Pony looked at him and gave a sigh and a helpless shrug.
“Ah, but ye’re right,” the centaur admitted. “I should o’ done more, though I wasn’t knowing what I might be doing! But ye got to believe me on this, me Pony, me friend. Yer son’s got not the blessing o’ Bradwarden.”
Pony shrugged again, then came forward and wrapped Bradwarden in a hug, and though that embrace was supposed to show the centaur that all was forgiven, was in effect supposed to comfort Bradwarden, as the centaur wrapped his muscular arms about Pony and held her even closer, it was she who was most comforted. The tears began to flow, and she let them come forth. Her shoulders bobbed with sobs, but Bradwarden held her steady and tight.
Sometime later, Pony moved back from the centaur and gave a little self-deprecating laugh as she reached up to wipe her tears away.
“What a silly old woman I’ve become,” she said.
“Ye’re neither,” the centaur replied without hesitation. “If ye’re feeling a bit old now, then ye’ve the right, I’m guessing. Not many who’ve seen such pain as Pony.”
“And it is only beginning, I fear.”
“Bah, it’s one more thing for ye—for us—to go out and beat, don’t ye know?” Bradwarden said.
Pony looked at him skeptically. “You want me to fight against my own son?”
Bradwarden didn’t even bother to answer.
And Pony understood, and she gave another sigh of resignation.
“Prince Midalis will be riding hard to put things aright, and he’s to be needing Pony at his side,” the centaur said.
“And Pony’s to be needing Bradwarden at her side, to hold her on her feet,” the woman said.
The centaur flashed that typical grin of ultimate confidence and promised with a wink, “I’ll keep the mountain off o’ ye.”
“Do not underestimate the Palmaris garrison,” Duke Kalas warned. “They have been hardened by many trials over the years. Their leaders are veterans of battles.”
“We can hunt them down and kill them, and quickly,” argued Marcalo De’Unnero. “Before they cross through Caer Tinella, if we are fast.”
Seated across the table from the two men, Aydrian leaned back in his chair. They were certain that Bishop Braumin had pulled a trick here in Palmaris, slipping a large portion of his trained militia out of Palmaris’ northern gate before Aydrian’s forces had arrived. Very shortly before, from what the young king and his men had learned in interrogating citizens of the conquered city. Now, a few days after the fall of St. Precious, they could assume that the escaped garrison was well on the way to Caer Tinella and Landsdown, the two largest towns north of Palmaris, halfway between the great city and the Timberlands region, where Aydrian’s parents had lived.
“We must move quickly,” De’Unnero implored Aydrian. “We have tarried too long already.”
“The securing of Palmaris is all-important,” remarked Duke Kalas. “Winter will fast descend upon this region and we must have complete control of the city, and have it in full operation.”
Aydrian nodded. They had already discussed this at length. The first priority for this stage in strengthening his hold on the kingdom was to secure Palmaris in good order. The people would tighten their ties to Aydrian only if he did not too greatly disturb their lives. Thus, after the conquest, when his soldiers had charged through the streets, he had held them in great restraint. Palmaris had been taken with minimum casualties, and with even fewer repercussions to the conquered folk. One by one, the prisoners taken in the conquest had been interrogated, and almost all had been released. Aydrian’s soldiers had told them to go home, to tend to their families, and to understand that the new and rightful king of Honce-the-Bear was a just and decent man who harbored no vengeance against those misinformed souls who had dared oppose him.
“You would allow an opposing army to run about the edges of the conquered land?” De’Unnero asked Kalas. “These garrison soldiers have family remaining within the city. Do you not believe that they will try to come back and reclaim their homes?”
Kalas laughed, as if that hardly mattered.
De’Unnero conceded the point. They had ten thousand Kingsmen in the Palmaris area, including the Allheart Knights. The Palmaris garrison might have put up a strong defensive stance against Aydrian’s force if they were huddled behind the city’s strong walls, but now, operating as the invader, the Palmaris garrison would be sorely outmanned.
“They will not turn back,” Duke Kalas said to Aydrian. “They ran north because they are confused. They seek Prince Midalis to guide them, but they’ll not reach Vanguard before the winter begins to blow. Let them go! Give Prince Midalis more mouths to feed through the difficult months of winter. It will be a ragtag and homesick bunch he marches back to Palmaris, do not doubt.”
Aydrian nodded at the seemingly sound reasoning. The best estimate was that a few hundred men had fled to the north. He wasn’t overly concerned. He had Palmaris, and that was the immediate goal. Now he could secure the immediate region about the city, perhaps as far north as Caer Tinella and Landsdown.
But the real prize, the one Aydrian coveted above all else, the one Aydrian wanted even more desperately than De’Unnero wanted St.-Mere-Abelle, lay not to the north, but to the west.
Of course, he hadn’t told his commanders of that little side trip just yet.
“Prince Midalis remains a threat only if he can find his way to weak spots in our ever-lengthening line,” Aydrian remarked. “He will try to strike behind us, or strike wherever our main force is not. He will not be able to do so before winter, nor will he be able to find any way around us if we force him to march all the way from Vanguard.
“Let us secure our hold from Entel to Ursal, from Ursal to Palmaris,” the young king reasoned. “Let us show the people of these most populous parts of Honce-the-Bear that the Kingdom of Aydrian will bring them peace and prosperity, for that is all they want, after all. They care little for the name of their king. They care for the food on their tables.”
“Midalis’ claim is no small thing,” said De’Unnero. “He will inspire many against us.”
“The longer we keep him away, the less inspiration he will provide,” Duke Kalas put in. He looked to Aydrian and gave a knowing smirk. “It is of great importance that we determine the prince’s route, and that we make his trail as long and difficult as possible. The farther from Ursal that we do battle with Prince Midalis, if it must come to that, the less support he will find.”
“Soon enough,” Aydrian replied, and he looked to De’Unnero.
The discussions of the secular kingdom sat heavily on De’Unnero’s strong shoulders, and he sat there, tapping the tips of his fingers together before him.
“Patience, my friend,” Aydrian said to him. “We will turn our eyes to St.-Mere-Abelle soon enough.”
“Not soon enough for me,” De’Unnero admitted.
“We are not yet ready,” Duke Kalas put in. “Trust me when I say that I wish to see the fall of St.-Mere-Abelle as much as do you! But we must control the sea, and that we cannot do with winter approaching. And we must isolate Prince Midalis.”
“We will take the sea, and the Mantis Arm,” Aydrian assured them both. “When we approach St.-Mere-Abelle, it will be from the east and the west, with every other abbey of Honce-the-Bear already secured, save St. Belfour of Vanguard. Fio Bou-raiy will find no support from without.”
Marcalo De’Unnero nodded, and worked hard to keep the simmering anger from his expression. He knew the plan, of course, for it had been an intricate part of his and Olin’s design long before Aydrian had ever ascended the throne. But Aydrian had altered that plan without consult by dangling a carrot before Abbot Olin that the old fool could not resist. How might Aydrian facilitate the sweep along the eastern coast of Honce-the-Bear with his entire mercenary army diverted to the south, to Jacintha?
“Time is our ally, not our enemy,” Aydrian said to the monk, as if reading his thoughts exactly. “A chu
rch must be maintained from without, not within, and as we bring more and more abbeys around to our way of thinking, the present Father Abbot’s influence will shrink and shrink to nothingness. We will speak to the people while Bou-raiy and his companions fester in the dark corridors of St.-Mere-Abelle.”
He stopped and nodded, leaned back and smiled, as if everything was going along right on schedule.
Aydrian dismissed the courier with a wave of his hand, and when the man started to argue, the young king put on a great scowl.
The courier left without further delay.
“Abbot Olin must have dispatched him to the north to find us before he had gone halfway through Yorkey County,” De’Unnero remarked.
Aydrian looked at the monk, who seemed more amused than anything else. The courier had come into Palmaris with an urgent request from Abbot Olin, begging that more soldiers be released to him for his efforts in Jacintha.
“Olin cannot even know the disposition of the enemy allayed before him,” Aydrian remarked.
“Likely he has come to know that some of the mercenaries we hired on our march to Ursal have returned to their homes,” reasoned De’Unnero, and he noted that Aydrian excluded the use of Olin’s title—not a minor oversight.
“That was not unexpected.”
“Abbot Olin desires Jacintha more than you can understand,” De’Unnero went on.
“He has ten thousand hired mercenaries, a fleet of bloodthirsty pirates, several Ursal warships with well-trained crews, and the garrison of Entel, two thousand strong and second in Honce-the-Bear in experience and equipment only to the Allhearts. Having that force, if he cannot assume control of a nation torn asunder, he is hardly deserving of our respect.”
Again, the level of disrespect toward Olin coming from the young king surprised De’Unnero. “Do not take Jacintha lightly,” he warned.
“The Behrenese are killing each other, by all accounts.”
“True enough, but that may change quickly when a foreign army walks into the great coastal city. Abbot Olin is being cautious. We still do not know the disposition of the Coastpoint Guards manning the eastern coast. If they do not come over to King Aydrian, Abbot Olin will be forced to hold his garrison in place to ward any possible incursions.”
“The Coastpoint Guards will not go against Entel!” Aydrian insisted. “They are but a few hundred in number, if all joined in the effort, and Entel is a great city. And the Abellican brothers in Entel serve Olin.”
“The brothers of St. Bondabruce,” De’Unnero reminded. “There is a second abbey, St. Rontlemore, whose abbot and brothers have never been friends of Abbot Olin.”
“A minor abbey compared to St. Bondabruce,” Aydrian argued.
De’Unnero conceded the point with a nod. Indeed, it seemed to him as if Abbot Olin should have more than enough strength to accomplish his mission, if there was indeed opportunity for Honce-the-Bear now to insinuate itself into the affairs of Behren. Olin had all the assets that Aydrian had claimed, and more, for the largest cache of nonmagical gemstones taken from Pimaninicuit remained in St. Bondabruce, and with that wealth, Olin should be able to swell his ranks two- or threefold if necessary.
Still, the level of agitation within Aydrian at that time struck the monk as curious.
“Abbot Olin will not fail us,” he said to the young king.
“I fear that I may have to travel there,” Aydrian replied.
“It is warmer, particularly with winter coming on in full. We will find no trouble from Midalis until the late spring, at least, and probably not until midsummer or beyond. If you are needed for the efforts in Jacintha …”
“No!” Aydrian said flatly, his tone surprising the monk. “I have business here.”
De’Unnero looked at him closely and curiously. “What is it?”
Aydrian moved as if to answer, but stopped suddenly and waved his hand. “It will all sort out, and soon enough,” he said. “If Abbot Olin requires me, then I will go to him, and swiftly.”
“Even on that horse of yours, it will take you a month and more to reach Entel.”
“There are ways to make a horse run faster,” Aydrian assured the monk. “There are methods with the gemstones to leech the strength from others and give it to the horse, and Symphony will prove most receptive.”
“Two weeks, then,” De’Unnero conceded.
“If I am needed, and I hope that it will not come to that.”
“If you go, you go with the understanding that we are in complete control of Wester-Honce,” said the monk. “The two cities to the north will fall to Kalas in short order, and he will sweep out to the west, securing all the land.”
Aydrian nodded, and with that, De’Unnero turned to go. He still had much to do in sorting out the captured brothers of St. Precious. Some had shown signs of possible conversion, though most, predictably, had remained stubborn.
“If I go to Jacintha, you cannot join me,” Aydrian remarked before De’Unnero had gotten out of the door.
De’Unnero turned about and considered the young king, considered his tone most of all.
“I’ll not leave Duke Kalas alone here with such a force,” Aydrian explained, a perfectly logical though ultimately unconvincing addition.
“I have no desire to travel anywhere but to the east,” De’Unnero assured him. “To the gates of St.-Mere-Abelle, where I reclaim my Order and Church in the name of St. Abelle.”
Aydrian agreed, offering yet another nod, but then as De’Unnero turned once more to go, he surprised the monk once again by adding, “But I would wish Sadye to travel with me.”
The blunt remark froze De’Unnero in place. In the quiet moments that followed, he replayed all the looks he had seen Sadye giving to Aydrian over the last few days—nay, over the last few weeks! Sadye was so much closer to Aydrian’s age! And De’Unnero understood that which most drew the attention and elicited the excitement from the bard. She loved power and she loved danger. She had welcomed De’Unnero into her arms because of the thrill of dealing with so dangerous a creature as the weretiger. With that serving as the basis for her lust, how could one such as Sadye not be drawn to Aydrian Boudabras? He was young and handsome and as great a warrior as any in the world, De’Unnero included. He was king, and his domain would soon enough encompass all the known world! And he was dangerous. Oh yes, De’Unnero saw that clearly. Aydrian was a dangerous young man, one who was growing more confident and more powerful by the day.
The monk turned slowly to regard his ally, who had been once, but certainly no more, his student.
“You wish Sadye to leave my side to accompany you?”
“Of course.” It was said so simply, so matter-of-factly.
De’Unnero didn’t want to have this fight at this time. “I cannot be without the both of you,” he said. “There is the little matter of the weretiger.”
“I can give you complete control of the beast,” Aydrian promised.
De’Unnero’s eyes narrowed.
“I can,” Aydrian said to that doubting expression. “I can put the beast back inside of you because I know where to find your humanity. I can show you that, and teach you to use the gemstone to reach the desired level of calm.”
De’Unnero didn’t reply.
“I offer you freedom,” Aydrian said after a long pause, with no response forthcoming from the stunned monk. “I offer you independence from me.” De’Unnero didn’t reply.
“It must come to that, must it not?” Aydrian asked. “I cannot remain in St.-Mere-Abelle with you, after all, once that place is taken. I presume that you will rule the Abellican Church of Honce-the-Bear from that great mother abbey, while Abbot Olin rules the Abellican Church of Behren from either Entel or Jacintha. If that victory is to come to pass, you must learn to hold control over the beast by yourself.”
“And in exchange, I am to give over to you the woman I love?” came the skeptical reply.
Aydrian shrugged, and De’Unnero saw that he, too, was not ready to hav
e this fight at this time. He was probing.
“Her road will be hers to choose, in the end,” Aydrian admitted.
“Her road was already chosen.” With that, the monk turned again to leave.
“And what life will you offer to her in St.-Mere-Abelle?” Aydrian questioned, a parting shot that surely stung De’Unnero. For indeed, what life would Sadye find in the dark corridors of that male-dominated abbey?
The monk had no answers. He walked out of the room, but Aydrian’s voice followed him.
“I offer her the world,” the brash young king said. “The whole world!”
Chapter 11
Posturing
A COLD WIND BLEW STRONG IN BELLI’MAR JURAVIEL’S FACE AS THE TRAIL WOUND about to the northern slope of the mountain. The ground fell away before him, descending to a blanket of thick gray mist, covering a wide vale.
How well Juraviel knew these trails about his homeland. How well he knew the valley before him, Andur’Blough Inninness, with its tree city of Caer’alfar, the home of the Touel’alfar. He had been gone for nearly five years, and had been on the road often before that over the last two decades.
Now it was good to be home, though the specter of Aydrian, King Aydrian, held his smile in check.
He looked back along the trail, to see his companions, Doc’alfar all, moving along.
“What have you done?” came a sharp voice among the trees to Juraviel’s left, long before the elf’s companions had caught up to him.
Despite the uncharacteristically harsh tone, Juraviel recognized the voice of To’el Dallia. He turned and scoured the trees, and sorted his kinswoman out from amid the tangle of branches.
“Long-lost cousins, too far removed,” Juraviel replied solemnly.
To’el Dallia moved to the end of one branch, near to Juraviel, and studied him closely. She wanted to say that it was good to see him—he could see the warm familiarity clear upon her sparkling features. But there, too, resided a dark cloud, a deeper expression of true concern.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 189
