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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “In exchange for?”

  “As a gesture of friendship. The troubles of the Chezru religion are a great source of concern for Abbot Olin, who has always understood that the Abellican and Chezru churches were not as opposed as many believe. Abbot Olin, who loves Jacintha as he loves Entel, desires stability in Behren, for only in the calm of order might the greater questions concerning the dramatic events within Chezru be properly explored.”

  “And your master believes that he should have a voice in such discussions?”

  “He would be grateful if you and your fellow Yatols included him, of course,” said Mackaront. “Abbot Olin is a man of philosophy and education. He is no ideologue locked into a particular focus so strongly that he believes there is nothing left to learn. Inquisition and exploration lead to the truth, though it is a road that may continue for centuries to come.”

  “Fine words,” Yatol Wadon said, with a hint of sarcasm holding in his tone. “But words for another day. Tell me what you offer.”

  “Yatols Peridan and De Hamman will continue to play out their fighting—there is little we can do to stop that,” Mackaront explained, and Yatol Wadon predictably scowled at the words. It was important to him, after all, to calm the side battles so that Yatols like the two warlords to the south of Jacintha could aid him in his more important cause.

  “What we will do is keep the fighting balanced, allowing neither to gain a major advantage,” Mackaront went on. “Trust me in this. Events have already been put into motion to secure that end.”

  “You presume much,” Yatol Wadon replied, an edge of unmistakable anger creeping into his voice.

  “We understand much,” Mackaront corrected, not backing down. “The best scenario for you and for Jacintha is to keep all of the other regions away from your expected personal struggle with Yatol Bardoh.”

  Wadon’s expression showed that he had been thinking in exactly the opposite direction.

  “You alone defeat Bardoh and secure Jacintha, and your position will not be questioned by any of the others,” Mackaront explained. “And you will defeat Yatol Bardoh, and soundly, because my master is your friend.”

  He ended with a grinning expression, locking stares with Yatol Wadon. He could see that Wadon wanted to deny his claim, desperately so.

  But he could not.

  Mackaront recognized clearly that Mado Wadon was not pleased by his announced plans for Peridan and De Hamman, and that the Jacintha leader understood exactly what was going on here. Abbot Olin was forcing his hand and his allegiance. And yet, whatever he thought of that, there was nothing that he could do about it.

  That last line, because my master is your friend, was not so veiled a threat. If Mackaront’s master was not Wadon’s friend, the implication seemed clear enough that Abbot Olin would quickly become Yatol Bardoh’s friend.

  Master Mackaront excused himself then, ending with a polite and respectful bow. He didn’t want to press his advantage too strongly, after all.

  The ten thousand Bearmen soldiers crossing the eastern stretches of the Belt-and-Buckle, the tremendous fleet of pirate ships leveling the conflict between Peridan and De Hamman, and the fleet of Honce-the-Bear warships even then assembling in Entel harbor, preparing to deliver soldiers of Aydrian’s army to Jacintha, would do that all on their own.

  And then Abbot Olin would arrive, the friend of victorious and indebted Yatol Mado Wadon.

  Chapter 4

  The End of the World As They Knew It

  “Saudi Jacintha, THE SHIP OF CAPTAIN AL’U’MET, SAILED OUT OF PALMARIS,” DUKE Bretherford informed his guests on River Palace, the royal ship of the Honce-the-Bear fleet. “We have reason to believe that one of the masters of St. Precious, likely Marlboro Viscenti, was aboard.”

  “Heading for St.-Mere-Abelle,” Duke Kalas reasoned, looking to Aydrian.

  The young king nodded and grinned. “My mother reached them. She set them all in a frenzy, I would guess.”

  “We can assume that word has reached Fio Bou-raiy, then,” Marcalo De’Unnero put in. “St.-Mere-Abelle will lock down her gates.”

  “Good,” Aydrian replied. “Put them in their hole. They will be easier to catch that way.”

  “Spoken like one who has not witnessed the power that is St.-Mere-Abelle,” the former monk sharply warned, and all about the table, eyebrows arched at De’Unnero’s surprisingly blunt rebuttal of the king.

  But Aydrian merely grinned all the wider. “Still you doubt and fear,” he said to the fiery De’Unnero. “When will you come to trust me?”

  There were far too many tangential implications reaching out from that question for De’Unnero to begin to answer.

  Across the table, Duke Bretherford cleared his throat.

  Aydrian turned a wry grin the smallish man’s way. “Speak freely here,” the young king instructed, though he knew that Bretherford would do no such thing—knew that if Bretherford revealed his honest feelings about all of this, then Aydrian would probably be forced to kill him on the spot. Duke Bretherford had been a dear friend of King Danube’s, and of the whole Ursal line. It was he who had first taken Prince Midalis to Vanguard, those decades before, when Midalis and Danube’s father was the king of Honce-the-Bear.

  Duke Bretherford glanced over at Kalas briefly, and Aydrian did well to hide his amusement at the exchange between the two. He held Kalas firmly, he knew, and Kalas had convinced many of the other dukes to swear fealty to this new king. As far as Kalas was concerned, Aydrian was the best choice for Honce-the-Bear, particularly in restoring the kingdom to what it had been before all the trouble with the demon dactyl. His nostalgic view of a blissful kingdom those decades ago had been generally well received by some of the dukes.

  Others, like Bretherford—arguably the second most powerful duke in the kingdom, for he most controlled the great Ursal fleet—had come to Aydrian’s court with considerably less enthusiasm.

  “You do seem willing to allow your enemies to gather their strength,” Bretherford remarked. “You say that this is because you are confident of victory, but is such a strategy not inevitably to cost more men their lives and to make this conflict, if a war it must be, even more bloody?”

  Aydrian was acutely aware of the others in the room sucking in their collective breath at that remark—certainly an inappropriate remark for any nobleman to make of his king. This was a test, Aydrian knew, to take his measure not only to Duke Bretherford, but to some of the other noblemen as well. He took his time, pondering the question and his answer as the seconds slipped by—and that was not anything that the impulsive and cocky Aydrian Boudabras was known to do!

  “My mother will prove to be more a hindrance to our enemies than a useful ally,” he began, and he looked all around as he spoke, even at De’Unnero. “As for the Abellican monks … well, better that they know of the events in Ursal. No doubt they have heard a skewed version of the truth, but better that to measure their loyalty to the throne. Let them stand on one side or the other now, and be done with it.” The young king didn’t miss the slight grin that escaped De’Unnero at his words, nor the satisfaction splayed on the face of Duke Kalas, who hated the Church above all else and who would surely welcome an assault against St.-Mere-Abelle, whatever its reputation.

  “A skewed version?” Duke Bretherford dared to ask, and De’Unnero started to argue, and Kalas started to berate the man.

  But Aydrian called for calm. “This is all yet unfolding,” he told them. “We have much to learn of these folk before we label them as friend or enemy. For now, let us continue our glorious march to Palmaris. The disposition of that city will go far in telling us what we might expect as the word of my ascension spreads throughout the kingdom.”

  He dismissed them all, then, explaining that he was tired, and he went to his private quarters and lay down on his bed. And there, his physical form rested, but his mind wandered.

  Aided by the powerful soul stone, Aydrian slipped out of his corporeal form and glided unseen acros
s the deck of River Palace, to the taffrail, where Kalas and Bretherford were conversing.

  “Are you so quick to dismiss Prince Midalis?” the smaller Bretherford asked. “To forsake the line of Ursal, that has served Honce-the-Bear for so many years?”

  “I have seen the truth of our young king,” Kalas calmly replied. “With all of my heart, I believe that he is the proper ruler of Honce-the-Bear.”

  “Despite your feelings about his parents?”

  Duke Kalas shrugged. “Jilseponie has her strengths, and great weaknesses. The strengths are what she passed along to Aydrian. And were you not ever more a friend to Jilseponie than I?”

  “I pitied the woman,” Bretherford replied. “My loyalties were ever with King Danube, as I thought were yours.”

  Aydrian watched with great interest as Duke Kalas straightened and squared his shoulders.

  “I blame Jilseponie for the downfall of King Danube,” he said.

  “And you embrace her son?”

  “There is irony in that,” Kalas admitted. “But no inconsistency. The blood of Jilseponie gives Aydrian claim to the throne, but—”

  “Above Prince Midalis?” Duke Bretherford interrupted.

  Kalas stared at him hard. “You should take care your words, my friend. Aydrian is king of Honce-the-Bear, and he holds the power of Ursal behind him. I pray that Prince Midalis comes to understand and accept this.”

  “And Prince Torrence, as well?” Bretherford asked, and it was obvious that the man wasn’t really buying deeply into any of this.

  Aydrian caught Kalas’ slight wince at the mention of Torrence Pemblebury, but he was certain that Duke Bretherford did not notice.

  “We will see,” Kalas replied. “Aydrian is king. He has the Allhearts and the garrison of Ursal behind him, as well as the army that followed him and understood the truth of his ascension before he even rose to the position. He will secure the kingdom, through negotiation or through war, and he will reshape the Abellican Church—”

  “That hope is what binds you to him, I’d guess,” Bretherford interrupted. He turned out over the taffrail and spat into the water. “Are you hoping for a war to bring about a change in the Church to fit the visions of the crazy Marcalo De’Unnero?” he asked incredulously. “Or is it just the thought of a war within the Abellican Church that has you thrilled? Is that it, my old friend? Maybe King Aydrian will weaken the monks and push their Church to the fringes of the kingdom. Is that what you’re wanting?”

  Kalas leaned on the rail and did not bother to respond.

  Aydrian was smiling when he returned to his waiting body.

  The one-armed Father Abbot of the Abellican Church sat perfectly straight in his chair. His gray hair, as always, was neatly trimmed and perfectly styled; not a strand seemed out of place on him—physically. But none around Fio Bou-raiy, not the visiting Abbot Glendenhook of St. Gwendolyn, not Machuso or any of the other masters at St.-Mere-Abelle, and not Viscenti, who had brought the news from St. Precious, had ever seen the man so obviously shaken.

  They were in the newly remodeled audience hall of the great abbey, on the eastern edge of the complex, overlooking the All Saints Bay. This large room, a hundred feet square, had been three separate halls, one on top of the other. But Father Abbot Bou-raiy, with visions of expanding the Church during the time when one of its sovereign sisters had sat on the secular throne as queen, had desired something grander for the abbey, a place where he could entertain noblemen and perhaps even King Danube himself. So the ceilings and floors had been removed, leaving one huge hall that soared to nearly sixty feet, with a balcony running the length of the wall opposite Bou-raiy’s grand throne, and all the way down the left-hand wall as well. The floor, a black-and-white patchwork of large marble tiles, was actually below ground level and was accessed by a single anteroom, the great double doors opening from the west, to the left of Bou-raiy’s throne, and directly across from the most imposing design in the entire place: a huge and circular stained-glass window, set in the eastern wall above the wide staircase that ascended the thirty feet to the balcony. Filled with glass of rose and purple, blue and amber, the design on the window depicted the mummified arm of Avelyn Desbris, rising from the flattened top of ruined Mount Aida. A one-armed priest—obviously Bou-raiy—his brown robe tied off at one shoulder, knelt before the sacred place, bending low to kiss the bloody hand.

  When he had first entered the room, Viscenti’s eyes had widened indeed at the spectacle of the great window. A mixture of awe and revulsion had crept through him, for it was well-known throughout the Order that Bou-raiy had argued vehemently with the then–Father Abbot Agronguerre against traveling to Mount Aida and partaking of the Covenant of Avelyn.

  Viscenti shrugged away his negativity, reminding himself that he had no time for such inconsequential worries at present. It was good, he realized, that Father Abbot Bou-raiy had now so obviously embraced the deeds of the hopefully soon-to-be Saint Avelyn. The Abellican Church would need such a boost, given the news from Ursal!

  Father Abbot Bou-raiy had listened, without the slightest interruption, to the words of Master Viscenti, the tidings of the great upheaval of secular Honce-the-Bear, but also of the impending upheaval, perhaps even greater, that was sure to befall the Abellican Church.

  A long silence held the audience room in this, the greatest of cathedrals.

  “There can be no doubt of the identity of the coconspirators?” Fio Bou-raiy finally asked. “It was Abbot Olin and truly Marcalo De’Unnero, the same monk who served under Father Abbot Markwart, the same monk who was consumed by the tiger’s paw gemstone and driven out of Palmaris by Jilseponie, the same monk who led the errant Brothers Repentant in the time of the plague? It was De’Unnero?”

  “By the words of Jilseponie, who knew this man better than anyone, it was the same Marcalo De’Unnero,” Viscenti confirmed, and he twitched repeatedly, any control he held over his nervous tic washed away by merely speaking the cursed name aloud.

  “What does this mean?” asked burly Abbot Glendenhook, standing in what had long been his customary position, both figuratively and literally, at Fio Bou-raiy’s side. With news of the grim tidings sweeping the land, Abbot Glendenhook had rushed back to the mother abbey to confer with his trusted friend, the Father Abbot.

  “It means the end of the world as we know it,” another master glumly remarked.

  Fio Bou-raiy snapped his ever-imposing stare over the man, denying the claim visually before he had ever spoken a word. “It means that our time of peace and growth has ended, temporarily,” he corrected, his voice stern and steady once more. “It means that we of the true Abellican Order may find ourselves besieged with informants and perhaps traitors, and possibly even by an army from the throne that we always before considered our ally. Surely none among the leadership of St.-Mere-Abelle are unused to adversity, Master Donegal. We have been weaned on the DemonWar, on a time of great upheaval within our order, and on a plague. Are you so quick to surrender?”

  “My pardon, Father Abbot,” Master Jorgen Donegal said, offering a submissive bow. “If Abbot Olin is in league with the new king of Honce-the-Bear, I doubt that he will be friendly toward the current leadership at St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  “Abbot Olin is Abellican first,” Fio Bou-raiy declared. “He understands his position and his responsibility to this church.”

  “With Marcalo De’Unnero at his side?” Marlboro Viscenti found himself asking before he could find the wisdom to bite back the words, for that simple question deflated any momentum that Father Abbot Bou-raiy might have been gaining here. Bou-raiy hated De’Unnero profoundly, a feeling that was surely mutual. If Abbot Olin was indeed in league with the infamous former monk, then he was surely no friend to St.-Mere-Abelle, nor to the current incarnation of the Abellican Church!

  “Ursal will demand change within the Church,” Abbot Glendenhook observed.

  “They already have, according to Jilseponie,” said Master Viscenti. “By her account
, Abbot Ohwan was reinstated at St. Honce, but only as a plank for Marcalo De’Unnero to walk to the post of abbot.”

  “The crown has no power to determine abbots!” said Glendenhook.

  “Then it has begun already,” Fio Bou-raiy put in, and the same despair that had been evident in Master Donegal’s voice was showing around the edges here, too. “If this is all true, then we must assume that Abbot Olin and his henchmen are restructuring the Abellican Church to fit their needs.”

  “Bishop Braumin Herde believes that Ursal will demand that Olin assume the position of Father Abbot,” Master Viscenti said bluntly, and though everyone in the room fully expected that, given the line of reasoning, hearing it aloud brought more than a few gasps of astonishment and despair.

  Fio Bou-raiy held steady, though, and looked at Master Viscenti hard. “And where does Bishop Braumin stand on this issue?” he demanded.

  Marlboro Viscenti stood up very straight, his slight frame seeming to grow very tall and formidable. “Bishop Braumin supported the election of Father Abbot Bou-raiy,” the master from St. Precious reminded. “But even if he had not, Bishop Braumin is a true Abellican, and he would not support any usurpers trying to steal away our Church.”

  Only after speaking the words aloud did Viscenti realize the irony of them, for hadn’t Braumin and all the others come to power through those very means? When Markwart had gone astray, Braumin and Viscenti had led the charge beside Jilseponie and Elbryan to take the Abellican Church from them.

  “The Church is not astray,” Viscenti quickly added. “We have learned so very much over the last two decades, culminating in the Miracle of Aida. We follow the way of St. Abelle, and soon-to-be Saint Avelyn. We follow the orders of St.-Mere-Abelle and Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy with all confidence that those orders are in accordance with the precepts upon which we build our faith. Bishop Braumin will not forsake St.-Mere-Abelle nor Father Abbot Bou-raiy in this, at the price of his own life! If Marcalo De’Unnero desires to enter St. Precious, it will either be as conqueror or in chains. There is no negotiating that point!”