thousands. Where are we to find that many bodies, even with all the wealth in the world?”
De’Unnero winked at her and looked over at the rest of his unlikely flotilla, a hodgepodge of two dozen ships ranging in size and design from the heavy Rontlemore’s Dream and other conventional Honce-the-Bear designs, to the pirate catamarans and swift sloops. Olin had put the flotilla together in short order, through a simple promise of riches. What more might Olin and De’Unnero accomplish when those riches were in hand?
Sadye’s concerns were not without merit, he knew, but he wasn’t too worried about them. A bag of gemstones, magical or not, could turn a man’s heart and loyalties; and De’Unnero and Olin would soon possess enough gems to test the loyalty of every man in Honce-the-Bear.
He glanced around at the flotilla again, his gaze settling on the catamaran of one particularly disagreeable pirate. How would he react once his hold was full of gemstones? De’Unnero wondered. Would he turn and run? Marcalo De’Unnero almost hoped that he would, for then he, with his powerful feline form, and Aydrian, with the magical gems, would lay waste to the pirate and crew.
It might be fun.
Up at the prow, Aydrian continued to bask in the present, his mind unworried, his body and soul at peace with his surroundings.
It was but a brief respite, he knew, though he did not remind himself. All the world was about to explode, and he would be holding the gemstones that set off the blast.
The name of Aydrian, of Nighthawk, would survive the passage of millennia.
Their efficiency is simply amazing—at least as spectacular as the holds full of gemstones we brought back from that distant, lifeless island. Abbot Olin has a hundred merchants selling them, from Behren to the Gulf of Corona; and, similarly, he and De’Unnero have a hundred agents hard at work, hiring mercenaries and, even more impressive, infiltrating the King’s forces at every level. The plans grow more firm each day; and the destination—the crown of Ursal and the leadership of the Abellican Church—seems closer than ever.
They think they are using me, my heritage, to gain their foothold. They see me as a commodity like their own gemstones; and they—Olin and De’Unnero at least—underestimate me because of my age.
But I am not the same boy that found Marcalo De’Unnero in Wester-Honce. This summer will mark my nineteenth birthday, and between my years with the demanding Touel’alfar and all that I have learned from De’Unnero and Sadye and all that I have seen on my travels across the wide world, my understanding and comprehension of this society and these people exceeds that of anyone else my age.
And so, they do not use me, as they believe. Rather, I use them, to find my way to the destiny that is mine. De’Unnero and Olin are tools for Aydrian; they will reach for their goals within the Church, and I will back them all the way. Ultimately, though, the King rules; and Aydrian, not De’Unnero, not Olin, was born to be the king. I will allow them their pretense of using me until I have taken the throne, and then …
Then I will tolerate them as long as their actions remain in line with my own goals.
I find it amusing that both De’Unnero and Olin seek, in essence, the same personal goals. Both envision themselves as father abbot of the reorganized Church.
De’Unnero keeps insisting that he views Olin in line for that position, explaining that he will train for the position and then succeed the man upon Olin’s death, which both expect will happen soon enough.
I do not believe him for a moment.
Marcalo De’Unnero has been preaching patience to me since we first met, has been assuring me that the walk toward our goal will be long but will be definite and with every step measured properly. I know, however, that he is not a patient man—no more than am I! He understood the proper course to take to this point, and will measure each step carefully from here. But once the goal is in sight, once the position he covets is within his grasp, his patience will not hold and Abbot Olin will be thrown to the wayside, if he is lucky, or will simply be murdered. For there is no way that Marcalo De’Unnero would so readily share the treasures that we plundered from Pimaninicuit—bags and bags of gemstones!—to raise an army to elevate Olin! To elevate me? Yes, for De’Unnero sees my ascension to the throne as a first, necessary step to his own goals. Because of my heritage and the King’s foolish decree, he sees my ascension as an easier task than the takeover of the Church, which is even more steeped in tradition and democracy than the kingdom. More than once, he has said to me, “Make a man a king, and the people will, the people must, accept him as such. Taking the throne will be far more difficult than holding it.”
I have come to learn much of this society, of my people, and most of all I have come to understand why Lady Dasslerond and the Touel’alfar hate the humans—or at least do not respect them. The chaos, the hidden agendas that permeate every heart, the murderous treachery!
And, yet, it is far easier for the elves to feel as they do and to act in accordance with their supposedly higher principles, for they will live on through the centuries—or they expect to, at least. Time alone allows them the patience; if they did not accomplish a certain goal this century, then surely they will find the time and the opportunity for it in the next. The Touel’alfar do not understand the devastating human truth that life is too short for dreams to be realized. Nor do they understand that chancing everything, even life itself, could be worth any gain, for such a risk might cost an elf six hundred years of existence. What might such a dire risk cost a human, even a young one, such as myself? A few decades? And likely only a couple of decades of good health and vitality.
There is another basic difference between the races. The elves remember their dead heroes, as do the humans; but the elves remember their living heroes as well—and in the same favorable light afforded by the passing of centuries. Humans can find no such luxury; many of the enemies I will make when I take the throne will outlive me and will, during my lifetime, cast a pall over King Aydrian with words of venom, if not treacherous actions.
And so, in the human existence, it is the legacy that is most important. The name of King Aydrian will shine all the brighter in a hundred years, when the friends of the current regime are all dead and the lands I conquer are fully assimilated into Honce-the-Bear. And my name will shine all the brighter still in two hundred years.
And in a thousand years the legend will far outweigh the reality, for all that will remain will be monuments of my reign—the castles and palaces, the redrawn border, and the great city of Aydrian, once called Ursal. In a thousand years, I will be thought of as a god, as larger than any man could be in life.
Sadye’s songs convince me of this; the histories speak of it over and over again.
I see the means solidifying around me.
Patience, patience.
—AYDRIAN, THE NIGHTHAWK
Chapter 26
A Matter of Style
HIS COMPLAINING STOPPED WHEN THE DAY CAME TO STRAP ON THE FIRST FINISHED piece, a delicately curving metal plate that slid over his arms and covered his chest and his sides up to his armpits. Until that moment, Aydrian had been convinced that the armor being crafted for him would cost him mo
re than it would be worth, that it would slow his movements and his speed, and would get him hit by opponents who otherwise would never get their blades near him.
Aydrian had to look down several times, to comprehend that he was actually wearing the metal armor, for he felt no more weight than if he was wearing a heavy shirt.
“The fit is all,” said Garech Callowag, the smith Olin had imported from a small village to craft Aydrian’s armor. A former outfitter of the Allheart Brigade, Garech would likely prove to be an invaluable asset, not only because of his extraordinary work on Aydrian’s armor, but also because he understood the potential enemy’s armor and had practical suggestions to strengthen the uniforms of the mercenary army that was being assembled covertly across the land. “Distributed properly, and fit to form, he will hardly know that he is wearing it.”
“I cannot feel it,” said Aydrian, obviously surprised and impressed, and he moved as if thrusting and retracting a blade.
“To form?” Sadye asked. Aydrian was well aware of her eyes roaming up and down his nearly naked form as she spoke—something she seemed to be doing often of late. “And if that form changes?”
“I explained from the beginning that such a task as Master De’Unnero asked of me would require lengthy employ,” Garech explained. “We will adjust weekly, more than that if a battle wound changes his physique.”
“Unlikely,” Aydrian remarked, and Sadye laughed. The young man looked at the bard carefully, noted her grin and the sparkle in her eyes, wondering, certainly not for the first time, if there was an attraction there. Sadye was much closer to Aydrian’s age than to De’Unnero’s, after all.
How would he react to any advances she might make? The thought unnerved Aydrian more than a little. He could not deny his own feelings toward Sadye—everything positive ranging from lust to respect—but there remained the reality of De’Unnero’s importance to him and his destiny. Without De’Unnero, Aydrian would find a much more difficult path to ascension. Without De’Unnero, he could hardly understand the inner workings of the military, let alone the more complicated, more human, interactions within the Abellican Church.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 101
