Few words could have hit Juraviel as hard.
“Aydrian follows me into the magical realm,” Lady Dasslerond explained. “His power is greater than mine. He unwinds all that I weave.”
“Then we are lost,” Juraviel remarked. “Or Andur’Blough Inninness is lost. We cannot hope to fight him.”
“Hold out your hand,” Lady Dasslerond instructed him, and after a confused moment, the male complied.
Lady Dasslerond’s right hand went to her hip, drew forth her small dagger, then reached out and cut Juraviel across the palm. He flinched, but did not pull back from her.
The Lady of Caer’alfar reached out her left hand, opening it palm up and rolling the precious emerald to her fingers. Without flinching, without the slightest quiver, she reached over and cut her own palm, then rolled the emerald back into the palm, over her wound, and turned her hand over and placed it atop Juraviel’s.
“Pestiil pe’infor testu,” the Lady intoned.
Juraviel’s eyes widened at the sound of the words, which meant, “So I give my knowledge.” This was the beginning of the transfer of Touel’alfar power, a chant which, once begun, could not be halted.
Lady Dasslerond chanted on. Her words wound and disappeared to Juraviel’s sensibilities, replaced by a sudden rush of insight as the secrets of the emerald began to unravel in his thoughts.
Juraviel closed his eyes and fell within himself. Time itself seemed to stop, or to flow at a different rate. His mind pictured places that he knew from his travels. He saw Mount Aida and Avelyn’s arm—not a memory, but a present-time image of the place! He saw Dundalis and Tymwyvenne, home of Cazzira’s people, far to the south. And he knew that he could go to these places through the power of the emerald. He could warp time and space itself within its tremendous powers.
All sensation suddenly stopped, leaving Juraviel in blackness. It took him a long while to open his eyes, and when he did, he realized that he and Dasslerond were no longer alone on that high ridge.
And he felt tired, so tired.
“Lady, what will you do?” he managed to whisper, when Dasslerond retracted her hand, leaving the emerald upon his. Truly Juraviel was glad when Cazzira moved next to him and put her arm about his waist, giving him needed support.
An honest smile warmed over Lady Dasslerond’s face, and she seemed to Juraviel somehow changed, somehow freed of her burdens.
“Aydrian has come for a fight,” she said, her voice serene, more so than Juraviel had ever heard. “I will show him the ultimate escape. Take all of our people out of Andur’Blough Inninness, Belli’mar Juraviel. Take them and your dear wife and our visiting Doc’alfar king and be long gone from this place. You have the gemstone now. You know how.”
“Lady, you cannot!”
“Do not question me, Belli’mar Juraviel. I knew the dangers of Aydrian, and it was my own folly that brought those dangers down upon us. Now I must pay for my errors. Be quick, I insist, while the resonating powers of the emerald remain with my body and soul.”
Juraviel reached up to wipe away the tears that were suddenly streaming down his face. “My Lady,” he whispered.
Smiling with absolute contentment, Lady Dasslerond turned to Cazzira. “My life has been long and fulfilling. My regret, though, is that I cannot witness the true reunion of our peoples. Brave Cazzira, bear well the children of Belli’mar Juraviel, who will this day rule the Touel’alfar. And bid your King Eltiraaz to show mercy to his cousins, who need his benevolence this dark day.”
“Of course, my Lady Dasslerond,” Cazzira replied.
Lady Dasslerond lifted her bloody hand above her head and clenched her fist. She looked at Juraviel and Cazzira one last time out of the corner of her golden eyes.
Then she threw her head back, and she was gone.
Cazzira turned her questioning stare over Juraviel, who stood staring at the pulsing emerald, feeling its transmission of power to the Lady who had been one with it for many centuries. How keenly that energy flowed now! Juraviel could feel every pulse in his own cut palm, as if his life energy and Dasslerond’s were joined in the hub that was the pulsating emerald.
Juraviel took a deep breath, steadying himself and steeling himself against the wave of regret and sadness. “We must be gone from this place, all of us, and quickly.”
“What of Andur’Blough Inninness?”
Juraviel looked up at the mountains and slowly shook his head.
A great commotion erupted at the front of the marching army when the Lady of Caer’alfar appeared suddenly before them, literally out of thin air. Some men fell back, others charged.
But Dasslerond raised her bloody hand and reached back across the miles to the powers of the emerald. The ground heaved before her and rolled out like a wave, scattering the charging fools and throwing many of the others back against the trailing ranks of humans.
Some warriors lifted bows and let fly, but their feeble arrows never got anywhere near the gemstone-protected Lady.
But then one man strode forward, a wry smile on his face, and Dasslerond didn’t even bother to try to throw her gemstone magic at him.
“Too long have I waited for this moment, Dasslerond,” Aydrian casually remarked. “It was your grave error in training me. You made me too strong.”
“My greatest error was in not allowing you to die on the field outside of Palmaris,” Lady Dasslerond replied. “For I erred in my estimation of your parentage. I thought Elbryan to be your father, but in truth it was Bestesbulzibar!”
Aydrian laughed at her. “Because I reject you and your wretched kin? Because I have become too great to be controlled by the Touel’alfar? You fear me and taunt me because you know that you cannot defeat me!”
“I already have,” Dasslerond calmly replied, and she lifted her hand and whipped it about, chanting as she moved and filling the air about her with the crimson mist of her flowing lifeblood.
Aydrian responded with a snarl and a burst of his own magic, lifting Tempest and surging his power through it, shooting a tremendous bolt of lightning at the slender figure of the elven Lady.
But that lightning dispersed about the wall of crimson mist, leaving Dasslerond untouched. Slowly she began to turn, keeping her hand up above her.
“So flows my blood, so flows my soul,” she intoned. “So swirls my blood, so swirls my home.”
“What foolishness?” Aydrian started to ask.
“In crimson mist and spirit wound, within my heart is valley bound.”
Aydrian began to catch on, his eyes widening, his lips turning into a snarl. “No!” he cried, and he fired another lightning bolt, the greatest blast of all, and ordered his men to charge at the elf.
But Dasslerond continued to spin unabated before him, her upraised hand winding her in a globe of unbroken reddish hue.
Aydrian’s soldiers charged, crying out for their king, but those in the front, whose weapons first touched Dasslerond’s mist, were stopped cold, their weapons and then their bodies erupting in biting red flames. They fell away, screaming, and those behind skidded to a stop.
A snarling and growling Aydrian pushed through them to face his nemesis. “What witchery is this, Dasslerond?” he demanded.
“And none shall find this secret place,” she went on, stopping her spin to face Aydrian directly. “Not a path and not a trace. And not a bird’s call from within, and not the wind’s unending hymn. Not friend nor foe shall know my home, unless the blood of my enemy mixes with my own.”
She finished then, and seemed quite pleased with herself as she stood staring at the befuddled Aydrian.
“I am defeated, Aydrian,” she admitted, and her voice seemed very thin at that moment, and her body itself seemed to be shrinking, as the red globe about her grew richer and larger. “But Andur’Blough Inninness is denied to you.”
“I will find it!” Aydrian growled.
Dasslerond merely smiled, and then she melted away, leaving the glowing and pulsating crimson mist. Immediately it b
egan to swirl, bringing forth a wind that had all of the humans except for Aydrian backing away in fear. Faster and faster Dasslerond’s tornado spun, and then it swept up and away and flew off to the west.
“No,” Aydrian growled and he freed his spirt from his corporeal body with a mere thought to the soul stone set in the chest plate of his armor.
He caught up to that mist and followed it, even rushing ahead as it neared Andur’Blough Inninness. For a brief moment, Aydrian’s spirit was once again within the magical borders of the elven valley, the place where he had been raised from infancy.
But then he had to flee—and he was nearly trapped within and destroyed!—as Dasslerond’s bloody mist came upon the valley, widening to encompass it all.
From a short distance away, Aydrian’s spirit watched as all the valley of Andur’Blough Inninness fell within the swirl of that tornado, the enchanted fog that perpetually covered the place mingling with the crimson cloud, the very trees and ground warping within the swirl.
And then it was gone, as Dasslerond had gone, and Aydrian’s spirit was thrown back into his body.
The weight of that return nearly knocked the young king from his feet, and would have had not Sadye moved to his side to support him. As he absorbed more completely the truth of what had transpired before him, the truth of Dasslerond’s enchantment, he nearly fell over again.
“Damn you!” the frustrated Aydrian cried into the now-empty wind. “Damn you, Dasslerond!”
She was gone to the world now, having given herself to her enchantment. But his victory was a hollow one, Aydrian knew, for in going, she had taken from him any hope of conquering Andur’Blough Inninness.
And that place, he knew, meant more to Lady Dasslerond than her own life ever could.
The Bearmen have wasted no time in filling the void left by the revelations and downfall of Chezru Chieftain Yakim Douan. With Behren in turmoil, Abbot Olin has led the charge from Honce-the-Bear, and has done so accompanied by thousands of soldiers serving the new King Aydrian. A sizable portion of the northern kingdom’s great fleet has joined in, as well.
I gather information of that northern kingdom as I find it, and with great interest, because this new king, this young Aydrian trained by the Touel’alfar, frightens me. He has seized control of the most powerful kingdom in all the world, somehow, and quickly and securely enough for him to look already outside his own borders to expand his domain. If he gains Behren, as it seems he surely will and possibly already has, then no force will be able to resist him.
I spoke with several Abellican monks in the city of Avrou Eesa and came to learn that their Church is in turmoil, with the reigning hierarchy holed up at the great abbey of St.-Mere-Abelle, not only opposing the legitimacy of Aydrian, but also the new order envisioned by Abbot Olin. And yet, despite this ongoing struggle within their own borders, this young king and the abbot of Entel have seen fit to insinuate themselves in the turmoil of Behren. Aydrian strikes with the design of an imperialist, and that, I fear, will mean danger for all the world.
Aydrian’s confidence is stunning, especially from one so young—for he is several years younger than Brynn, even, and she is far below the age one would expect of someone sitting on the throne of a great nation. I see, therefore, in Aydrian, the first mark of a great man, for a great man is one who truly has come to understand that no one is better than he.
That confidence inspires ambition unbridled, and only with such a tool could someone truly rise to such heights. But only after those heights are attained can a true measure of the man be taken. For then the leader faces a challenge of empathy. With great success oft comes a sense of entitlement to that success. The wealthy merchant, the landowner, the feudal lord, the king, the abbot all risk the danger of dismissing good fortune as part of their rise, instead coming to view their fortune and power as something that separates them from the common folk. Even those whose position was gained through heredity instead of effort share this dilemma, oftentimes, illogically, more so.
Was heredity a factor in bringing young Aydrian to the throne?
Whether that is true or not, whether it was effort or heredity or a combination of the two, Aydrian’s temperament might well prove to be the determining factor in the lives of hundreds of thousands of people over the next few years. If he has internally elevated himself above the rabble, as his imperialistic exhibitions seem to indicate, then the world will know war on a grand scale, and for no better reason than to satisfy the ambitions of a few men.
Brynn ascended to power through effort and determination and no small amount of luck. Had she not encountered Agradeleous on her journey through the Path of Starless Night, she would have lacked the tools truly to overcome the Behrenese. But with her rise to power, Brynn Dharielle never forgot the second truth of a great human. She has cried for every life destroyed in the To-gai uprising, To-gai-ru and Behrenese alike. She understands and appreciates the sacrifice and bravery of her own soldiers, the sacrifice of those To-gai-ru they left behind to tend the villages, and the pain brought to innocent Behrenese as well. Even the Behrenese soldiers, Brynn understands, are men swept up in a situation beyond their control.
Brynn cannot dismiss any of them, which is why she understands her position to be more of a burden than a pleasure, more of a necessary responsibility to her community than an avenue of self-gain. Her overriding desire is for peace and prosperity, for her own people and for her neighbors. She would be grateful if her rule over To-gai became an uneventful one, measured in the calmness of passing years rather than in the false glory of murderous conquest. If every kingdom in all the world were ruled by people of mind akin to Brynn Dharielle, then the brotherhood of man would know its greatest age.
And so I must come to understand this Aydrian and the motivations behind his insinuation in the southland. I must come to understand the motivations of those who have guided him on his ascent and who now serve as his advisors. Are they all akin to Abbot Olin, who so obviously has craved Behren and now seizes upon the southern kingdom’s weakness to his own gain?
This danger cannot be underestimated, for young Aydrian is so obviously possessed of the first knowledge of what it is to be a great man. That knowledge, if not in league with the second tenet, is a truly dangerous thing.
A great man knows that no one is better than he.
But a truly great man appreciates, too, that he is no better than anyone else.
—PAGONEL
Chapter 28
When Aydrian Comes Knocking
“THEY ARE EFFICIENT, IF NOTHING ELSE,” BRYNN SAID SARCASTICALLY. SHE STOOD next to Pagonel on the battlement of Dharyan-Dharielle, looking out over the southern sands where the great army of Jacintha had assembled under the dual banners of Chezru and, amazingly, the Abellican Church.
“Yatol De Hamman must have come straight from Avrou Eesa,” Pagonel agreed. “I would have expected him to turn his attention to the south to solidify all of Behren under Yatol Wadon first.” Still, the mystic gave a sigh of relief that they had not been caught unawares. In addition to the forces Brynn had ordered mustered at the plateau divide, the woman had sent out some of her own garrison commanders and the dragon Agradeleous to organize the line.
“You believe that he erred?” Brynn’s hopeful look, the woman grasping at a possible weakness, reminded Pagonel of just how young and inexperienced she was.
“That, or we have underestimated the power of Jacintha with the addition of Abbot Olin’s forces,” the mystic answered, and he made it clear with his tone that he thought the latter the more likely scenario. “Few of Behren’s western cities gave allegiance to Yatol Bardoh, and so with Avrou Eesa gone over to Jacintha, Yatol De Hamman might well believe—and might well be correct in believing—that Behren is once again under the great tent of Jacintha. Still, even if that is true, I would have expected Yatol De Hamman to move more cautiously before marching with such numbers to Dharyan-Dharielle.”
“Abbot Olin wants all of traditional
Behren back, it would seem,” said Brynn, and Pagonel saw the hints of fires light behind her rich brown eyes, those same old simmering fires that had propelled the woman to victory over the Behrenese.
“It is not Abbot Olin who truly concerns me,” the mystic said. “But rather, your friend who is now king.”
“We do not know where Aydrian truly stands with all of this,” came a defensive reply. “He may not even know of Olin’s moves upon Jacintha.”
“Abbot Olin came in with ten thousand Honce-the-Bear soldiers,” Pagonel reminded.
“Most mercenaries.”
“But all marching under the new flag of Aydrian’s kingdom. And Abbot Olin was supported by the fleet of Honce-the-Bear. If Abbot Olin, who is not even the Father Abbot of the Abellican Church, can muster that strength on his own, then I would guess that your friend’s kingdom is in true turmoil.”
Brynn’s expression told the mystic that he had won the point.
“Riders,” Brynn remarked, motioning to the side, where a group of soldiers had broken away from De Hamman’s gathered force and were running their mounts hard for Dharyan-Dharielle’s southern gate. Brynn started off toward that gate, with Pagonel right behind, and they arrived at the battlement atop the eastern gatetower just as the group of riders pulled up outside. They carried three flags: that of Jacintha, that of the Abellican evergreen symbol, and that of truce. They walked their mounts right up before the closed gate.
“I bring great tidings!” cried the man centering the group, a burly Behrenese warrior, though not a Chezhou-Lei. He wore a great moustache that ran down from the sides of his lips and off his chin in tightly wound braids. His hair was black and bushy, sticking out all about his head from under the band of his turban.
“Deliver them, then!” Brynn cried back before the gatekeeper could answer.
The Behrenese soldier looked up at her, and recognition flashed on his swarthy features. “Dragon of To-gai!” he called. “My master, Yatol De Hamman, bids me inform you, with great joy, that Behren is united once again!”
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 213
