With a growl of rage, Torrence grabbed up his own sword and dove forward, but the killer nimbly moved back out of reach.
Torrence sprawled across the dying Prynnius, half out of the coach. He started to scramble forward to pursue Prynnius’ killer, but then he got hit from the side, and hard, and then got hit again. Dazed, he was only partly aware that his weapon had slipped from his hand. He hardly understood that he was being dragged from the coach, he hardly felt the boots and gauntlets smashing against him, pounding him down into darkness.
“Does it so bother you that your protégé has stepped forward from your shadow?” Sadye asked quietly, the blunt question and her innocent tone throwing a bucket of water onto the fires that burned within Marcalo De’Unnero. “Is that not what you would want from him?”
“What do you mean?” the monk asked, shaking his head in disbelief. They were back in their room in one of the buildings near to Castle Ursal reserved for visiting lords—which De’Unnero had pretended to be during the usurping of King Danube’s throne.
“Did you and Abbot Olin truly expect Aydrian to remain dependent upon you for his every move?” Sadye asked. “Did you truly wish that? How, my love, are you to get about the business of converting the Abellican Church to your vision if you are needed for King Aydrian’s every move? How do you and Abbot Olin expect to truly defeat Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy and men like Abbot Braumin Herde if you are busy concerning yourself with affairs of the state?”
“Aydrian may err, and such an error could cost us everything,” De’Unnero replied, not convincingly.
“Only yesterday, you were singing his praises and admiring the beauty that is Aydrian,” Sadye pointed out.
“I was giddy with victory, perhaps.”
Sadye scoffed and gave a doubting little chuckle. “Aydrian took control of the situation here in Ursal sometime ago,” she reminded. “It was he who facilitated the trial of Jilseponie Wyndon, discrediting both her and King Danube. It was he who tore Constance Pemblebury from the realm of death itself, that she might act on his behalf in ending the reign of Danube. It was he who pulled Duke Kalas back from that same dark realm and thus manipulated the man into subservience. Do not underestimate him! Take great heart and hope that your pupil has risen to become your—”
“My better?” There was no hiding the bitterness in De’Unnero’s tone as he spat those two words.
“Your peer,” Sadye corrected. “And you will need him as such if you are to have any hopes of dominating the Abellican Church. Yes, with Aydrian’s armies behind you, you might sweep away Bou-raiy and his followers, but to gain the heart of the Church, you need to do more than that. Be pleased, my love, that young Aydrian has stepped forward to worthily fill the throne.”
Marcalo De’Unnero slumped back on his bed as those words settled within his thoughts. Sadye was speaking wisely here, he knew, and it was surprising for him to recognize that he and Sadye had almost completely swapped their viewpoints in a period of a few days.
Aydrian’s road to win the entirety of the kingdom would be a difficult one indeed, but De’Unnero’s quest to remake the Abellican Church into what it once had been, into something even greater than it had once been, would be no less so.
For a long time, De’Unnero sat there, considering the events of the last few tumultuous weeks, considering the actions of Aydrian. The turning point, he knew, had come that day on the jousting field, when Aydrian had defeated, and seemingly killed, Duke Kalas, only to reach into his enchanted soul stone and tear Duke Kalas back from the netherworld.
So much of this amazingly quick rise to the throne had been facilitated by Aydrian, without consulting either De’Unnero or Olin. And now it was continuing.
It did not sit well with Marcalo De’Unnero that Aydrian was acting so much on his own here, and yet Sadye’s reasoning made good sense. The first part in the plan De’Unnero and Olin had concocted called for getting Aydrian on the throne, and now that had come to pass.
The second part of that plan, the takeover of the Abellican Church, had just begun here, in St. Honce, and would carry them all the way to St.-Mere-Abelle, so they hoped. If the kingdom was to be Aydrian’s and the Church the province of Olin and De’Unnero, then, yes indeed, it would bode well for the monks if Aydrian proved capable of handling his end.
But still …
Marcalo De’Unnero glanced over at Sadye, to see her standing there, looking off into the distance, a wistful smile on her face.
He could guess whom she was thinking about.
When Torrence awoke, he was back in his coach seat, and the coach was rolling through the streets of Ursal in the dead of night. He was gagged and lightly bound, but he didn’t even think of pulling free of his bonds, for three others were in the coach with him: burly men, all armed, and all staring at him intently.
The coach went through the side gates of the castle, and up to a little-used door, where a pair of men waited, chains in hand.
Torrence was roughly grabbed and pulled from the seat, his arms yanked behind him and chained at the wrists. They ushered him through the servant areas of the castle, through the kitchen and the scrub rooms, then through a door and down a long flight of stairs to the dungeons.
Panic welled up inside the deposed prince as his entourage silently dragged him along the cellars, to another flight of wooden stairs that took him even deeper beneath the great castle. Down this second flight, they stopped and pulled the gag from Torrence’s mouth, roughly turning him about to look back under the stairs.
There a hole had been dug, one about the right size for a body.
Torrence instinctively recoiled from the open grave, but firm hands held him in place.
“That will not be necessary,” came a voice the young prince surely knew, one that offered him a glimmer of hope. He turned to see the approach of Duke Targon Bree Kalas, the nobleman who had been his mother’s dearest friend for so many years.
“Leave us,” Kalas instructed the others, and the guards moved off without question, back up the stairs.
“Glory to St. Abelle that you found me,” Torrence said, as Kalas walked beside him and unlocked the shackles that bound his wrists. “I know not what those ruffians would have done to me. Why, it seems as if they even prepared a grave …”
Torrence paused as he considered the moment, as he realized that Duke Kalas was in possession of the keys to his shackles. He stared down at the open grave, then slowly began to turn about.
“Forgive me,” Duke Kalas whispered, and Torrence spun about wildly to face him.
Kalas’s sword plunged into his chest, tearing his heart in half. Stunned and shaking in the last moments of his life, Torrence grasped the bloody blade.
“Forgive me,” Duke Kalas whispered, and he held his hand up to silence Torrence’s breathless questions. “Forgive me, Constance.”
Kalas yanked his blade free and Torrence tumbled back, into the open grave.
“Damn you, King Aydrian, as you have damned me,” Duke Kalas muttered under his breath as he stood there and considered his handiwork.
He could hardly believe that he had just killed Torrence, who had been as his nephew, the son of his dearest friend.
But Duke Targon Bree Kalas, above all others, had witnessed the true power of Aydrian Boudabras, a power that transcended death itself. In the face of that terrible strength, it was simply not within the man to refuse the young king.
“Sleep well, poor Prince,” Kalas said quietly, and sincerely. “This is not your time. This is not the time of any who hold to the old ways. Be with your mother and father, young sweet Prince. And with your brother. There is no place here left for you.”
With a sigh of profound regret, Duke Kalas dropped the sword to the dirt and slowly walked up the stairs, passing the men who would go down and finish that dark work in that dark place.
And now I am king, like so many before and so many yet to come. To most people, this accomplishment would be the end of their goal, the ac
hievement they believed would place them in the lists of the immortals. But notoriety in one’s time, great fame spread to the far corners of the world, is little security against the passage of years. King Danube Brock Ursal may be remembered for a while, since he ruled during a time of great crisis, both with the DemonWar and the plague. But few even now remember his grandfather, and fewer his great-grandfather. His name, too, will fade with the passage of time.
As will my father’s. As will my mother’s.
And now I am king, and this is just a platform, the first rung on a ladder that will climb to include Vanguard, Behren, To-gai, Alpinador, and even the Wilderlands to the west.
Do you hear that, Lady Dasslerond?
I will command the known world and beyond. I will own the Abellican Church, which will become greater under my rule, and which will suffer no rivals. My image will be engraved from southern To-gai to northern Alpinador; my boot print will forever stain the ground of Andur’Blough Inninness and my name will survive the centuries, beyond the memories of the oldest elves.
Those who brought me to this point, particularly Marcalo De’Unnero, do not yet understand the truth of Aydrian Boudabras. They do not understand that I see two shadows at Oracle, one who would speak to their weaknesses, and one who knows the truth of immortality—one who reveals to me that conscience is the halter the gods have placed upon mortal man.
De’Unnero and his cohorts do not understand that with this recognition, I am beyond all of them. The monk fears my mother, and is incensed at me for allowing her to walk freely out of Castle Ursal. I doubt that she will come against me again; I doubt that she has the heart now that guilt shows so clearly in her pretty eyes. She wears the halter of the gods, and it is a burden upon her that will allow me to destroy her with a thought, if necessary.
Better for me to allow her to witness it all, for her to watch the rise of her discarded son. She was once the hero of the people of Honce-the-Bear, who saved them from the demon dactyl, who led them to salvation from the plague. With her as my witness, my fame will spread even more quickly. It will gall Jilseponie as she comes truly to understand that she is my legitimacy, that her renown allows me to further my own. Her reputation is my ally even as she may become my enemy.
In that event, too, there is nothing but gain. A warrior is judged most of all by the enemies he defeats. Fio Bou-raiy, Prince Midalis, Lady Dasslerond, and perhaps Jilseponie Wyndon Ursal.
It is an impressive list.
I only hope that I may find more formidable and worthy adversaries.
I have heard of a dragon flying about the wastelands south of the Belt-and-Buckle.
The pleasure will be mine; the judgment will be kind.
And now I am king.
—AYDRIAN BOUDABRAS
Chapter 1
The Shadow in the Mirror
THE SHADOW IN THE MIRROR DREW HIM IN, AND AYDRIAN COULD NOT GET THE thought of Jilseponie out of his mind. Unlike the unrelenting hatred he felt for the woman, a rush of warmth came over him, as if this shadow was communicating to him that Jilseponie was his answer here. Not for glory. Not for power.
For what, then?
Salvation?
Aydrian leaned back against the wall in the small darkened room he had set up for Oracle, this mystical connection to the shadows in the mirror. The elves had taught him Oracle, and had taught him that in looking into the mirror, he was seeing those who had gone before. Aydrian wasn’t sure of that. Perhaps Oracle was more a way for him to look within his own essence and heart. Perhaps these shadowy creatures he saw in the mirror—and he saw two, whereas others usually saw only one—were messengers of the gods, or his own attunement to godlike wisdom.
It was here, at Oracle, that Aydrian had learned to comprehend the power of the gemstones. It was here, at Oracle, that Aydrian had first come to understand the manner in which he might reach his coveted immortality—immortalis in the ancient tongue of man and elf.
So now he watched, basking in the continuing rush of warmth and softness that accompanied the thoughts of Jilseponie—imparted, he understood, by this one shadow. But then the second shadow appeared across the way, and Aydrian was immediately reminded of the truth of Jilseponie, that she had abandoned him to die, that she had, in effect, forced him into slavery at the hands of cruel Lady Dasslerond!
Moments later, all warmth and thoughts of some mystical salvation flew away from Aydrian, replaced by his hatred for the witch Jilseponie, the pretend queen. He watched as the two shadows came together, not to blend into something larger and greater, but in an apparent attempt by each to overshadow the other.
Aydrian couldn’t help but grin at this continuing battle. Other people who knew the secret of Oracle saw one shadow, but he had two, and it was precisely that, these two warring viewpoints on every issue, that led Aydrian to realize that he was truly blessed. Unlike the lockstep fools who followed Oracle without question, Aydrian forced from Oracle the power of reasoned resolution. Each step was worked through logically and in his heart.
He laughed aloud, recognizing then that the first shadow was his own conscience, was the shackle the gods had placed about the neck of mortal men.
In that revelation, the issue of Jilseponie was settled once more. The witch would watch his rise to greatness beyond anything the world had ever known. She would die—of her guilt and with his smiling face watching her go—while he would live on forever.
Now very different images filtered through Aydrian’s thoughts. He visualized a map of Honce-the-Bear—the southern reaches, from Ursal to Entel, shaded red; the rest, uncolored. Like crawling fingers, the red began to spread. It moved north from Ursal to engulf Palmaris, and as soon as the city fell under his control, all of the Masur Delaval, the great river that cut through the kingdom, bloodied. In the east along the coast, the red moved north from Entel, sweeping along the Mantis Arm toward St.-Mere-Abelle.
Yes, Aydrian understood that the conquest of St.-Mere-Abelle would be the final victory to secure all of Honce-the-Bear south of the Gulf of Corona. The thought of that monastery, the seat of power for Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy and the Abellican Church, made him consider another problem: what to do with Marcalo De’Unnero and Abbot Olin, both of whom desired to rule that Church?
Aydrian asked the shadows in the mirror. What of Abbot Olin?
He envisioned the map again, and now the red fingers crawled south of Entel, around the edge of the Belt-and-Buckle, to Jacintha, the seat of Behren’s power.
A knock on the door brought Aydrian from his contemplations, shattering the moment of Oracle. He looked up, his expression angry. But only for a moment, for as he considered what he had just seen, he realized that he had his answer.
The coach rolled through the southern gate of Palmaris, much like any other. The city was open, for despite the rumors filtering up from Ursal, this was a time of peace in Honce-the-Bear. Thus no guards approached the coach or inspected its contents or passengers. If they had looked in through the curtained window, they might well have recognized the woman sitting there, though she seemed barely a shell of her former self.
Jilseponie was hardly aware that her driver had crossed into Palmaris. She sat quietly, her arms crossed before her, her face still showing the lines of the tears that had marked the first days out of Ursal. She wasn’t crying any longer, though.
She was just numb.
She could hardly comprehend the truth of Aydrian, could hardly believe that her child was not dead, but had been stolen from her by the elves and raised all these years apart from her. How could he have become the tyrant that she had seen in Ursal? How could a child born of her and Elbryan have become the monster that was Aydrian?
And he was a monster. Jilseponie knew that profoundly. He had torn Constance from the grave and, Jilseponie believed, had used her to murder Danube. He had stolen the throne of Ursal. And all of that under the guidance of Marcalo De’Unnero!
Marcalo De’Unnero!
To Jilseponie, there
was no purer incarnation of evil than he, unless it was the demon dactyl Bestesbulzibar itself! How could Aydrian have taken up with the man who had murdered his own father?
It made no sense to Jilseponie, and in truth, the woman had not the strength to try to sort out the confusing morass.
Aydrian was alive.
Nothing else mattered, truly. No other questions could find their way to a reasoned conclusion within Jilseponie in light of that terrible and wonderful truth. Aydrian was alive.
And he was the king, the unlawful king. And he was in league with De’Unnero and of like heart with the hated man.
That was all that mattered.
The coach lurched to a stop, and only then did Jilseponie realize that the road beneath them had turned from dirt to cobblestone, and that the fields beside them had changed to crowded streets, farmhouses to shops and taverns. The door opened and her driver, an older man with sympathetic eyes, offered her his hand.
“We’re here, milady Jilseponie,” he said tenderly.
Palmaris. A city Jilseponie had known as her home for much of her life. Here she had found refuge after the catastrophe that had destroyed Dundalis to the north. Here she had found her second family, the Chilichunks. Here she had married, though it had ended abruptly and disastrously. Here she had ruled as baroness. Here her friends presided over St. Precious. And here, Elbryan had been killed, as he and she had defeated the demon within Father Abbot Markwart. Moving as if in a dream, Jilseponie drifted out of the coach and onto the street. She was dressed modestly—not in any of the raiments suitable for the queen of Honce-the-Bear, surely—and so her appearance caused no stir among the folk moving about the crowded city avenue.
Jilseponie slowly looked around, absorbing the sights of the city she knew so well. Across the wide square stood St. Precious, the largest structure in the city, a soaring cathedral that could hold thousands within its stone walls, and that housed the hundred brothers under the leadership of Bishop Braumin Herde.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 177
