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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “There are some who thrive on such squabbling,” she admitted to the man. “I find that it wearies me and nothing more.”

  “Is the business concluded?” Bou-raiy asked.

  “Abbot Braumin Herde is appointed this day bishop of Palmaris,” she answered. “The formal declaration will be made at eventide.”

  “Yet King Danube is out in the fields with Duke Kalas, by all accounts,” Bou-raiy said doubtfully, for the Duke’s hatred of the Church was well known to all.

  “And with his brother, Midalis,” said Jilseponie. “The discussion of the matter has ended, and Kalas knows it. The appointment is secured, as I promised.”

  “You are a fine ally,” Bou-raiy said with a grin.

  “I am an ally of the people of Honce-the-Bear, first and foremost,” Jilseponie reminded him, and reminding herself that she needed always to keep this one in his place. She had found that she did not hate Bou-raiy, but neither was she a supporter of his somewhat intolerant view of the world. In many ways, Bou-raiy reminded her of Father Abbot Markwart—or of who Markwart might have been had he known in advance the disaster wrought by his own errors. While Markwart might then have avoided some of those errors, would his heart have been any purer? Truly?

  “And, as the Abellican Order shares that hope, you are thus an ally to the Church,” said Bou-raiy.

  Jilseponie nodded, too weary to delve into that loaded supposition at that time.

  “And so I beg of you one more favor or, rather, call it an exchange of favors between two who fight on the same side,” Fio Bou-raiy said with a sly smile that put Jilseponie on her guard.

  “You bring surprises with you this day, Master Bou-raiy. If we were to discuss further business between us, then should you not have brought Bishop Braumin with you, as well as Abbot Ohwan?”

  “They are well aware of my intentions, and supportive in every way,” the master answered, seeming very much at ease—and that only made Queen Jilseponie even less at ease.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Bou-raiy explained, “an exchange of favors to the benefit of both. For my part, I will give to you and to Bishop Braumin that which you most desire: my support concerning Avelyn Desbris. Hold no doubt that I can speed the process, perhaps completing Avelyn’s formal beatification and canonization by the end of next year.”

  Jilseponie narrowed her gaze suspiciously. She knew that Bou-raiy would go along with the process, if for no other reason than to continue to hold favor with so many of the younger, influential masters of the Abellican Church. His open agreement so early in the process was not so much of a surprise, then, but what worried her was that Bou-raiy was trying to heighten the significance of his going along with the inevitable flow.

  “You offer to do that which is correct in the eyes of nearly everyone who remembers the time of the plague,” she responded, trying to keep her tone from revealing her suspicions, even annoyance. “None who survived the plague due to their pilgrimage to the Barbacan, nor any who saw a loved one miraculously healed by the covenant doubt Avelyn’s ascension to sainthood.”

  “But the process has revealed some disturbing aspects of young Avelyn’s behavior,” Bou-raiy candidly answered. “There is the matter of his flight from St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  “His escape, you mean, from unlawful execution,” Jilseponie was quick to respond.

  Fio Bou-raiy nodded, his expression showing that, while not conceding the point, he obviously didn’t want to debate it at length at that time. During Avelyn’s escape from the abbey, a prominent master, Siherton, had been killed, and even Avelyn’s most ardent supporters could not deny that Avelyn was, in part at least, responsible for that death.

  “There is the matter of his excessive drinking, which you yourself testified to,” said Bou-raiy. “There is even the question of Avelyn’s—how may I put this delicately?—reputed intimacy, outside the guidelines of the Church, with …”

  “With me,” Jilseponie finished for him evenly, her expression reflecting the sourness that then washed over her heart. “Yes, Master Bou-raiy, we were intimate,” she admitted, and the sharp-featured man lifted an eyebrow. “But not in any sexual manner. We were intimate in our joining through the soul stone, at healing, and when Avelyn instructed me in the use of the sacred gemstones.”

  “And that, too—” Bou-raiy began to protest.

  “Was necessary and for the good of the world,” Jilseponie flatly finished for him. “If you came here intending to formulate some beneficial partnership, then you choose a winding road in getting there,” she went on, a hint of her anger slipping through. “If you choose to make of me an enemy, then you are a fool indeed.”

  Her blunt words set Bou-raiy back on his heels. He brought his hand up before him, fingertips touching his lips in a pensive pose, and he took a deep breath, as if trying to retract the last few moments of the wayward conversation.

  “I merely try to show that the process remains a difficult one,” he said apologetically—an unusual tone from Master Fio Bou-raiy. “And that my support could smooth—”

  “And it is support that your own heart should demand of you, if you are as genuine as you claim.”

  The man chuckled helplessly at Jilseponie’s blunt remark. “And I shall, and I shall go beyond simple compliance and become an active advocate for Saint Avelyn,” Bou-raiy went on. “Because that is, of course, the correct path to take. But I ask of you that you, too, walk that correct path. I have come not to ask of you, but to offer to you, and to ask only that you consider that which is best for the world before you make your decision.”

  Jilseponie bit back her obvious negative responses and let the surprising man continue.

  “I wish to offer you an appointment to complement your current position,” Bou-raiy explained. “And I tell you honestly that Bishop Braumin agrees with my proposal with all his heart. I, and he, believe that you might better serve the kingdom, the Church, and the people if you take a complementary title to that which comes with that crown you now wear upon your head. Thus, we ask that you consider an appointment as sovereign sister of St. Honce, a position akin to my own as master and one that will require few formal duties on your part but which will send notice to the people that the Church and the State are not at odds.”

  And one that will infuriate my husband’s closest friends, Jilseponie thought. She could only imagine the look upon the face of Duke Kalas should she accept the position of sovereign sister of St. Honce!

  Jilseponie’s thinking quickly shifted, though, going more to the notion of the man delivering the surprising proposition than any possible reactions should she accept. Why in the world would Fio Bou-raiy come to her with such an offer? What gain might he find in it, for surely he would not be delivering this proposition if there was nothing in it specifically to his benefit?

  “You would find few duties, and none at all that would not be voluntary,” Bou-raiy went on. “You would thus be invited to the undoubtedly soon-to-be-convened College of Abbots, and I am certain that King Danube would be agreeable to that prospect!”

  Perhaps, Jilseponie thought, but, in truth, there were too many possibilities flittering about her thoughts for her even to begin to sort them out at that time.

  “What says Abbot Ohwan?” the woman asked; and for the first time, Bou-raiy showed a crack in his seemingly limitless optimism. That spoke volumes to Jilseponie, confirming what she already knew—that Ohwan was not fond of her. She had seen the abbot speaking in hushed tones with Constance Pemblebury many times, though she could only guess at the purposes of such private meetings.

  “This decision goes far above anything in which Abbot Ohwan might hold a voice,” Bou-raiy remarked. “We do not offer such a position to the Queen of Honce-the-Bear lightly. I have spoken at length with Father Abbot Agronguerre, with Bishop Braumin, and with Masters Machuso and Glendenhook, the senior masters at St.-Mere-Abelle. We do not offer this lightly, Queen Jilseponie. As we find the position of bishop to be of mutual benefi
t to Church, to State, to the kingdom, so we feel that this second joining of power will benefit all.”

  It was something to think about, she realized, something not to be dismissed out of hand.

  Fio Bou-raiy left Jilseponie that day with a lot to consider.

  “Then it is true?” Lady Dasslerond asked, her tone flat, betraying no emotions, positive or negative, to the monumental news.

  Bradwarden considered the lady of Caer’alfar carefully, trying to find some hint of her feelings on the matter. The centaur respected Dasslerond; and he feared her perhaps as much as he feared any creature in all the world, despite the fact that the diminutive elf hardly reached to his withers. For Lady Dasslerond could be a beneficent and valuable friend, but she could also be the most deadly of enemies. It was no secret to the observant Bradwarden that Dasslerond had never been fond of Jilseponie and that the lady had been outraged to learn that Elbryan had taught Jilseponie one of the Touel’alfar’s most guarded and secret treasures: bi’nelle dasada.

  And now that same woman, who knew the secret elven sword dance that was the only battle advantage the delicate Touel’alfar held over the larger and stronger humans, was the queen of the foremost human kingdom. Truly the centaur could understand the turmoil that must be roiling inside the lady of Caer’alfar!

  “She’s as true of heart as Elbryan,” the centaur answered, “as Mather, as any that ye trained yerself, lady. Ye fear her, and I’m knowin’ why, but I’m tellin’ ye true that ye’re fearin’ wrong, for there’s none better o’ heart in all the world than me Pony.”

  “Then it is true,” said Dasslerond. “The woman reigns as queen.”

  “She does,” Bradwarden answered, and a cloud passed over Lady Dasslerond’s face.

  She was envisioning, the centaur guessed, a procession of Allheart knights, all in splendid armor, but with fine blades instead of heavy ones, descending upon Andur’Blough Inninness. But why? Bradwarden had to wonder. To his understanding, Pony would have no reason at all to hold anything but honest love for the Touel’alfar.

  Of course, the centaur could not know of Dasslerond’s dark secret—of Aydrian, the dangerous, wayward son of Jilseponie.

  “It truly was received better than I would have expected,” King Danube said with a helpless chuckle, as Duke Kalas stormed out of the room almost immediately after hearing Jilseponie’s recounting of Master Bou-raiy’s proposition.

  The Queen could only echo that helpless laugh and shake her head.

  “Do you feel inclined to hold such a voice in the Church?” her husband asked her, his tone showing sincere interest in her response.

  Jilseponie looked at him with appreciation. He could dismiss this out of hand, if he so chose, could have issued a decree denying any such possibility for Jilseponie or any other member of the royal family to become so formally tied to the Abellican Church.

  “I do not wonder why the Church would desire your voice,” Danube went on. “Did we not fight such a battle for the voice of Jilseponie in Palmaris?”

  “One that was resolved by sharing,” she reminded him, and King Danube chuckled again.

  “Such great changes in the basic fabric of institution!” he exclaimed. “A bishop in Palmaris and now a queen in St. Honce, and formally so!

  “But what frightens me, and what I do not understand, is what Master Bou-raiy wants,” he continued honestly. “I believe that I have come to know this man well enough to understand that there must be, in his view, something more to the appointment than the gain of goodwill between Church and State, something that even goes beyond any benefit to the people.”

  “You see the truth of him, I fear,” said Jilseponie. She thought that she should go to Braumin about this matter, and intended to do exactly that, but then the truth hit her, as it had her friend when Fio Bou-raiy had laid out this very plan to him those months before.

  “He said that I could have a voice at the College of Abbots,” she remarked.

  “What College?” Danube asked. “Have they convened another?”

  “Not yet, but soon, if the reports of Father Abbot Agronguerre’s failing health are to be believed,” she replied. “Therein lies the truth, I think. For at that College, a replacement will be sought, and Fio Bou-raiy will surely seek the position. With only one true opponent, I believe, and one that he knows does not have the favor of King Danube.”

  “Abbot Olin of Entel,” King Danube finished, catching on. “He expects that your voice, by default, will speak in support of him.”

  The two sat there quietly for a while, digesting the situation.

  “And will my voice speak for Master Fio Bou-raiy at the College of Abbots?” Jilseponie asked at length. “And should it not?”

  She and Danube sat again in silence for some time, each wondering if entering such an agreement with the Church might not be a worthwhile endeavor.

  Indeed, before Master Fio Bou-raiy, Bishop Braumin, and all the rest from Palmaris, St.-Mere-Abelle, and Vanguard sailed north as summer turned to fall, Jilseponie Wyndon Ursal wore two mantles, that of queen and that of sovereign sister of St. Honce.

  Not everyone in Ursal—at the court or in the abbey—was pleased by that.

  “Roger Billingsbury,” To’el Dallia said to Lady Dasslerond as the pair watched from the shadows of the trees outside Chasewind Manor in Palmaris the return of Roger and Dainsey. “He is a friend to Jilseponie, most of all.”

  Lady Dasslerond nodded at To’el’s poignant words, a clear reminder to her to consider well the bond that these humans might form between each other in their hearts. What else might explain the obvious and egregious lack of discretion on the part of Elbryan—whom Dasslerond had considered among the finest of rangers and, thus, among the very finest of all humans—in teaching Jilseponie bi’nelle dasada?

  Lady Dasslerond had already set in place the network of spies that would keep an eye on the new Queen, but she feared that she might need more than eyes where Jilseponie was concerned. In that case, she would have to find a way to use and manipulate the bond between Roger and the woman.

  It seemed daunting, but to Dasslerond’s thinking, these were just humans, after all.

  Chapter 18

  Those Familiar Blue Eyes

  AYDRIAN FOUND MICKLIN’S VILLAGE AS THE FIRST SNOW DESCENDED OVER THE frontier of Wester-Honce, and found, to his dismay, that the place was deserted. No second disaster had emptied the village, he soon discerned, for it seemed to him as if the huntsmen had, in an orderly manner, packed up and walked away.

  The snow continued to fall throughout the day and the night. By morning, the young ranger found himself surrounded by more than three feet of the white stuff. He had no food, no companions, and no practical knowledge of the immediate area, but Aydrian, well-trained and in complete harmony with nature, was hardly afraid. He remained in the area for a couple of weeks, seeking any clues about the weretiger and the disaster that had begun the downfall of the village. Finding none, he turned his gaze back to the east.

  Knowing full well that a mighty storm might descend upon him, but hardly fearing that prospect, the young ranger started out again, thinking to take a circuitous route back to Festertool.

  A week later, he found a small village, no more than a cluster of houses, a place much like the abandoned Micklin’s Village. He was greeted warmly by the three men and one woman who were in the common room, though they had never heard of Festertool, let alone any ranger named Nighthawk.

  “What’s bringing the ranger of Festertool out so far, then, in the blows of winter?” the woman asked him.

  “Micklin’s Village,” Aydrian explained. When dark clouds crossed the faces of all four in the room, the young ranger’s hopes brightened. He told of his findings and of the tale of Mickael that had led him there in the first place.

  “Yeah, I know Mickael,” one of the men answered. “Roll bones with him every market.” His voice dropped to lower, grimmer tones. “Used to, anyhow.”

  “A terri
ble fate, they suffered,” the woman added. “All torn up by the beast!” She shuddered.

  “What more might you know of this beast?” Aydrian asked, leaning forward in his chair. “For I am sworn to slay it.”

  “Never heard of it before it attacked Micklin’s Village,” the woman answered, and two of the men nodded their agreement.

  “Heared of the beast in Palmaris,” the third man said, “many years ago, during the plague. Heared that Queen Jilseponie did battle with it before the gates of St. Precious and that she drove it away with her power.”

  “Queen Jilseponie!” another man said, lifting his mug in a toast.

  “Aye, but that was a decade and more ago,” the woman replied. “Are ye thinkin’ it’s the same beast that sacked Micklin’s? Or the same that took three in Tuber’s Creek?”

  “Tuber’s Creek?” Aydrian asked, but the others were too immersed in their own conversation even to notice.

  “Aye, and the same that killed Baron Bildeborough of Palmaris,” the third man was quick to respond. “Bishop Marcalo De’Unnero’s the name they gave to the thing. A most wicked one was he! The same beast who killed Nightbird.”

  The other three villagers groaned and nodded solemnly, but Aydrian could hardly draw breath, let alone make any sound. Had this all been somehow predestined? he had to ask himself. Was fate playing a cruel trick or a kind one, allowing him the opportunity to avenge the death of his father?

  Aydrian listened intently as the four chatted, speaking of Nightbird, his father, and of De’Unnero, the weretiger, speculating as to whether that creature and this one might be one and the same; and arguing whether it was really De’Unnero, or Father Abbot Markwart, who had truly killed the great ranger.

  When their discussion finally began to settle, Aydrian managed to find his voice and ask again, “Tuber’s Creek?”

  And so began the next leg of Aydrian’s hunt, a journey to the south and east, to a small village on the banks of Tuber’s Creek. He arrived a few days later, to find the place solemn and as gray of mood as was the winter sky.