Without Aydrian’s additions, this marvelous creation would have been among the finest suits of armor in the world. With those additions, with a few well-placed magnetites and a soul stone, the suit was doubly effective at turning blows and capable of quickly healing its magic-using occupant if an opponent’s blow did somehow get through.
With Garech’s skilled assistance, Aydrian had made an improvement to his weapon as well. The pair had delicately set a tiny ruby and graphite into the base of Tempest’s shining silverel blade, and a small serpentine now adorned the crosspiece. With hardly a thought, the magically mighty Aydrian could turn his already fine blade into a flaming sword, and with another thought, could make it strike like lightning.
The tournament was fast approaching—De’Unnero’s subtle suggestions had been seized upon by the courtiers as a great opportunity for them all to win Danube’s highest favor, and the call had gone out across the land for every able-bodied warrior and archer to come and test his skills before his King.
This was much more than a birthday party for an aging King, though. As far as De’Unnero and Sadye were concerned, this was a passage to manhood for a future king.
Sadye looked at Aydrian, now dutifully allowing the greaves to be fitted about his lean and tightly muscled legs. Then she glanced over to the most extraordinary suit of armor she had ever heard of, let alone seen. She knew that this joust, the first formal knightly competition in Honce-the-Bear since the one held after the end of the rosy plague, would be one that would live on in legend for centuries to come.
Chapter 31
Coming of Age
BY THE TIME River Palace TIED UP TO URSAL’S LONG DOCK, THE PREPARATIONS FOR the tournament were well under way—so much so that few in the city or at court even commented on the return of Queen Jilseponie.
Pony—and though she had returned, she still thought of herself as Pony again—was glad of that. The preparations would likely keep most courtiers busy throughout the winter of 845–846, offering her some time to settle in without the constant tension.
King Danube embraced the tournament wholeheartedly, with a rousing cheer for Duke Kalas and the others who were making the arrangements. “No finer gift could a king receive from his court!” he proclaimed.
Pony just smiled, glad of the distraction and happy that her husband was happy. She moved about quietly and said little, letting others carry the conversation at the nightly dinners and weekly balls. Often she left the castle, as she had promised she would, going out among the peasants to try to help them with their illnesses and with the general misery of their lives—particularly during this, the coldest of seasons.
When she was not out, the Queen kept mostly to herself, sometimes in prayer, sometimes just sitting at a window and trying to figure out where in this confusing life she truly fit in. There was no self-pity in her, though. Not at all. Pony had more memories—grand memories—than most could ever hope for, and now she understood that the situation was hers to control. She could either let the gossipers and troublemakers bother her, or she could ignore them and go on with her plans, pursuing her goals, shaping this newest chapter of her life.
In the castle, she was Queen Jilseponie, but out in the streets among the peasants, she was Pony. Just Pony, a friend of those in need.
With Danube, she was a little of both. She had to be there to support him during the times of tension that inevitably accompanied his position. And so she did, but quietly, from behind the scenes. She would not normally be in attendance any more when Duke Kalas or some other nobleman came for an audience complaining about this problem or that, but she would be there beside King Danube later on, lending her ear that he could relieve his tension with animated outbursts.
And after, when he wanted, with lovemaking.
Pony didn’t recoil from him at all. She would remain a good wife to this man, because she did indeed care for him deeply, did even love him.
For his part, King Danube kept his promises. He did not question his queen when she went out of Castle Ursal, and he did his very best to ignore the few rumors that had inevitably started circulating once more, now that she had returned to the city.
By the end of the third month of 845, the King’s birthday was fast approaching, and so was the end of winter. Several knights from Palmaris had come in before the winter, fearing that the roads would be closed until long after the joust, but the winter that year was a mild one, and a short one.
Marcalo De’Unnero watched the preparations—the great tents and the combat yard, the gathering of minstrels and chefs and warriors from all over the kingdom—with anticipation and a bit of trepidation. He had been staying away from the court proper of late, for the last thing he wanted was to be seen by Queen Jilseponie. Kalas had not recognized him, and in many ways he looked very different from the man the Duke had accompanied all the way to the Barbacan in pursuit of Elbryan and the heretics those many years before, but he had no doubt that if Jilseponie looked into his eyes but once, she would know the truth.
He was confident of that, because he understood that if Jilseponie’s appearance had greatly changed—and it had not, he saw on those few occasions when he had watched her from afar—he would still surely recognize her. She was his mortal enemy, as he was hers, and their mutual hatred went far beyond physical appearance.
So De’Unnero, in the guise of Bruce of Oredale, had stayed near the celebration grounds, watching it all, helping where he could. And now, this fine spring day, it was nearly complete, so close, in fact, that the Allheart Brigade, Kingsmen, and Coastpoint Guards were all out drilling for their respective marches across the field, the traditional King’s Review.
Aydrian’s day was fast approaching.
De’Unnero could hardly draw breath when he considered the trial coming fast before his protégé. He was asking this young warrior to do battle—and not just battle, but formal battle, which was an entirely different thing—against the most seasoned knights in the kingdom, and with only a modicum of training in such jousting techniques. He had sent Aydrian off to the southeast, to Yorkey County, for he would enter the tournament as a representative of some minor landowner firmly loyal to Abbot Olin’s pocketbook. That seemed the best cover, for Yorkey County, once a bitterly divided multitude of tiny kingdoms, was dotted by small castles—one on every hill, it seemed—and produced more Allheart knights and more of the tournament entrants than the rest of the kingdom combined.
Besides, Yorkey County was the supposed home, he had whispered into Duke Kalas’ ear, of the Queen’s lover.
“Squire Aydrian of Brigadonna,” De’Unnero whispered under his breath, the alias he had instructed the boy to assume. The former monk smiled wickedly at the thought. Yes, he was asking much of young Aydrian, but he had seen the boy at battle and understood Aydrian’s prowess with the gemstones. He knew the crowd would not soon forget this tournament.
Aydrian, dressed in normal peasant clothing and standing beside Sadye and De’Unnero, who were similarly outfitted, shook his head with disgust as yet another arrow sailed wide of the mark, flying down the long field set up for the archery contest, traditionally the first competition of a tournament. These were not the King’s elite knights competing here, not even soldiers but only simple peasants and huntsmen.
“I would never miss so easy a target,” Aydrian said quietly to his companions, his frustration at not being allowed to enter this contest bubbling over. “I could take the target dead center, then split my own arrow with the next shot!”
“You would not get a second shot,” De’Unnero corrected. “For Queen Jilseponie, if no others, would surely recognize the feathers topping that bow of yours.”
“Then I could have bought a simpler bow,” said Aydrian. “It would hardly have mattered. The outcome would be the same.”
De’Unnero turned and smiled at the cocky young warrior. “You think yourself better than any of them?” he asked.
“Easily,” came the response.
“Good,” said the former monk. “Good. And when you are King, you can hold tournaments at your whim and prove yourself—and then you will be able to use that elven bow of yours, as well. But for now, you stand here and you watch.”
Aydrian started to protest, but he held back, for he and De’Unnero had been over this time and again that morning. Aydrian and Sadye had arrived quietly in the city, unannounced, but letting a few people see their entry and see that they were carrying armor and all the accoutrements of a tournament competitor in their small wagon.
But De’Unnero had decided not to announce Squire Aydrian of Brigadonna publicly that day, the second of the great feast, the first of the tournament knightly games. He had explained to Aydrian that he wanted to hold back for dramatic effect and so that he could continue to plant rumors among the nobles. Aydrian had complained, for indeed, he truly wanted to leap into the competition right away, but De’Unnero had summarily dismissed him, reminding him that he, and not Aydrian, was in charge.
Not wanting to start that fight again, Aydrian did not now press the issue. He turned his gaze away from the boring archery tournament, with its incredibly average marksmen, where a hit seemed more luck than skill, and focused instead on the royal pavilion, a raised stage and tent, wherein sat the King and Queen and several nobles, including Duke Kalas in splendid silver plate armor, his great plumed helm beside him. The whole pavilion was flanked by armored Allheart knights, insulating their beloved King from the rabble.
Aydrian’s gaze fast focused on the woman sitting beside Danube: on Jilseponie, his mother.
His mother!
A host of questions assaulted him, concerning his own identity and the intentions of those around him. Why hadn’t Lady Dasslerond told him who his mother was? Why had she and the other elves insisted that Aydrian’s mother had died in childbirth? There could be no doubt that Lady Dasslerond, as well informed as any creature in the world, knew the truth, knew Jilseponie was not only alive and well but was also ruling as queen of the most important kingdom in the world.
And why had De’Unnero told him? He was grateful to the man, to be sure, but Aydrian wondered how much of their friendship was based upon complementary characteristics, and how much was De’Unnero’s opportunism in using Aydrian as a means to attain his old prominence again.
Aydrian chuckled at the thought and dismissed it, for in truth why did it matter? Was he not using De’Unnero in the very same manner?
He looked at his companion and smirked. A relationship of mutual benefit, he realized, and he was quite content with that. He didn’t love De’Unnero, hardly even liked him, to be honest. But together they would rise to greater glory than either of them could rightly expect on his own.
He let his glance drift over to Sadye, admiringly, thinking—not for the first time—that someday he might bring their relationship to a level of intimacy. His eyes roamed up and down her petite but well-toned body, her slender, strong legs, her small but alluring breasts.
Smiling all the wider, Aydrian turned his thoughts and his gaze back to the royal pavilion, and his grin fast drooped into a frown. For now his questions again centered on the Queen—this woman De’Unnero claimed was his mother; this woman, reputedly a great hero of the Demon War and of the plague, who had, for some reason he could not begin to understand or forgive, abandoned him at birth.
Or perhaps he could understand it.
Perhaps we are very much alike, Aydrian thought. Perhaps the Queen is concerned with personal glory and had little time to devote to an infant.
Aydrian, for so many years obsessed with the notion of attaining power and immortality, could easily comprehend such a selfish, consuming need.
But Aydrian, concerned only with Aydrian, could not begin to forgive Jilseponie.
Not at all.
The archery champion, a huntsman from Wester-Honce of no great skill—in Aydrian’s estimation—was soon named and was given as his reward a fine bow of yew, presented by Queen Jilseponie herself.
Aydrian again wished that he had been allowed to enter that contest, wished that he could stand before Jilseponie, asking her those questions with his eyes if not his lips. Patience, he told himself.
The rest of the morning was full of music and feasting, of jesters and bawdy plays, of the colors of the noblewomen’s fine silken gowns and the drab grays and greens of the peasant women’s dirty clothes. De’Unnero and Sadye kept close to Aydrian as they worked through the throngs, a rather pleasant, if uneventful morning.
The early afternoon was much the same, until the blare of trumpets announced that the competition field had been rearranged and that the tournament would begin anew. Caught up in the wave of bodies flocking to the small hills surrounding the field, Aydrian felt his heart leap even more in longing to participate.
For this was the start of the knightly games, the first melee, a scene of utter chaos and ferocity that young Aydrian was well-suited to dominate.
But De’Unnero would not let him. Not yet.
The competitors, almost every one wearing a full suit of plate armor, most of them Allheart knights, but with a few civilian noblemen joining in, rode their armored mounts onto the oval field from several locations, accompanied by the cheers and rousing cries of the throng of onlookers. Duke Kalas was not hard to spot, his great plumed helmet shining in the afternoon sun. The competitors formed into three ranks of seven or eight before the royal pavilion, with Duke Kalas centering the front line.
On Kalas’ signal, they all removed their helms and offered a salute of respect—a clenched fist thumped against the chest, then extended, fingers open—to King Danube and Queen Jilseponie.
“King Danube,” Kalas began, shouting so that many could hear—and the crowd went as silent as possible at that solemn moment. “On this occasion of your fiftieth birthday, it does us great honor to offer our respect to you. We ask your blessing on this combat and pray that none shall die this day—though if any should die, then he will do so knowing that he was honoring his King!”
King Danube responded with the same salute. The trumpets blared and the crowd roared.
“Notice that he said nothing of honoring Queen Jilseponie,” Marcalo De’Unnero remarked slyly.
“A slight?” Sadye asked.
“It is expected that the Queen will always be honored at such events,” explained the former monk, who had studied the etiquette and traditions of Honce-the-Bear extensively during his years at St.-Mere-Abelle.
Aydrian didn’t quite understand what the two were talking about, for he, unlike the others, wasn’t aware of the tremendous problems faced by this Queen who was supposedly his mother. He did note that both De’Unnero and Sadye were smiling at the notion that Jilseponie had just been slighted.
He turned his attention back to the field, to see that all of the competitors had taken up positions along the single-rail fence. The trumpets continued for some time, then were joined by a rank of thundering drums.
The trumpets ended, the drums rolled on, increasing in tempo until … silence.
King Danube stood again and surveyed the hushed crowd; then, with a smile he could not contain, he threw the pennant of Castle Ursal to the ground before the royal pavilion.
The competitors kicked their mounts into action, thundering to the middle of the field, falling into a sudden and brutal combat. They all carried heavy, padded clubs—not lethal weapons but ones that could inflict some damage!
It took Aydrian a few minutes to sort out the scramble as the horses came together in a dusty crash. The padded clubs thumped repeatedly off armor—one brave and poor competitor, wearing a patchwork of inferior armor, got smacked repeatedly until he finally slumped and dropped off his mount. Immediately, squire attendants ran out, to corral his rearing, nervous horse and to drag him off the field.
And then another, the only other competitor not wearing a full suit of armor, was ganged up on by a host of knights and beaten into the dirt.
“The noblemen do not appreci
ate inferiors trying to join their game,” Sadye remarked sourly.
“In the past, the tournament was a way in which the Allhearts, and all the King’s guards, tried to find newcomers worthy of joining their ranks,” De’Unnero explained. “It would seem that the times have changed. King Danube’s select group of friends does not wish to allow admittance by any who are not noble born.”
“What will they do, then, when I batter the best of their warriors into the dirt?” Aydrian asked with all confidence.
De’Unnero only laughed.
“You should have let me go down there,” Aydrian remarked, as a civilian and then an Allheart knight went spinning down heavily into the dirt.
“Tomorrow is another day,” the former monk said, and his tone left no room for debate.
The patterns of the fight began playing out on the field below, and Aydrian noted more than a few curiosities. Off to one side of the main melee, a pair of Allheart knights had squared off, but it seemed to Aydrian as if their swings were not especially vicious, and he noticed one or the other ignoring a perfect advantage, an obvious defensive hole.
The young warrior caught on quickly. These two were friends, and were playing for time as more and more of the others were eliminated.
Aydrian also noted that, while Duke Kalas was fighting furiously, taking down one after another, most avoided him—though whether out of deference to the Allheart leader or out of respect for Kalas’ fighting prowess, he could not be sure.
The crowd howled and roared, cheers rising as one competitor fell into the dirt after another. Soon it was down to four: Duke Kalas, a civilian nobleman, and the Allheart pair who had been fighting halfheartedly.
Kalas immediately charged after one of the Allheart knights, and Aydrian smiled, catching on. Kalas knew that if he remained alone on the field against the obvious friends, they would likely team up against him.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 107
