He left court that evening convinced that the tournament had gone a long way toward further undermining Jilseponie. While that pleased him, he wanted to push it even further, for like Aydrian, his patience was beginning now to fray.
He was walking out of the castle gates when he heard a call behind him.
“Bruce of Oredale!” came a booming voice. “Stand fast!”
De’Unnero stopped and slowly turned, to see a large soldier, an Allheart knight, walking swiftly to join him.
“You are Bruce of Oredale?” the knight asked.
De’Unnero nodded.
“Pray come with me,” said the Allheart. “Duke Targon Bree Kalas desires to speak with you.”
De’Unnero nodded again and quite happily followed. He found Kalas in a small study tucked away in the corner of the first floor of the great castle. Dark wooden bookcases on either side of the stone fireplace gave the place a regal look. Though it was warm, Kalas had a small fire burning, a single log, the glow backlighting him, making him look even more intense, sitting there, hardly blinking, his strong hands folded before him, his face resting against them. On the desk between his elbows rested an open book, which De’Unnero recognized as a history of a long-ago battle. The former monk looked from the book to the Duke, his respect for the man increasing. Apparently, the man was more than a warrior, was a tactician as well, and was smart enough to study the histories for insights.
Kalas waved the Allheart knight away and bade the man to shut the door.
“I suspected that you might wish to speak with me,” De’Unnero said, taking a seat in a comfortable chair across the small rug from the man.
“Tai’maqwilloq,” the Duke quietly replied.
“Nighthawk,” answered De’Unnero. Kalas looked up at him curiously and intensely, for the familiarity of that name could not be missed. “That is the translation,” De’Unnero explained.
“Nighthawk?” the Duke asked skeptically.
De’Unnero changed the subject, wanting to broach Aydrian’s true identity carefully, if at all. “Skilled with the sword and with sacred gemstone magic, it would seem,” he remarked.
“One can only imagine where he learned his use of the gemstones,” said Kalas, his eyes narrowing, De’Unnero’s clear implication being that the Queen might have taught the young warrior.
De’Unnero chuckled, thinking that the Duke was winding himself into a knot, and one that kept pointing accusingly toward Jilseponie. “He learned from people you cannot begin to imagine,” he said cryptically.
“This Nighthawk,” said Kalas. “Is this the young warrior you spoke of to me that day of our ride? Is this the one rumored to be the lover of Queen Jilseponie? For the good of the Crown, I will hear it!”
De’Unnero was chuckling, despite Kalas’ growing anger. He paused for a moment, considering the road before him and wondering how fast he should ride down it. Certainly he had to make no decisions then and there, had to say nothing that would lead Kalas anywhere in particular—for it was obvious that the man was beside himself with anger and was continually associating that anger with Queen Jilseponie.
De’Unnero couldn’t help himself, for this was too much fun.
“It would be more evil than you can imagine if Nighthawk was the lover of Queen Jilseponie,” he remarked.
The Duke leaped to his feet. “What do you know of him?” he demanded. “I will have it, all of it.…”
“Pray sit down, Duke Kalas,” said De’Unnero. “Tai’maqwilloq is no lover of the Queen.”
Kalas had started forward, but that last remark hit him, and he returned to his seat.
“Nor did he defeat you fairly,” De’Unnero went on. “He used magic—in his armor and his blade. Without it …” He shrugged, letting Kalas take it to whatever conclusion his pride demanded.
“You seem to know much of him,” the Duke said suspiciously.
“More than you can imagine,” De’Unnero replied. “I have had a fair hand in his training.” As he spoke, he reached up and pulled off his distracting earring. “Indeed, since I learned the truth of him, nothing has been more important to me than his proper grooming.”
“You keep speaking in circles,” Kalas growled at him. “You try my patience.”
In response, De’Unnero pulled off his eyepatch and sat back, staring at the confused Kalas intently. “Do you not recognize me, my old ally?” he asked.
Kalas shook his head, his face screwed up, though whether with confusion because he did not recognize De’Unnero or because he did, De’Unnero could not tell.
“Perhaps not ally,” De’Unnero clarified. “Though we did join in common cause against the rebels at the Barbacan.”
He could have pushed Duke Kalas over with a feather. The nobleman sat there, jaw slack, eyes staring. “Marcalo De’Unnero,” he said quietly.
“The same,” said De’Unnero. “And I assure you, my good Duke, I am no enemy of you or your King. It is your Queen that I despise profoundly and the Church she serves, a Church that has become soft in an attempt to wrest secular power from your friend the King.”
“I should strike you down!” the Duke cried.
“Unlike my protégé, I would not bring you back from the dead should you try,” said De’Unnero. He sighed and shook his head, then moved forward in his seat, his voice rising along with his sudden animation. “But enough of this foolishness. I come here as your ally and surely no enemy.”
“What are you talking about?” Duke Kalas demanded. “What is this foolishness? Who is this strange Nighthawk? If not the Queen’s lover, then who?”
“Her son,” De’Unnero replied calmly. “The child of Jilseponie and Nightbird.” He paused a moment to let that sink in, then slowly added, “By the words of your King on the day of his marriage, he is the heir to Honce-the-Bear.”
Again Kalas seemed as if he would simply fall over. De’Unnero, still unsure if he had taken the right steps here, or had acted too boldly and threatened all his grand plans, reached down and pulled a small bag of gemstones from his belt, tossing them at Kalas’ feet. “I have a thousand, thousand more just like that one,” he assured the man, who was looking down at the glittering stones that had spilled out of the sack. “More wealth in my coffers than all of the nobility of Honce-the-Bear,” De’Unnero explained.
“What foolishness is this?” demanded Kalas, stammering out each word and standing again. “Do you think you can buy my loyalty away from the King?”
“Never that!” De’Unnero snapped with equal intensity. “The one good thing left in this ruined kingdom is the King of Honce-the-Bear. I ask you not to go against him, nor would I ever deign to do so.”
“What, then?” asked Kalas, still seeming more angry than intrigued—and De’Unnero had to wonder again if he had been wise in coming here.
“I do not enlist you here, Duke Kalas,” he calmly explained. “That was not my purpose, but I thought that I owed it to you to tell you the truth of the situation. By the King’s own proclamation, Aydrian—that is the young warrior’s true name—as the child of Jilseponie, is the rightful heir of Honce-the-Bear.”
“The witch hid the truth from him,” muttered Kalas.
“Not so,” said De’Unnero. “She knows nothing of Aydrian, for he was taken from her on the field outside Palmaris, while she was unconscious after her battle with Father Abbot Markwart.”
“Curse his name!” Kalas put in, and De’Unnero let the remark pass.
“Jilseponie believed her child died,” the former monk went on. “She will be surprised when she learns that she is the queen mother, should it ever come to that, and more surprised will she be to learn that her son despises her more than do you or I.”
“She will never be the queen mother,” said Duke Kalas. “You speak as a fool …”
De’Unnero stood up, tall and imposing, and stared hard at the man, stealing his words. “You have witnessed but a fraction of Aydrian’s power, Duke Kalas,” he said calmly. “He killed you, t
hen tore your spirit back from the realm of death.”
Kalas was breathing hard then, and De’Unnero was beginning to think that the impact of the previous day’s event upon the man had been profound indeed. He was beginning to recognize that he had been brilliant in speeding up the process at this time.
“When the time comes for succession, it will not be Midalis, nor will it be those pitiful waifs Merwick and Torrence,” he said. “I do pity your friend Constance, but she is no more fit to preside as queen mother than her whiny little children are to sit on the throne, and you know it.”
Kalas didn’t reply, and his silence spoke volumes.
“By Danube’s own words, it will be Aydrian,” De’Unnero finished. “Go and read the record, if you must. It has been studied, word by word, by great scholars within a faction of the Abellican Church that is not pleased to have Jilseponie as a sovereign sister, much less as a queen.”
Kalas obviously could hardly believe what he was hearing, and every time De’Unnero let out that there might be much more to his plan, the man seemed to find it harder to breathe.
“Impossible,” Kalas replied.
“Jilseponie’s child into the line, above Merwick and Torrence, above Prince Midalis,” said De’Unnero.
“Not without war!” the Duke cried.
De’Unnero chuckled and directed the Duke’s gaze back to the open bag of gemstones. “A thousand, thousand more just like it,” De’Unnero said again. “Do you believe that I would come here, would let Aydrian anywhere near Ursal, if I was not prepared for the potential consequence? Do you not know me better than that, my old companion?”
Duke Kalas stared down at the bag, understanding well that this was much more than a bluff.
“Why does this news not appeal to you?” De’Unnero asked, and Kalas looked up at him incredulously.
“Are you so pleased with the disposition of court of late?” De’Unnero asked. “King Danube is the sole shining spot, we both agree, despite his choice of Queen, and so the kingdom remains secure as long as he lives.”
“He has a younger brother,” Kalas reminded. “A fine man.”
“Yes, there is an interesting case, for Midalis is a fine man, from all that I have heard,” said De’Unnero. “But he is a man without a wife, and it is well known that he and Jilseponie have been quite friendly in the past.”
“What are you saying?” the Duke asked incredulously.
“Honest rumors, and not the typical gossip of the court, show that there has been a past attraction between the two,” De’Unnero answered. “Is it such a stretch for you to believe that the Prince would wed his dead brother’s wife? Surely there is precedent in the court of Ursal!”
Duke Kalas sat back, assuming the same pensive pose he had been in when De’Unnero, when Bruce of Oredale, had first entered.
“Do you know who I am?” De’Unnero asked.
“I am Marcalo De’Unnero,” the former monk explained. “Marcalo De’Unnero, who believes that there is a profound difference between those born to lead and those born to follow. Marcalo De’Unnero, who believes in the dignity of the State and of the Church. Marcalo De’Unnero, who shuns this foolish notion of the peasant queen and of the present-day Church that every man is equal, and equally worthy.”
“Yet you are Marcalo De’Unnero, who would put the son of peasants upon the throne,” Kalas reminded him.
“Never was Aydrian trained to see the world as a peasant,” De’Unnero replied. “Nay, he was trained by the most aloof people in all the world, the Touel’alfar. He understands the difference between nobility and rabble, I assure you.
“And he understands the value of advisers, most assuredly,” De’Unnero finished. “Better for Honce-the-Bear if Duke Targon Bree Kalas stands as one of those close advisers.”
“You speak as if the King were already dead,” the Duke said, in a clearly accusatory tone.
“May Danube outlive us all,” De’Unnero replied without missing a beat. “But I do not expect that, nor do you. Surely you can see the lines of fatigue on his face, the creases of worry brought about by the error that is Queen Jilseponie. The man is battered every day by his mistaken choice, and it will not likely get any easier for him, from what I have heard at court concerning the return of the hated Queen.”
Duke Kalas sat back and considered those words carefully. “And if he outlives us all?” he asked. “What will Marcalo De’Unnero and this young savior do then?”
“Aydrian will make his mark, if not as king, then as an Allheart knight and perhaps as Prince of Honce-the-Bear.”
Duke Kalas shook his head, smiling. “You do not understand the weight of that statement,” he said, seeming mildly amused. “One does not simply insert someone into the royal line without making grave enemies.”
“Do you think that I, that we, fear any enemies at all?”
Duke Kalas’ smile disappeared in an instant, his expression going grim.
“The pieces are all in place, Duke Kalas,” said De’Unnero. “I am no fool, and I understand the breadth of that which I plan to accomplish.”
“And exactly what is that?” the Duke asked.
“Aydrian will be king, and will need advisers,” De’Unnero explained. “For as soon as he is on the throne, my allies and I—or our like-minded followers who live on if we have gone from this world—will use his influence to enact the much-needed change within the Abellican Church. I have no secular aspirations, if that is your fear; and I tell you again, in all honesty, that there is no one in all the world better capable of correcting the course of the kingdom than Aydrian. Should the time come for Aydrian to ascend before you have passed this life, better off would Aydrian and the kingdom be with Duke Targon Bree Kalas standing loyally beside him, thus uniting the Allhearts in the vision of the new kingdom—or better said, in the vision of the return to the old kingdom.”
It took Kalas a moment to digest that suggestion, but when he did, his eyes widened. “Uniting the Allhearts?” he remarked.
In response, Marcalo De’Unnero looked down again at the spilled gemstones and gave a chuckle. “A thousand, thousand more just like it,” he said a third time, the implications clear and ominous that he had already enlisted men within Kalas’ own trusted force.
“Your friend King Danube is safe,” De’Unnero assured the troubled Duke. “From Aydrian, at least, though I doubt that his choice of Queen makes him safe from his inner enemies. When the time comes for succession, the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear will become again the shining star it was before the Demon War, before the errors of Father Abbot Markwart and the insinuation of Jilseponie Wyndon into the royal mix.”
Kalas held his pensive pose for a long, long time. “What would you have me do?” he asked at length.
“Nothing, and that is the beauty of it,” De’Unnero replied. “The events are in motion, and have been, with or without the aid of others, even myself. To survive the coming maelstrom, you must wisely choose which side will prevail. But, in truth, Duke Kalas, you would do well to choose with your heart as well. The kingdom of Aydrian will be no friend to Alpinadoran barbarians—can the same be said of Midalis’ reign, should that come to pass? The kingdom of Aydrian will be no friend to the present incarnation of the Church, and will force a return to the older ways, where the brothers are less concerned with the goings-on of the common rabble, where the brothers recognize that there is indeed a profound difference between a King and his subjects in the eyes of God, that there is indeed a difference between a Duke and his subjects in the eyes of God.”
De’Unnero didn’t miss the gleam that came into Kalas’ eyes at that remark.
“Can the same be said of a kingdom ruled by Prince Midalis, who is so fond of Jilseponie?” De’Unnero asked.
It was a small wince, but one that De’Unnero did not miss.
“I am but a cog in an army that will sweep Aydrian to power when the time of ascension is upon us,” the former monk went on. “I tell you all this because, tho
ugh we were not friends, I hold you in the highest regard and respect you as a fellow warrior.”
“And you plot against my King.”
“I do not,” De’Unnero lied. “Though I do plot against the canker that has invaded the kingdom, swelling and festering through Church and State.”
“I will make you no promises,” said Duke Kalas.
That alone was far more than De’Unnero needed to hear. For a few moments, he had been afraid that the Duke would have him arrested on the spot. Apparently, the sobering defeat on the field and the rescue from the realm of death had made a tremendous impact on the volatile man.
Kalas looked down at the gemstones. “Magical?” he asked.
“No,” answered De’Unnero. “But we have many that are, and in the hands of those who best know how to use them—and not even Queen Jilseponie could stand against Aydrian in a battle of magic. His powers extend beyond those of mortal men, I say.”
Duke Kalas, who had been pulled back from the other side of the grave by the young man, did not disagree.
“Our swords are more impressive than our magics,” De’Unnero went on. “With a snap of my fingers, I could launch the kingdom into revolution, brother against brother, soldier against soldier, Allheart against Allheart. This canker is the Queen and the Church—we both know it—and when King Danube is ready to admit that, or when his time has come to pass from this world, that canker will be removed.”
Duke Kalas stared at him hard, a man in obvious turmoil.
Marcalo De’Unnero stood up and—not even bothering to retrieve the bag of gemstones, which only heightened his claim to uncountable treasures—bowed and walked from the room.
His step along the road out of Ursal was much lighter that night, full of anticipation and excitement. He knew that he had gotten to Duke Kalas, as valuable an ally as he could ever find. He knew it! They suddenly seemed so much closer to the prize!
Back at the estate outside the city, Aydrian knew it, too, for he had ventured secretly with De’Unnero this day, using a soul stone to free his spirit from his body. He had been present at De’Unnero’s conversations, particularly those with Constance and Duke Kalas, and had lingered on with Kalas long after De’Unnero had departed. The man was unnerved, was outraged, and was frustrated.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 111
