Sadye looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his young and strong and undeniably handsome features for a long while. “I do not know.”
“The southland must be secured before I do battle with Prince Midalis,” Aydrian explained to her. “That will be a process more of measuring the loyalty of the noblemen who service each region than of conquering the commoners.”
“King Danube was loved by the common folk, as was your mother.”
“The common folk care not at all who is their king,” Aydrian told her, and he looked away from the map, locking stares with her, and smiled. “If they are eating well, they love their king. If they are starving, they despise him. It is not so difficult a thing to understand.”
“And you will feed them well,” Sadye said.
Aydrian looked back at the map, running his hand from those areas already shaded red to those areas, all the rest of the world, he intended to overtake. “I will win with kindness and I will win with cruelty,” he said calmly, matter-of-factly.
The fact that they were standing almost directly above the dungeon staircase, beneath which rotted the body of Torrence Pemblebury, only strengthened that statement.
“Long live King Aydrian,” Sadye said quietly, and she gently touched his arm.
Aydrian didn’t look at her, knowing that his indifference at that moment only strengthened his growing hold over her, only heightened her growing hunger for him.
“What are you going to do?”
The question was simple and straightforward enough, but it echoed confusingly around the thoughts of Bishop Braumin Herde.
What are you going to do?
About the abbey? About the city? He was the appointed bishop, which meant that both were under his guidance. He knew in his heart that he could not welcome any change to the Abellican Church that included Marcalo De’Unnero. The man was a murderer. The man had brought nothing but chaos and misery with him whenever he had come through Palmaris. He had once been bishop here, and had executed one merchant horribly and publicly. As henchman to Father Abbot Markwart, he had imprisoned Elbryan and Jilseponie, Viscenti and Braumin, among others.
Braumin understood that he now had to keep these two tumultuous, shattering events in Ursal separate. On the secular level, Aydrian was now king of Honce-the-Bear, and whether that was a legitimate claim or not, the fact that he apparently had the armies of Ursal to back him up made it a claim that none could oppose without dire risk. On the spiritual level, the mere thought that Abbot Olin was in league with De’Unnero discredited the man wholly within the Abellican Church, the Church that had been moving steadily toward the vision of dear Avelyn Desbris, De’Unnero’s avowed enemy.
Slowly, Bishop Braumin turned to face the questioner, Brother Viscenti, his dear friend who had been through so much beside him, all the way back across the decades to their mutual discovery of the truth of Avelyn under the tutelage of dead Master Jojonah in the catacombs of St.-Mere-Abelle.
“St. Precious will not open her doors for them,” the bishop declared. “Never that. Let De’Unnero and his newfound henchmen knock those doors down, if they will. Have them burn me at the stake, if they will. But I’ll not surrender my principles to that man. I’ll not encourage his misguided view of the world.”
“Almost every brother here will stand firm with you,” Viscenti replied.
Braumin Herde wasn’t sure if that was welcome support or not, because he understood clearly what that might mean to his beloved companions. He almost said something to deny Viscenti’s words, but he bit the retort back, reminding himself that he, as a younger man, had been more than ready to die for his beliefs. He had stood beside Elbryan and Avelyn when that surely put him in line for the gallows. Could he ask those beneath him now to surrender their own principles and beliefs for the sake of their corporeal bodies?
“St. Precious will lock them out and keep them out!” Viscenti boldly declared.
“And if they overrun us, then our deaths will not be futile,” Braumin assured him. “The Abellican Church must make a principled stand against De’Unnero, whatever the cost, because to do otherwise would be to abandon everything we hold dear.”
“But what of the city?” Viscenti asked. “Can we demand as much from the common man? Should we bar the gate and man the walls and allow the folk of Palmaris to be slaughtered by this new king?”
That was the rub. How Braumin Herde wished at that moment that King Danube had never appointed him bishop of Palmaris!
“I think you should deny him entrance, or at least, deny his army entrance,” the surprising Viscenti remarked. “If this man who claims to be king wishes to parley, then allow him that, but in such a meeting, make it perfectly clear that Marcalo De’Unnero, curse his name, is not welcome here. Perhaps we can drive a wedge between them. Perhaps we can persuade Aydrian to speak more openly with his mother.”
“You ask me to take quite a risk,” said Braumin. “And if King Aydrian refuses to parley? If he demands the opening of the gate? Do we face war with Ursal, brother?”
Brother Viscenti leaned back and pondered the possibilities for a long while. “I would expect that the people of Palmaris, given the truth of their choices, would fight Aydrian to a man and a woman,” he replied. “These are the folk who witnessed the Miracle of Avelyn. These are the Behrenese welcomed as part of Palmaris when no one else would have them—forget not, for they certainly have not forgotten, that De’Unnero and his Brothers Repentant persecuted them most horribly in the days of the plague! These are the folk who saw the folly of Markwart and De’Unnero, who saw the beauty of Elbryan and Jilseponie, and of Bishop Braumin Herde. If you would so readily die for your principles, my friend, should not they be given the same opportunity?”
Bishop Braumin chuckled at the strange irony of that implication, that it was his duty to allow his flock to be slaughtered.
He strode across the room and hugged his dear friend, patting him hard on the back. Yes, Braumin Herde was quite grateful to Brother Viscenti at that moment, for the man had indeed helped him sort through the swirl that was in his mind.
“Jilseponie has gone to Roger,” Viscenti remarked. “Watch the fire of Roger Lockless when he learns of the events in Ursal. He will rally Palmaris, if you will not!”
Braumin pushed Viscenti back to arm’s length. “Or both of us, or the three of us, will rally all the region as never before!” he said with a determined smile.
Just beneath that determined smile, that shared pat on the back, though, lay the realization that the coming darkness might be the greatest threat ever to face the city of Palmaris. For always before, when the hordes of the demon dactyl threatened or the foul stench of Father Abbot Markwart pervaded the air, Palmaris had had an ally in the greater city of Ursal.
This time, though …
Chapter 2
Warnings on the Winds
THE FEEL OF THE BREEZE ON THEIR FACES CAME AS WELCOME RELIEF TO THE TWO elves who had spent weeks wandering the dark ways of the Path of Starless Night. This journey had taken much longer than their original trek under the mountains, when they had been heading to the south, for Belli’mar Juraviel and Cazzira of Tymwyvenne were determined properly to mark those paths leading through the Belt-and-Buckle, leading from Tymwyvenne to To-gai, the land they hoped now to be securely the province of Brynn Dharielle. For while Juraviel had left the ranger in the southland, he had not done so with a light heart, and he was determined to keep track of her progress in freeing the To-gai-ru from the conquering Behrenese.
Despite that burning curiosity and his deep feelings for Brynn, Belli’mar Juraviel hadn’t regretted his decision to turn back to the north. His responsibility was, first and foremost, to his people, the Touel’alfar, and to his home, Andur’Blough Inninness. Lady Dasslerond had sent Brynn to the south to free To-gai because she had thought the To-gai-ru more sympathetic to her people than the Behrenese, and because she feared that the stain of the demon dactyl, the rot that had begun to infect precio
us Andur’Blough Inninness, might force the Touel’alfar on that southern road in the near future.
That need seemed much lessened to Belli’mar Juraviel now that he had come to know Cazzira so intimately, however. Not because the stain of the demon dactyl was any less dangerous to his precious homeland, but because he had found the race of the Doc’alfar, the lost cousins of the Touel’alfar. And as his relationship with Cazzira had grown, Juraviel had come to understand and believe that the elves of Corona would indeed reunite into one community.
The two races were different, physically. Though both were about four feet in height, and lithe of build, the Touel’alfar were possessed of translucent wings. And while the Doc’alfar had dark hair and very light skin, the result of living in their dark and foggy homeland bogs, the Touel’alfar had colors more reflective of the daylight, bright hair and light eyes and skin glowing with the warmth of the golden sun.
But now, over the months, Belli’mar Juraviel had come to look deeper into Cazzira, beyond their physical differences, and had come to see a soul that was very much akin to any of the Touel’alfar. They were one people, of one heart, and with mostly superficial physical differences that would fade over time as their communities rejoined.
That was Belli’mar Juraviel’s hope, at least, and his plan. And so he had come back through the mountains, to the northern slopes near to the Doc’alfar land of Tymwyvenne, with Cazzira by his side, and with a third elf, not yet born, growing within Cazzira’s womb.
“This is not the same tunnel that we entered with Brynn those years ago,” Juraviel remarked, squinting as he surveyed the region, his eyes unaccustomed to the light—even though it was late afternoon and the sun was already beginning to set.
“But we are near,” Cazzira assured him, and she pointed to the northwest, to a distinctive mountain peak that looked somewhat like the wrinkled face of an old man. “Close enough, perhaps, so that the scouts of Tymwyvenne are looking upon us, their deadly weapons readied to strike at you should you make any untoward movement against me,” she added, flashing Juraviel that mischievous grin of hers.
“Let them attack, then!” Juraviel cried dramatically, and he flung himself against Cazzira, crushing her in his loving hug, the both of them laughing. He pushed his lover back to arm’s length, his golden eyes locking with hers, which were no less distinctive and startling, the lightest shade of blue that contrasted so starkly with her raven locks. How deeply did Belli’mar Juraviel love this Doc’alfar! And in looking at her, every time he looked at her, he knew that Lady Dasslerond would come to see the beauty of it all, and the benefit of rejoining their long-lost cousins.
Sometime later, with the moon Sheila shining brightly overhead, the two elves moved along the lower slopes of the foothills, Cazzira leading in a generally westerly direction. They would not make Tymwyvenne that night, she had explained to Juraviel, but she was fairly certain that they would see the magnificent woodwork of the elven city’s great gates early on their second day of travel.
They set camp in a clearing up above the bogland and skeletal trees that marked the region of Tymwyvenne, taking little care to conceal their campfire. For they were in the realm of the Doc’alfar now, secure from any intruders save Cazzira’s own people.
The night was quiet about them, with only a gentle breeze blowing. A bit of a chill carried in on that breeze, but it was nothing their generous fire couldn’t defeat.
“You will press King Eltiraaz to send us off immediately to your people?” Cazzira asked as the two lay side by side, staring up at the moon and the stars.
“Better that you and I make the first journey to Caer’alfar,” Juraviel explained. “Lady Dasslerond will be no more trusting of your people than your King Eltiraaz was of me when first I ventured onto your lands. It is my Lady’s duty to move with caution concerning the welfare of her people, and I would expect no less of her.” He rolled to his side so that he was facing Cazzira directly, looking into her light blue eyes, which had so captured his heart. “But you will melt her caution,” he said quietly. “Together you and I will forge the bond anew between our peoples, to the gain of Touel’alfar and Doc’alfar alike.”
“To the gain of Tylwyn Doc and Tylwyn Tou alike, you mean,” Cazzira teased, using the Doc’alfar names of the respective races, and pointedly and playfully putting her own people first. She moved her hand onto Juraviel’s shoulder as she spoke, and he suddenly grabbed her wrist and pulled her arm back, pinning it.
“Touel’alfar and Doc’alfar!” he demanded.
“And if I refuse?” Cazzira countered.
“Then I shall have my way with you!” Juraviel replied. “Unless of course, the wondrous sentries of the Doc’alfar are about, ready to spring to your defense!”
Cazzira laughed. “The same wondrous sentries who managed to capture Belli’mar Juraviel on his first pass through their land, and with ease!”
“Aha!” Juraviel said dramatically, pointing one finger into the air. “But how do you know that was not my plan all along? To get captured so that I could steal from your people.”
“Steal?”
“Your heart, at least.”
“My heart?” Cazzira echoed incredulously. “Could you be so foolish as to believe that I have any romantic feelings toward you, Belli’mar Juraviel?”
With great dramatic flourish, Juraviel rolled away from Cazzira, clutching his heart as he went. “Ah, but you have shot an arrow into my heart!” he cried. “Mortally wounding—”
“I had thought to do the same,” came a third voice, startling both from their play. Juraviel increased his roll and twisted about, coming swiftly to his feet, while Cazzira propped herself up on her elbows.
Both relaxed when they saw a familiar figure enter the firelight, that of Lozan Duk, who had accompanied Cazzira on the initial capture of Juraviel and Brynn Dharielle. He looked much like Cazzira, except that he was a bit broader in the shoulders and his eyes were dark, not light. The Doc’alfar scout spent a long moment studying the pair, his expression curious and obviously amused.
“Your journey to the southland was successful, I presume,” he said. “Has the ranger Brynn unified the To-gai-ru tribes as securely as Juraviel and Cazzira have unified themselves, I wonder?”
Cazzira scrambled to her feet and rushed across the clearing to wrap her dear old friend in a great hug. Juraviel followed her over, taking Lozan Duk’s offered hand in warm embrace.
“You have been gone too long,” Lozan Duk said to Cazzira. “Our land has seemed empty without you. We have found so much less fun in hunting intruders.” As he finished, he turned his smile and his gaze over Juraviel.
“Too long, indeed,” Cazzira agreed. “I cannot wait to look upon Tymwyvenne again!”
“But you mean to stay only a short while,” Lozan Duk prompted, glancing from Cazzira to Juraviel and back again.
“And how long were you spying upon us?” Cazzira asked.
Lozan Duk laughed aloud. “When first I came upon you, and recognized that Cazzira and Juraviel had returned, I wanted to rush right in and welcome you, both of you,” he explained. “But then it seemed as if I was intruding on a personal time, and so I started away, prepared to return in the morning.”
“And then you heard my mention of returning home, with Cazzira,” reasoned Juraviel.
Lozan Duk looked at him earnestly and nodded. “You speak of momentous things, Belli’mar Juraviel of the Tylwyn Tou.”
“I hope for momentous gain, for my people and for yours,” Juraviel replied.
Lozan Duk really didn’t have a response for that, so he just paused for a bit to consider his dearest of friends, returned to his side. For many years, he and Cazzira had been hunting partners, and partners in just about everything else. There had never been anything romantic between them, so there was no jealousy in his eyes as he considered her now, just gratitude that she had returned.
That expression of gratitude fast shifted to a look of curiosity, though. “Ther
e is something …” the elf started to say.
Cazzira’s smile gradually widened, until the whole of her delicate and beautiful face was beaming in the moonlight.
Lozan Duk’s jaw dropped open and his eyes followed Cazzira’s gaze down to her slightly swollen belly. “You are …?”
“I am,” Cazzira replied. “It will be the first child born in Tymwyvenne in a quarter of a century, unless other births occurred during my absence.”
“No others.”
“And it will be the first child born of Tylwyn Doc and Tylwyn Tou parentage in …” She paused and looked over at Juraviel.
“In more than the longest memory of the eldest elves,” he answered.
“But what does it mean?” Lozan Duk asked, a simple question that held so many layers of intrigue for all of them. Was this child to signify a union of the peoples, a reunification of sorts? Or was it to become a bastard child of both races, accepted by neither?
“It will mean what we make it to mean,” Cazzira said determinedly. “The child is a product of love, true and honest love between Tylwyn Doc and Tylwyn Tou. Let there be no doubt of that.”
Lozan Duk shook his head slowly as he considered his surprising friend, and gradually his gaze shifted over to Belli’mar Juraviel, this surprising visitor to his land.
“What says Lozan Duk concerning the child?” Juraviel asked bluntly, not sure how to read that expression.
The other elf took a long moment to consider the question, to digest all of this startling news. “If you make Cazzira happy, then you make Lozan Duk happy, Belli’mar Juraviel,” he said at length. “She is my friend—as true a friend as I have ever known—and I stand beside her in all of her choices. She has chosen Belli’mar Juraviel as her companion in love, and has chosen Belli’mar Juraviel as the father of her child. That is all that I need to know about the truth of Belli’mar Juraviel’s heart.” He looked down at Cazzira’s belly and smiled warmly. “Any child of Cazzira will be a beautiful creature.”
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 179
