DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga)

by R. A. Salvatore

  But Kalas did not try to stop De’Unnero from leaving, and he did not run to his King with the startling news.

  The time was fast ripening, Aydrian realized even more than had De’Unnero. All they needed now was a catalyst, and the throne would be his.

  As he considered De’Unnero’s earlier words with a particularly unsettled noblewoman, Aydrian began to understand where such a catalyst might be found.

  Chapter 33

  The Stooge, the Catalyst

  “THEY ALL SAY THAT HE IS YOUR WIFE’S LOVER!” CONSTANCE PEMBLEBURY DARED to say aloud.

  She was alone with King Danube for the first time in many months, having found him on his morning walk along the castle’s northern battlements. She recognized his surprise in seeing her to be genuine, as was his comment to her that she seemed in fine spirits and health this day.

  It was true enough. The previous few nights since the tournament had been among the best Constance had known in months and months. Dreams had visited her, premonitions, she supposed, of a kingdom without Jilseponie, of a return to those days when she had ridden beside Danube as his friend, his confidante, his lover.

  Yes, they were more than dreams, Constance knew. They were a visitation from a guardian angel, perhaps, telling her to hold her course, assuring her that times would get better. Thus, she had found her heart once more, had come this morn full of determination to find Danube and to facilitate the return to the better times of Castle Ursal.

  “They say many things,” the obviously weary—and weary of such talk!—King Danube replied.

  “You are deaf to it because you choose to be,” said Constance.

  Danube started to walk away from her, but she grabbed him by the arm and forced him to turn around and look at her. Then she stepped back, for she did not like what she saw in Danube’s eyes, the hatred and the explosive anger.

  “You heard the young champion’s own words,” Constance replied, her voice thinner than it had been during her previous declarations. “And the whispers …”

  “Are the work of fools and troublemakers,” the King replied. “Gossipmongers, seeking to instill some excitement into their dull lives, whatever the cost, whatever the truth. I know not the identity of the young champion—nor his intent in so proclaiming himself as champion for the Queen—but I would more likely believe that your friends enlisted him to do so, that your ridiculous assertions could seem to have substance, than I would believe any betrayal from my wife.”

  That set Constance back on her heels, but Danube was hardly finished.

  “My wife, Constance,” he said again, more forcefully, grabbing her by the shoulders and putting his snarling face right before hers. “Not just the Queen. Not some unwelcome peasant in Castle Ursal. My wife. My love. I would give my life for her. Do you hear me? I would wage war for her. Do you hear me?”

  With each question, the King gave Constance a little shake, and the fire behind his eyes intensified. But then Constance gave a small cry, and Danube calmed suddenly, letting her go and stepping back.

  “I will hear no more of this,” the King said quietly. “Not from you nor anyone else.”

  “Danube,” she wailed, falling back into him. “It is only because I love you so …”

  He pushed her away roughly, sending her skittering back several steps.

  “Your tactics disgust me,” said the resolute King. “And in truth, I begin to blur the line between the tactics and the tactician. Take heed, Lady Pemblebury, for your gossip borders on treason.”

  Constance stood there trembling, her eyes going wide.

  “Take heed, Lady Pemblebury,” the King went on, his voice low and threatening, “else you will find that your children have been removed from the royal line.”

  With a wail, primal in its intensity, poor Constance ran away.

  The weeks following the joust were difficult for Jilseponie. Who was this young champion? He bore an elvish name—a name very much like the elvish title granted to Elbryan. He fought with bi’nelle dasada—how clearly she had recognized the fighting style! He carried an elvish sword—and he fought with gemstone magic as well as with that sword!

  He rode Symphony.

  Symphony! The great horse that had carried her and Elbryan home from the battle with the demon dactyl in the far-off Barbacan, the great horse that was so much more than a mere beast, was so much more intelligent. Jilseponie could not reconcile the horse’s years with the health she noted in Tai’maqwilloq’s mount on the tournament field, but she knew that, despite the fact that Symphony had to be two decades and more, that had indeed been Symphony down there. She had called to him, and he had answered, and she knew that voice as intimately as any.

  Who was this rider, this ranger, who claimed to be fighting for her?

  She heard the rumors, as well, of course, the nasty whispers that named Tai’maqwilloq as her secret lover. At first, they had shaken her, for the young warrior had indeed been brazen that day on the field, his every word and action doing nothing to diminish the whispers, even seeming to give them some credence.

  That first night after the joust, though, her husband had come to her, and it was obvious to her that he had heard the rumors as well.

  Danube never even mentioned it to her, and they made love sweetly that night, and had several times over the next few weeks.

  Not once did King Danube justify the whispers by even asking Jilseponie about the young warrior, and only once, right after the joust, had she turned to him and told him that she was as perplexed by Tai’maqwilloq as was he and everyone else.

  The gossip that this young warrior was her lover simply did not enter her relationship with Danube, and that gave Jilseponie the strength to suffer through the barbs without much concern.

  She remained very concerned about the young warrior, though, thinking that he was a not-so-subtle message, or warning, from Lady Dasslerond. To that end, the Queen used those resources available to her—including the chef who had become her friend and many servants, too low on the social ladder to be a party to the gossipmongers—to begin a network of inquiry, to send scouts out among the common people of Ursal, trying to glean some information about the true identity of Tai’maqwilloq. She wanted to find him, to question him directly.

  As the days brought no information, she sent her network out into the countryside, even enlisted one merchant to sail to Palmaris, bearing a letter to Roger Lockless. Perhaps Roger could get to Bradwarden, and the centaur to the Touel’alfar.

  Of course, that would take months.

  “What troubles you, my love?” King Danube asked when he entered their private quarters that night, to find Jilseponie sitting by the window, staring out absently.

  “Tai’maqwilloq,” she honestly answered, and she heard the King pause in his approach.

  Jilseponie turned to her husband and bade him to come sit by her. “His presence here frightens me,” she explained.

  “If he is even here,” the King replied. “No one has seen him since the tournament. It is as if he merely rode through the fight and vanished. If my senses were not so grounded, I would think it Elbryan come back from the grave to ride for his love!”

  The remark caught Jilseponie off her guard, and she turned an alarmed expression to Danube, wondering if his words had been inspired by jealousy. She saw differently, though, saw that her husband was completely at ease, as if—even if his words had been true, even if it had been Elbryan’s ghost returned—it would not shake his love for her.

  “He resembled Elbryan in more ways than you understand,” Jilseponie admitted, and Danube did wince, only slightly, at those words.

  “How so?” the King asked. “You did not even see him without his helmet.”

  “His fighting style,” she admitted. “You know that I carry the secret of the elven way.”

  King Danube slowly nodded.

  “Tai’maqwilloq—an elvish name that means ‘Nighthawk’—fought in the elven style, and with a sword that served his sty
le, which marks it as an elven weapon,” Jilseponie remarked.

  “Are you certain?”

  She nodded.

  “You believe that Lady Dasslerond sent him?” Danube asked.

  Hearing Danube speak the name of the lady of Caer’alfar sounded very strange to Jilseponie. Of course Danube knew of her, knew her personally, but the King understood his place in the relationship with the reclusive elves. His kingdom, and certainly Dasslerond’s, were both better off if the elves were no more than wild fireside tales to the folk of Honce-the-Bear. In all her years beside Danube, she believed, this was the first time Jilseponie had ever heard him speak Dasslerond’s name.

  “He intrigues you,” Danube remarked.

  “He frightens me,” she corrected. “It is not like a ranger to ride into a tournament to prove himself worthy.” She started to elaborate, but then just shook her head.

  King Danube draped an arm over her shoulders. “We will find him and learn his intent, if any there is,” he assured his wife.

  “Your court certainly takes pleasure in the inferences,” said Jilseponie, but she was smiling as she spoke the words.

  Danube laughed aloud. “My court is comprised of some very bored people, it would seem. They create intrigue to cause a stir.”

  “They gossip to elevate themselves.”

  “And there is always that!” her husband agreed, and he turned to her, his laughter subsiding as he stared into her blue eyes, his expression becoming more serious.

  He bent toward her and kissed her, gently pulling her down to the bed beside him.

  Despite the vicious rumors and the strangeness of Tai’maqwilloq, at that moment, Jilseponie was very glad that she had accepted Danube’s offer to return to Castle Ursal.

  “Yes,” said Constance, and though she had not imbibed a single sip of liquor that day, she sounded very drunk. “Yesh,” she slurred. “I will do worse to the bitch queen than kill her.”

  She chuckled, covering her mouth with her hand, then chuckled some more, and some more, until it became hysterical laughter.

  Aydrian’s spirit hovered nearby, watching it all with amusement. His patience was gone, and, given the conversion, or at least the ambivalence, of Duke Kalas, the eager young ranger saw no reason to wait any longer. He needed a catalyst, someone to launch the kingdom into disarray.

  Thus he had come in spirit to Constance, whispering a plan that would turn the kingdom on its side and give him and his companions the opportunity they needed.

  Constance, of course, had no idea where the subtle suggestion had come from, but she had seized upon it with all her heart.

  The hourglass had been turned at last, the sand running fast.

  When Aydrian returned to his body in the estate outside Ursal, he found De’Unnero sitting before him, waiting for him.

  “What are you doing?” the former monk asked sternly. “You said nothing of spirit-walking.”

  “Do I need your permission?” Aydrian asked, and he stared at De’Unnero’s eyes as he spoke the words and saw a flash of anger and almost expected to get hit.

  “We work in concert or not at all,” De’Unnero said.

  “I certainly will do nothing to injure our cause,” Aydrian answered. “A cause that is as dear to me as it is to you, my comrade.”

  “Queen Jilseponie is quite powerful with the gemstones,” said De’Unnero. “If you go near her in spirit, she will sense you and perhaps pursue. That is not a fight that we need at this time.”

  “Nowhere near Jilseponie,” Aydrian assured him. “Not directly, at least. I have enlisted an ally, though she does not understand that she is an ally.”

  De’Unnero furrowed his brow, staring hard.

  “Constance Pemblebury has broken, I fear,” said Aydrian.

  “Beyond usefulness,” the former monk insisted.

  “Not so,” said Aydrian, a grin on his face. “Any tumult she creates will prove valuable, perhaps. Or perhaps not,” he added with a resigned shrug, “but she is an opportunity worth trying, for there is no risk to us.”

  “You possessed Constance?” De’Unnero asked incredulously, and he didn’t seem very happy at that prospect.

  “I went to her with a suggestion,” Aydrian explained. “I showed her a few images of a potential future, of Jilseponie murdering her children to secure her own place in the royal line. She was easily enough convinced.”

  “Convinced to do what?” De’Unnero asked.

  Aydrian shrugged, not wanting to get into the details. “Whatever she does, it will not please Jilseponie, I am sure,” he answered. “And confusion is our ally, is it not?”

  De’Unnero just continued to stare at him.

  Aydrian knew that the former monk would not interfere. De’Unnero was as frustrated as he was, despite the apparent gains made at the tournament and with Duke Kalas. They had a significant alliance formed within the court, within the military, and within the southern abbeys of Honce-the-Bear, from St. Bondabruce all the way to St. Honce. In addition, they had a powerful mercenary force assembled, using peasants and pirates, ready to march to Ursal from a score of towns at Abbot Olin’s word. They were on the edge of seizing power, but the defining event, the catalyst for the revolution to begin, still escaped them.

  “I grow tired of waiting,” Aydrian said boldly. “I was born to rule Honce-the-Bear, and more. My pedigree cannot be underestimated and no one in the history of our race has seen more intensive training than I. I was destined to rule, and so I shall.”

  De’Unnero stared at him blankly, so obviously stunned by the frank and blunt admission.

  “Does that surprise you?” Aydrian asked. “Or is it that you are surprised to learn that the student intends to play a role in his own ascension? You see, my friend, we have a dilemma here, one that you are going to have to sort out in your own mind. You view me as a way for you to garner back your power, and so I am. But I am no puppet.”

  “Do not overestimate your understanding of the situation,” De’Unnero warned.

  “As you should not underestimate it,” Aydrian replied. “I have started things this night with Constance Pemblebury. The situation will move quickly now, and we must be wary and ready.”

  “Ready for what?” De’Unnero asked.

  “Ready to claim that which is ours,” Aydrian answered him. “Nothing short of the throne of Honce-the-Bear, and for you, the leadership of the Abellican Church.”

  It was obvious that De’Unnero didn’t even know how to answer that.

  “Watch, my friend, and be ready to strike,” Aydrian said to him. “For there may soon be a vacancy on the throne that many will seek to fill.”

  “Be careful,” De’Unnero warned.

  “Be ready,” Aydrian replied with all confidence.

  Chapter 34

  Checkmate

  JILSEPONIE WAS MORE THAN A LITTLE SURPRISED, AND WARY, WHEN A LADY-IN-WAITING came to her with the news that Constance Pemblebury had requested an audience with her, an afternoon tea, no less.

  The Queen sat very still for a long while, staring at her.

  “My lady?” the lady-in-waiting asked.

  “Constance Pemblebury wishes to have tea with me?” Jilseponie asked skeptically.

  “Indeed, she does,” answered the messenger. “She bade me to come to you quickly and ask your indulgence in this matter. She was quite eager to sit with you, my lady. Quite eager.”

  “Why?” Jilseponie said it before she even realized that the words were coming out of her mouth, for she didn’t really want to drag an outsider into these sordid affairs.

  “My lady?” the messenger asked, seeming not to understand.

  Jilseponie smiled at the woman, well aware that she understood the implications of the question, that she understood the chaos behind the scenes at court. That realization allowed Jilseponie to press forward. “Why does Lady Constance wish to speak with me?” she asked more directly. “Is there some complaint she wishes to offer? About her children, perha
ps?”

  “It would not be my place—” the poor, befuddled messenger started to reply, but Jilseponie stopped her with an upraised hand.

  “I just made it your place,” said the Queen. “Why does Lady Constance wish to speak with me? Tell me of her mood, if her intent you do not know.”

  The messenger seemed at a loss for a bit, but then smiled widely. “She seemed quite happy about the tea, my lady,” she replied. “She bade me to come to you at once. Perhaps it is about Sir Merwick and Squire Torrence, but whether or not that is the case, there is no complaint involved, I am sure. In truth, my lady, I have not seen Lady Pemblebury in such fine spirits for months.”

  Jilseponie looked at the woman curiously for a long time. Dare she hope that Constance might have finally come through her dark time—her anger and her jealousy? It seemed too much to believe. But still, if Constance was offering peace, shouldn’t she grab at that offer? How much would Jilseponie give to quiet some of the gossipers?

  “Tell Lady Constance that I will join her for tea tomorrow afternoon in the western sitting room,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, my lady!” the happy messenger replied, clapping her hands. She turned and started away but stopped, turned back, and curtsied, then spun and sprinted for the door.

  Jilseponie rose and started to pace the room, considering this startling turn of events. Warning bells went off in her thoughts, for Constance had shown no indication at all that she was calming about Jilseponie. Quite the opposite! Constance had not even attended the tournament, though her whispers about the young warrior—or supposed lover of the Queen—had certainly reached Jilseponie’s ears.

  Yes, that was likely it, Jilseponie realized. Constance was probably trying to glean some information that she could later turn against Jilseponie.

  Or was she, herself, just being too fretful? she had to wonder.