"Then I need to choose, and soon," Danube replied. "Do I wound Constance or enrage Midalis? For either way, it seems as if I am about to bring pain to a friend." "There remains a third option," saidJe'howith.
"I would never ask her to be rid of the baby," Danube insisted.
"No, not that," saidJe'howith. "Never that!"
Danube tilted his head, studying the man, convinced that if, as the abbot had remarked, other women had been rid of their unwanted children, then hypocritical old Je'howith, or some other gemstone-wielding monk, had likely played a role in the process.
"You can use a delaying tactic," the abbot went on, "a way for you to let the situation go on and let the passage of time guide you to more decisive and definitive action. This is not without precedent-you can issue a decree of Denial of Privilege, a technical term and legal maneuver that will not deny the child's claim to the throne forever, as you have done with your other bastard heirs, but will, rather, maintain the present status, keeping Constance's child outside the line of succession and keeping your optionor that of Midalis should he succeed you and die childless-for recognizing the child as rightful heir at a future date."
"Denial of Privilege?" Danube echoed.
"A temporary measure that has been used in centuries past," Je'howith answered. "And it is possible for you to even include contingencies that will lift the injunction against the child's becoming king. Let us suppose that you outlive your brother, then die unexpectedly."
"A truly inspiring supposition," Danube said dryly.
"In that case, had you so specified, Constance's child would assume the throne," Je'howith explained.
"And if I decree a Denial of Privilege and Midalis outlives me? "
"Then the child will have no claim to the throne above your brother, and it would be up to him to either assign rights to the child in the event of his childless demise or deny them outright with a formal Refusal of Acceptance."
King Danube settled back again and put his hand to his chin, trying to digest all of these options.
"How much easier it all would be if you, and your brother, had both married and sired proper heirs," the abbot lamented.
Danube glanced up at him, eyes narrow, a poignant reminder to the old abbot that he had indeed been married to Queen Vivian, who had died despite Je'howith's efforts to save her. And those efforts-or at least, the lack of their effectiveness-had in effect split the court of Ursal for many years and were the source of the lingering hatred between Je'howith and Duke Kalas.
Je'howith prompdy bowed and turned to leave.
And King Danube Brock Ursal, who had been happily celebrating what he thought would be a return to normalcy, found himself full of questions and turmoil. The delaying tactic sounded most promising, both for sparing Constance the pain and for placating Midalis, who had never really been close to his brother, the King, but had never been his rival either.
Yes, the Denial of Privilege seemed a promising course; and, in truth, when he looked at things that way, this all didn't seem like such a momentous problem.
However, there was one other complicating factor, an image of another woman, a warrior, a gemstone witch. It was an image King Danube could not shake out of his head.
Chapter 11
Resting Side by Side
He had a feeling, as he flitted from tree to tree, of true warmth and friendship, a feeling not unlike that he experienced whenever he returned home to Andur'Blough Inninness after one of his forays into the realm of the humans. For Juraviel, the Timberiands region around Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o'-the-World-the former haunt of Nightbird, the home of both the ranger and Jilseponie-had the same smell and feel as the elven valley. How curious that notion struck the elf now as he moved along the forested hills and valleys, how surprising. Juraviel was Touel'alfar, of the people. That fact was the primary truth in his long life, the binding code of responsibility and of a specific and shared understanding of all the world and its varied inhabitants. In Juraviel's thoughts, in the thoughts of every Touel'alfar, even the least of friends among his own people-the other elf with whom he could not agree on anything, the elf he found most unpleasant-ranked far above the best of friends he might make among n'Touel'alfar, the folk not of the people. Juraviel did not question that tenet of his existence-never before and not now-but his feeling warmth as he neared the small human settlement of Dundalis, his feeling almost as if he were going home surprised him.
Perhaps, had he looked more deeply into himself, Belli'mar Juraviel would have noted then that his lines of ingrained reasoning were not in accord with the feelings within his heart.
The elf paused in his travels late one afternoon, finding a high branch of a wide maple where he could settle for a short rest. Soon he was comfortably asleep.
And then, soon after, he awoke to a haunting melody drifting on the evening breeze, echoing through the forest as if every tree were taking it inside in a deep and lingering breath and then blowing it out again for the rest of the forest to share, but altered, only slightly, by the heart of its last host tree. "The Forest Ghost," Juraviel whispered, and he smiled as he heard the name aloud, the name the humans of Elbryan's first home had bestowed upon the centaur, Brad-warden, and his bagpipes. How many times had young Elbryan and Jilseponie heard that tune? Juraviel wondered. How many times had it been just below their level of consciousness as they drifted off to sleep in their little beds?
And though even Bradwarden was considered n'Touel'alfar by his somewhat xenophobic people, Juraviel could not deny the comfort he derived from hearing the centaur's song, akin to the comfort he felt from just being in this region once more.
He followed the song slowly and whimsically, pausing to listen or to dance, whenever he found a clearing in the forest canopy that afforded him a beautiful view of the starlit heavens. He knew that the night was young and that Bradwarden often played until very, very late, so he meandered and he wandered. And finally he saw them, the centaur standing atop a bare-topped hillock, his pipes under one arm. Bradwarden was not as wide as other horses Juraviel had seen-certainly not as massive as mighty Symphony-but it seemed to the elf as if his centaur friend were ten feet tall, a gigantic and powerful creature. That such an obvious warrior could play such beautiful melodies struck Juraviel profoundly, the light and dark of Bradwarden's soul, at once ferocious and tender.
Reclining on the grass beside the centaur lay Roger Lockless. It occurred to Juraviel then that the young man, with his slightly angular features and delicate size-the result of a disease that had taken both his parentsseemed as much akin to the elves as to the humans. Not in temperament, though, Juraviel reminded himself. Roger had learned much in the trials of the last couple of years, had grown tremendously from the self-centered boy Juraviel and Nightbird had helped escape from the clutches of a vicious powrie band that had been occupying Caer Tinella. But as far as Juraviel and all the elves were concerned, he still had far, far to go even to approach the level of understanding and reasoning of Jilseponie. And from there, Roger would have far to go to begin to see the truth of the world as Bradwarden or Nightbird could see it; and even those two, despite everything, could never climb beyond the limitations of their kind, could never be anything but n'Touel'alfar.
Juraviel did like Roger, though, had tolerated him even when he was younger and more foolish, and had worked with him well during the last days of the war against Markwart.
"I cannot wait to see her again," he heard Roger say; and he knew from the expression on the man's face that Roger was surely talking about Jilseponie. Was it possible, then, that the woman hadn't even yet come north, and that Roger, perhaps, still possessed the gemstones?
Bradwarden paused. "Ah, but she's takin' her time about it," he said. "It's not but a week o' ridin' for one lookin' to get here from Palmaris."
"She's got friends in Caer Tinella," Roger reminded him. "And she's got good weather and a road clear o' monsters," the centaur added. "Aye, that's it. Our Pony's not use
d to walkin' a road clear o' monsters. Got her all confused."
They shared a lighthearted laugh, and not out of any nervousness, tor neither seemed the least bit afraid for the well-being of their dear, and ultimately capable, friend.
Juraviel moved stealthily up the hill, a whisper of wind, a roaming shadow. "Perhaps Jilseponie left the road in search of sport," he said. Both his friends jumped in surprise, Bradwarden tossing down his pipes and grabbing up an axe that likely outweighed Juraviel, Roger turning several evasive rolls to the side.
They both settled quickly, and Bradwarden roared out a great cheer, obviously recognizing the elf's voice, even as Roger cautiously called out, "Juraviel?"
The elf stepped out into the clear. "Too long has it been since I have heard the piping of the Forest Ghost," he said. Bradwarden tossed his axe back over his shoulder and skipped down to hoist Juraviel in a great hug.
"And too long since I have heard the complaints of Roger Lockless!" Juraviel added in jest as Bradwarden put him down so that Roger could embrace him.
"And too long since we've seen yerself, elf," the centaur replied. "But I thought ye was for yer home."
"And so I have been in the valley for all these months," Juraviel replied, "and would be still, had not Lady Dasslerond bidden me to return here for-" He paused and waved his hands. "Ah, but that is business that we two, Bradwarden, must discuss later. Nothing so serious that it cannot wait until old friends have had time to share news."
Both Bradwarden and Roger seemed concerned for a moment, until Juraviel's smile melted away any anxieties. "Not much for tellin'," the centaur began. "All three towns are up and full o' folk again."
"Goblins in the area?" Juraviel asked.
"No sign of goblins, powries, or giants," Roger was quick to reply. "We have kept vigilant scouting parties all about the region, and all has been quiet and peaceful."
"We're thinkin' that there's more than a few o' the beasts farther to the north," Bradwarden added. "But we're thinkin', too, that none o' them got the belly for comin' south again."
Juraviel nodded, for it seemed logical enough. These two and Elbryan, along with a contingent of Kingsmen and some renegade monks, had gone all the way back to the Barbacan, after all, hundreds of miles through the Wilderlands, with hardly a sign of the monsters. And Juraviel's own trail had led him in from the Wilderlands to the west, again with no sign of any monsters, except of course in the Moorlands, which had always been thick with goblins. Those goblins, until the coming of the dactyl, had never been a threat to anybody except for those foolish enough to wander into their territory.
Yes, the land was settling again, at long last, into peace, and that fact only made Bradwarden's song all the sweeter.
"And if they do come south," Roger put in at length, "then I'll find them and steal all their weapons, and won't they be easy to chase off then!"
"Unless they have Craggoth hounds," Juraviel said to the boastful man somewhat sternly; and the mention of the powerful powrie hunting dogs reminded Roger of a not-so-pleasant experience.
Bradwarden howled with laughter and Roger's lips got very tight, but Juraviel held the man's gaze with equal intensity; his expression alone poignantly asked Roger who it was that he was trying to impress.
"Well, enough o' the boastin'," Bradwarden said, and he lifted his pipes back to his lips, but paused and nodded to Juraviel. "Ye goin' to tell us what's bringin' ye back here, elf? Or are ye waitin' for us to beg ye? "
"I have become the mentor to another ranger," Juraviel admitted.
"You are bringing another ranger here?" Roger quickly put in, his tone making it seem as if he was not too thrilled about that prospect.
"She is just a child," he explained, "and her path, I assure you, will bring her nowhere near Dundalis."
Roger nodded grimly, but his look turned perplexed. "She?"
"Why are you so surprised? " Juraviel replied. "Do you not believe that a woman can be a ranger? "
"Ho, ho, what!" Bradwarden howled, doing his best Avelyn Desbris imitation. "But wouldn't Pony be kickin' yer skinny backside if she ever heard ye talkm' like that!"
Roger shrugged, conceding the point.
"Indeed, Jilseponie would have been a fine candidate for our training," Juraviel agreed. "Had we known her potential when she walked down the road from the ruined Dundalis, we might have changed her life's path considerably."
This whole topic seemed like a minor point, and nothing to debate, but Juraviel noted that Roger didn't appear very pleased by it all. The elf understood Roger Lockless, particularly the man's minor failings, well enough to recognize the source of that look. "You, too, Roger Lockless, might have found yourself in Caer'alfar, had your situation merited it."
"I could still go and learn," the young man insisted.
"You are at least five years too old," Juraviel explained. "Lady Dasslerond would have no part of bringing an adult human into our land for such training."
"Then you teach me," Roger said, only half kiddingly, "while you are here, I mean." "The training takes years."
"Then just teach me select parts of it," Roger went on. "Teach me that sword dance that Elbryan and Pony…" His voice trailed off, his mouth hanging open at the sight ofJuraviel, whose lips were thin, and his expression stern, seemingly bordering on the verge of an explosion. "I'm thinkin' he's sayin' no," Bradwarden remarked dryly. Roger looked to Bradwarden for support and smiled sheepishly. "So are ye goin' to tell us, elf?" the centaur prompted. "Ye got yerself a new ranger-to-be, but that's not a reason for ye to come all the way out here to tell me about it."
"She is a rider," Juraviel said, his glare still locked upon Roger, "and I must secure a mount for her." He understood that the young man hadn't intentionally said anything wrong, but the mere mention of bi'nelle dasada, the secret elven fighting technique, opened a wound. It was Elbryan's teaching of the secret dance to Jilseponie that had so angered Lady Dasslerond, and, Juraviel believed, that was why Lady Dasslerond felt justified in keeping their child and raising it as a son of the Touel'alfar. Lady Dasslerond's anger, Juraviel believed, was the primary reason guiding her handling of the boy, her keeping Juraviel away from him, her keeping Jilseponie ignorant of his existence. Even more than that, Lady Dasslerond held Juraviel ultimately at fault for Elbryan's teaching Jilseponie the sword dance. Whatever feelings he might have for Elbryan or for Jilseponie, Juraviel couldn't deny the truth of Elbryan's betrayal. The ranger had given something away that was not his to give, and in doing so, he had, to Lady Dasslerond's way of thinking, threatened the very existence of the Touel'alfar.
"We've more than a few fine ponies runnin' about," Bradwarden started to answer, but then a wry grin crossed his face. "Ye're not thinkin'…" he guessed.
"A proper mount for a ranger," Juraviel said determinedly. Roger looked from one to the other, as if trying to decipher their meaning, but then his eyes widened and he stared at Juraviel. "Symphony? " he asked. "You mean to take Symphony away? But-"
"Easy, lad," Bradwarden intervened. "I'm thinkin' that none're takin' Symphony unless Symphony's wantin' to go."
"True enough," Juraviel agreed, "and I am sure that if Symphony is not agreeable, Bradwarden will help me to find another fitting mount." "Good rider, this one? " the centaur asked. "To-gai-ru," Juraviel answered. Bradwarden whistled in admiration.
"Like the pinto horses?" Roger asked. "The ones the AUheart knights ride?"
"To-gai," Bradwarden confirmed. "And they're ponies, not horses, though they're big ones at that, eight hundred pounds o' muscle and on the 146 R. A. SALVATORE top side o' fourteen hands. If ye're lookin' to get one of those for yer young ranger, then ye're lookin' in the wrong place."
Juraviel nodded and then decided to let the matter drop; he and Bradwarden could take care of the horse business later on. "Play your pipes, Forest Ghost," he said with a smile. "I have heard enough of the events; now I wish to hear what is in Bradwarden's heart."
The centaur smiled and b
egan his melody once again, while Juraviel reclined on the grass beside Roger. The young man was soon fast asleep, but Juraviel stayed up long into the night, staring at the stars and drinking in Bradwarden's song.
"You were telling Bradwarden that you expect Jilseponie to return to Dundalis soon," Juraviel prompted Roger when the two were walking back through the forest toward Dundalis the next morning. The day was hot and sunny, with not a hint of a wind. Bradwarden had gone off at daybreak to scout the horse herd for Juraviel, and to see if he could find Symphony.
"She may already be there," the young man replied with obvious excitement; and Juraviel, too, was thrilled at the prospect of seeing his dear friend once more. There was something else edging Roger's voice, Juraviel recognized, something beyond simple happiness and excitement.
"Have you seen her at all of late? " Juraviel asked.
"Not since last summer," Roger replied, "not since the day Bradwarden and I brought-Elbryan-I mean…"
"The day you brought Nightbird's casket from Palmaris," Juraviel finished for him. "I watched you begin your journey up the northern road."
"That was the worst journey of my life," Roger said, his voice slightly quavering. "I still can't believe…"
"He is at rest in the grove?" Juraviel asked. "Beside his uncle Mather?"
Roger^hodded, and the elf immediately turned aside from the trail back to Dundalis, heading instead for the grave of his friend, with Roger close behind.
The temperature seemed cooler in the sheltered grove in the forest north of Dundalis. Juraviel, who knew the place well, led the way along the manyforked and confusing trails, for though the grove was not very large, there was a bit of magic about it, a minor illusion placed by Lady Dasslerond herself, using her powerful emerald, when she had come to bid farewell to Mather Wyndon several years after his death.
Juraviel picked the trail with certainty, moving among the somber trees; and soon the pair came to the place, with its side-by-side cairns. They stood solemnly for a long while, staring and remembering-and for Juraviel, who had lived for more than two centuries, that meant remembering two friends, two rangers.
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