Each day brought new challenges, new victories, and new frustrations, and though she worked tirelessly, Brynn felt as if she simply could not keep up with it all. For To-gai, she demanded solidarity, a unison of purpose, though she did not argue when the leaders of her people insisted that they return to their ancient tribes.
Of the Behrenese, Brynn asked for little and was asked for less, as their kingdom continued to dissolve into chaos, with open wars declared. Through it all, the woman hoped that she would one day find the opportunity to exact her revenge upon Yatol Bardoh.
But it was a fleeting fantasy, lost in the swirl of the everyday realities of governing both a city and a kingdom behind it. She had to establish profitable trade, to keep her people happy and prosperous, to allow them to work through the centuries of tribal feuding that had made them vulnerable to the Behrenese in the first place.
It struck her as curious how the situations in the two kingdoms had suddenly reversed, with To-gai uniting and Behren breaking apart. There was a difference, though, in that Brynn and her people would never try to take advantage of that situation, as Yakim Douan had done.
There had to be a difference, else all of it, the killing and the dying, the loosing of Agradeleous upon Behrenese cities, and the last desperate fight to hold Dharyan-Dharielle, would truly prove meaningless.
Brynn knew that, in her heart, and so she was glad when the turn of autumn brought the first open market in Dharyan-Dharielle, one that attracted Behrenese caravans from all across the desert kingdom.
But then, soon after, she was confused, as well, for word came to her that fall of God’s Year 845 that the kingdom north of the Belt-and-Buckle, too, had been shaken to its core, that a new king had ascended the throne. It was a name Brynn knew all too well.
King Aydrian, the son of Elbryan Wyndon.
And she who had been schooled in the elvish tongue recognized the surname the young man had chosen, as well—Boudabras—and understood its true meaning.
Maelstrom.
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
And Now I am King
1 The Shadow in the Mirror
2 Warnings on the Winds
3 Amidst the Fires
4 The End of the World As They Knew It
5 Adrift
6 When Conscience Knocks
7 A Soft Wall of Resistance
8 The Lesser of Two Evils
9 The Second Prize
PART TWO
Dark Fingers North and South
10 His Widening Sphere of Influence
11 Posturing
12 Surrounded by Allies?
13 Under Cover of Darkness
14 The Weight of Responsibility
15 Caught by Her Own Gemstone
16 Three Ways to Win
17 The Dragon Revealed
18 A Desperate Call on a Cold Wind
PART THREE
Winter
19 Stretching His Fingers
20 The Heart to Fight
21 The Price of Loyalty
22 Second-guessing
23 In Need of Glory
24 Making a Man of Him
25 Missionaries
26 Information Gathering
27 When Aydrian Came Home
PART FOUR
Heroes Past and Heroes Present
28 When Aydrian Comes Knocking
29 The Hopeful Miscalculation
30 The Apology
31 Lining Up
32 The First Nibble
33 Options
34 Help from Beyond
35 Harvesting the Crop of Friendship
36 Counter Winds Blowing
37 The Value of Knowing
38 Hopes and Dashed Hopes
39 Playing the Fears
40 The Unselfish Choice
41 Necessary Disengagement
42 Pecking Away
43 Positioning
44 Maelstrom
45 Denial
Epilogue
Prologue
“YOU LET HER GO!” MARCALO DE’UNNERO SCREAMED, EVERY MUSCLE IN THE strong man’s body standing taut. He was past fifty, but appeared much younger, with the suppleness of youth still showing about his hardened muscles and with his black hair still thick upon his head. The excommunicated Abellican monk had been a fighter for all of his life and carried the scars of a hundred battles. But they were only superficial scars, visual reminders, for within the skin of Marcalo De’Unnero resided a body in perfect health.
For that was one aspect of the magic of the enchanted gemstone—a tiger’s paw—that, through the power of the demon dactyl, had merged with the essence of the man.
At his side, Sadye put her hand on his arm, trying to calm him, for his outburst had raised more than a few eyebrows around the throne room of the new king, Aydrian Wyndon, who called himself Aydrian Boudabras. Many of the dukes of Honce-the-Bear were in attendance this morning, including Kalas, who led the elite Allheart Brigade, and Bretherford, who commanded the great fleet of warships. And none of them were used to any man, particularly not one of the Abellican Church, speaking to the king of Honce-the-Bear in such a manner.
Seated comfortably on the throne across from De’Unnero, Aydrian seemed hardly bothered, though. He wore a wry grin, which made him look even younger than his nineteen years, especially given his unkempt locks of curly blond hair and his large blue eyes. That too-innocent look had been stamped upon Aydrian’s face since the events of a few days previous, when he had wrestled the tormented spirit of Constance Pemblebury from the nether realm and had used the distraction to murder King Danube Brock Ursal.
“You fear Jilseponie?” the young king replied, his voice steady and calm.
De’Unnero paused and tilted his head, scrutinizing Aydrian, who seemed to understand the puzzlement and smiled all the wider. Until very recently, Aydrian had been De’Unnero’s pawn, and willingly so. As the son of Jilseponie, who had been Danube’s queen, Aydrian held some tenuous claim to the throne. Using him, De’Unnero and Abbot Olin had pushed their agenda to the highest levels of the kingdom, to the throne itself. Now the pair intended to use that secular victory to bring them to prominence in the Church they believed had abandoned them. In their eyes, Aydrian had been no more than a means to a personal end. More recently, though, since the joust when Aydrian had defeated all challengers, including the great Duke Kalas, things had begun to shift in the relationship between De’Unnero and Aydrian. Slowly but surely, Aydrian had begun to assert more and more control.
De’Unnero saw that, and now, for the first time since he had met the young son of Elbryan and Jilseponie in the wild lands to the west, he was beginning to fear it. At first, after the young man’s ascension to the throne, De’Unnero had watched him and had marveled, thinking him a most beautiful and cunning creature. But now, given the realization that Aydrian had truly allowed Jilseponie to walk out of Ursal, De’Unnero was growing ever more angry.
“Do you not understand the danger that Queen Jilseponie poses to us? To you?” the Abellican monk explained.
“Perhaps we should discuss this in private with Aydrian,” Sadye said quietly to the monk, and she pulled him tighter. But De’Unnero didn’t even look at her, so fixed was his glare upon Aydrian.
“My mother is nothing,” Aydrian declared, and he looked all around, widening his response to include all in attendance so that he could answer every question raised by his surprising decision to allow Jilseponie simply to ride out of Ursal. “I saw her heart on that day,” he explained. “When she learned the truth of me, that the son she had abandoned to die was alive and well, it was the end for her. Jilseponie Wyndon is no threat. She is an empty shell. I could have been merciful and simply killed her that day. But after her abandonment of me, after she left me for dead, I chose not to be so merciful.”
As he said this, he paused and looked about, and so did De’Unnero, to see a couple of the noblem
en nodding and smiling—even proud Duke Kalas, who had once been King Danube’s best friend. Indeed, Jilseponie had made more than a few enemies in the court during her tenure in Castle Ursal, and that enmity had allowed the conspirators to drive a wedge through the accepted line of ascension.
“Let her sit and rot, tormented by the errors of her past,” Aydrian went on. “Death is sometimes merciful, and I wish to show no mercy to wretched Jilseponie!”
De’Unnero thought to respond, but the murmurs about him told him clearly that he had few allies in this room against Aydrian’s decision. He still believed that Aydrian had made a tremendous error. He knew Jilseponie well, had battled against her for most of his adult life, and understood that she was a formidable foe, perhaps as formidable as Aydrian could know in all the world. “We will see her again,” he did say, and ominously. “On the battlefield.”
“And when we do, she will watch her friends and allies die, then she will die,” Aydrian calmly assured him.
“You do not understand the power of—”
“I understand it better than do you,” Aydrian interrupted. “I took her measure, fully so, while she stood on that trial stage on the day of my ascent. I saw into her, saw through her, and I know the power of Jilseponie! And I know that power is diminished, and greatly so, by my reappearance in her life. Oh yes, my friend—my friends!—I know my enemy, and I do not fear her in the least. And neither should you. The execution of Jilseponie in a quiet and hidden place within Castle Ursal would have done us no good as we strive to reunite the kingdom. Indeed, if word had gone out of such an act, it might have martyred the witch. No, let our would-be enemies see her impotence in this, and lose all heart to resist us. Or let them witness her devastating demise if she chooses to come against me. They will lose all heart for continuing the fight. Jilseponie’s role in all of this might not be over, but if she has any impact left in the coming events, then it will be one to benefit us.”
The young man’s words, and the calm and assured way in which he had spoken them, had De’Unnero back on his heels. Who was this young king he had helped to gain the throne? Who was this young man, once his eager student and now acting as if he was the teacher?
De’Unnero didn’t know, and started to question, but Sadye tightened her grip on his arm, and when he looked at her, her expression begged him to let the subject drop from public discussion.
She was right, the monk knew. If he persisted here, he might actually be undermining Aydrian with the other noblemen, allies desperately needed if the new kingdom was to hold, if the legitimacy of Aydrian Boudabras was to spread out from Ursal to the north.
“Perhaps I am too reminded of who Jilseponie once was,” the monk quietly admitted.
“She is not that woman any longer,” Aydrian replied. “She is old and she is worn. Her road has been long and difficult, and her decisions have risen from the dead to haunt her every thought. She is nothing to concern us.”
“She was once mighty with the gemstones and with the sword,” interjected Duke Kalas, a warrior much like De’Unnero in spirit—which was probably why the two hated each other. He was a large and dashing man, powerfully built yet graceful in stride, the epitome of the nobleman warrior.
“Her skills with the sword have diminished with age and lack of practice, no doubt,” Aydrian replied. “But even if she was at her peak of strength, and even if Elbryan was alive and fighting beside her, I would easily defeat them. As for the gemstones …” He paused and held up the pouch of stones, a magnificent and varied collection that had once belonged to Jilseponie. “Well, she has none, and if she acquires some, I will have to defeat her in that realm. It is not a battle that gives me the slightest pause, I assure you.”
Not a person in that room doubted his confidence. And none who knew him, who truly understood the power that was Aydrian, doubted his claim.
“And what of Torrence?” asked Monmouth Treshay, the Duke of Yorkey, referring to the one living son of Constance Pemblebury and King Danube, a bastard child who had been placed third in the line of ascension, behind Danube’s brother Prince Midalis, and his own older brother, Merwick. Aydrian had slain Merwick in a duel after the death of Danube. As he had with Jilseponie, Aydrian had allowed Torrence to ride out of Ursal.
Well, not quite like Jilseponie, De’Unnero knew.
Aydrian turned a curious smile on the man, sizing him up, as did De’Unnero. Aydrian’s hold over some of the dukes was tenuous. Kalas, the most powerful of the noblemen, had settled firmly in Aydrian’s court, and that brought legitimacy to the new king that few of these southern dukes would dare question. For Kalas controlled the Allheart Knights, and they, in turn, controlled the general army of Ursal, a force that could sweep aside any resistance in the southland. Monmouth Treshay, though, had seemed less enthusiastic from the outset. The older duke was obviously torn. Yorkey County served as the retreat where most of the Ursal nobles spent their leisure time. Constance Pemblebury had lived there for most of the last years of her life, as had her children. The arrival of Constance’s ghost exonerating Jilseponie might have brought Aydrian some measure of legitimacy with Duke Monmouth, but the ensuing fight, where Aydrian had defeated and killed Prince Merwick, had obviously not sat well with the man.
“How many would-be kings or queens will you allow to roam freely about your kingdom?” Duke Monmouth pressed.
In response, Aydrian grinned and looked over to Duke Kalas, who nodded grimly, his expression telling them all that he wasn’t approaching the problem of Torrence with as much enjoyment as was Aydrian.
The intrigue of the moment was not lost on Marcalo De’Unnero, nor was he pleased to realize that Aydrian had decided to use Kalas in his secret plans for Torrence Pemblebury. Though such plans were prudent, no doubt, the monk did not like it one bit that Aydrian was stepping out from him, was taking control here and without any apparent consideration to him!
Gnashing his teeth with boiling anger, De’Unnero turned to Sadye for support, for surely she would see the same problem here as he.
He stopped short when he regarded the small and beautiful woman, the woman who had stolen his heart with her enchanting music and her wisdom, with her wheat-colored hair, grown to her shoulders now, and those shining gray eyes.
For though Sadye continued to hold De’Unnero’s arm, her gaze was not fixed upon him, but upon another. She stood there, transfixed, a bemused expression on her face as she watched the every movement of … Aydrian Boudabras.
“We will journey to Vanguard and my uncle, the prince,” Torrence Pemblebury told the man sitting next to him, one of the five soldiers who had chosen to leave Ursal with the deposed would-be king.
“Perhaps we would be wise to resettle in Vanguard,” said the man, Prynnius by name, and the only Allheart Knight to abandon the court of the new King Aydrian. Prynnius had been one of the primary instructors of Torrence’s older brother Merwick in the early stages of his Allheart training. Though a friend of Duke Kalas, Prynnius could not abide the killing of Merwick and could not bring himself to swear allegiance to Honce-the-Bear’s new king. “Far from Ursal and the court of Aydrian. Far from the Allhearts and Duke Kalas, and far from the turmoil that is obviously about to befall the Abellican Church.”
“You say that in the hopes that Aydrian’s arms will not be so long.”
“He will not penetrate Vanguard short of an all-out war,” Prynnius said with conviction. “I know Prince Midalis well. He’ll not welcome Aydrian—surely not!—for he is the greatest threat to Aydrian’s legitimacy. All the kingdom knows that Midalis should have succeeded Danube.”
“And with Merwick next in line, and myself behind him,” said Torrence. “And yet this new king allows me free passage out of Ursal.”
“His personal mercenary army is well paid, and now he has added the bulk of the army of Danube’s Honce-the-Bear, the very same army that you would need to call your own to do battle with him,” said Prynnius. “Perhaps he sees you now as no threat, and
perhaps you—we—would be wise to keep him thinking that way.”
“The greater our advantage of surprise when we strike back?” Torrence said eagerly.
“The longer we may both stay alive,” Prynnius corrected. “Surrender your claim to the throne, in your heart at least, for the time being, young Prince Torrence. You have not the strength to do battle with King Aydrian.”
Torrence sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and assumed a petulant expression. “You think he’s won,” the young man stated bluntly.
“He has won,” Prynnius agreed, and Torrence shot him an angry glare. “He has Ursal and he has the Allhearts. He has all the land to Entel and the sea, and he has Duke Bretherford and the fleet. Honce-the-Bear is his, I fear, and I see no way …” He paused as the coach lurched to a stop. Up in front, they heard the driver yelling at someone to clear the road.
Prynnius leaned forward and poked his head out the coach’s window.
“Ye get outa the way!” the driver yelled. “Don’t ye know who I’m carrying, ye fool highwaymen?”
“Highwaymen?” Torrence asked, coming forward in his seat. He slowed though, when he noted the grim expression on Prynnius’ face, when he noted the man shaking his head slowly, his eyes telling Torrence clearly that he recognized some of the supposed highwaymen who had intercepted their coach.
“It would seem that our new King Aydrian is not as secure in his victory as we presumed,” Prynnius remarked, and he looked at Torrence and shrugged, then pushed open the coach door and drew out his sword as he exited the carriage.
Torrence sat there numbly, trying to register what this was all about even as the sounds of fighting erupted about him. He heard the hum of bowstrings, and heard one man call Prynnius a traitor to the Allhearts. A moment later, the coach shook as someone fell against it, then Prynnius opened the door and slumped in. He looked up at Torrence, his face a mask of resignation and defeat.
And then he lurched, and Torrence looked past his wincing face to see a man standing behind him, a man dressed as a common thief but wielding a fabulous weapon that no commoner could possibly afford. Prynnius jumped again a bit as the man twisted that sword within him.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 176
