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

by R. A. Salvatore

  “How many know of the boy’s parentage?” Olin asked earnestly. At that moment, De’Unnero understood that the old man’s hesitance was a defensive measure and that in truth Olin had embraced De’Unnero’s promise with all his heart.

  “Four,” De’Unnero answered, “including the boy and including you.”

  “And so you are left with a secret,” Olin then remarked, “a potent one, but one that, I suspect, will bring you nothing but another …”

  De’Unnero’s smug expression and movement, the former monk reaching under the folds of his tunic, gave Olin pause.

  De’Unnero pulled forth the parchments and tossed them onto Olin’s desk.

  “What are these?” the old abbot asked, unrolling them, and recognizing them as navigational charts of the great Mirianic.

  “The way to a treasure that mocks the coffers of King Danube himself,” said De’Unnero. “The way to Pimaninicuit.”

  Olin’s glowing eyes seemed as if they would fall out of their sockets. “How?” he sputtered. “Why have you … what can you hope …” He looked up, shaking his head in complete disbelief.

  “Consider the riches that lie beneath the sands of Pimaninicuit,” De’Unnero remarked, “centuries, millennia, of gemstones fallen from the Halo.”

  “They have not been blessed, and so are no longer magical,” Olin countered.

  “Do they have to be?” asked De’Unnero. “Is an emerald a thing without value if it is not possessed of magical powers?”

  Abbot Olin pushed the parchments back De’Unnero’s way. “This is forbidden,” he declared, obviously terrified by the prospect.

  “By whom?”

  “Church canon!” Olin cried. “Since the beginning of time. Since the days of St. Abelle!”

  “Does it matter?” De’Unnero replied, mimicking Olin’s tone from the previous day’s discussion when the conversation had turned to the matter of God.

  Olin spent a long while considering his reply, and the maps on the desk before him. “What do you ask of me?” he asked quietly. “And what are your plans?”

  “You have ties to the sailors,” De’Unnero replied. “I will need ships for this journey—fear not, for if there is trouble, your name will not surface.”

  “How many ships?”

  “As many as I can muster,” De’Unnero replied. “For each will return with a king’s treasure in its hold, the funds we will need to raise an army, the funds we will need, when the time is upon us, to bring Aydrian to the throne of Honce-the-Bear.”

  “And then use that gain to reshape the Church,” Olin reasoned.

  De’Unnero only smiled.

  “King Danube is a younger man than I,” said Olin, “by decades, not years. I will not outlive him.”

  The sinister De’Unnero only smiled again.

  Chapter 25

  Gray Autumn

  IT WAS A GRAY AUTUMN IN URSAL THAT FALL OF GOD’S YEAR 843. THE MOOD AND the sky were one.

  “You will go to see them?” Duke Kalas asked Danube one rainy afternoon. The two were walking in the garden, despite the rain and the chill wind, speaking of Constance and Danube’s sons, who were now living in Yorkeytown, the largest city in Yorkey County, the rolling farmlands east of Ursal and a favored retreat for the nobles of Danube’s court.

  “My place is here, beside my wife,” Danube replied resolutely, and he didn’t miss Duke Kalas’ wince.

  “It is commonplace for a king and queen to winter separately,” Kalas reminded.

  “For a king to winter with his former lover?” Danube replied with a chuckle. “With the mother of his two children?”

  “Constance would be pleased to see you,” said Kalas, who had recently visited the banished noblewoman and had not been pleased by what he had seen.

  “I’ll hear no more of it,” said Danube.

  “They are your sons, heirs to the throne,” said Kalas. “You have a responsibility to the future of the kingdom—a greater one, I daresay, than any duty toward your wife.”

  “Beware your words!”

  Danube stopped as he issued the warning, turning and staring hard at Kalas, but the Duke, who had been Danube’s friend since before Danube had ascended the throne as a teenager, did not back down, and matched the King stare for stare.

  “You knew when you became king that there was a point where personal preference had to be ignored,” Kalas reminded. “A point where the responsibilities of king and kingdom outweighed the preferences of a man, of any man. And I know the same to be true of my own position as duke of Wester-Honce. Would I have ever gone to Palmaris to serve as baron, however briefly, if I had seen any choice in the matter?”

  King Danube didn’t blink.

  “Merwick and Torrence are in line for the crown,” said Kalas. “Merwick only behind your brother, who lives in a wild land, and Torrence next behind him. It is very likely that one of them will one day be crowned king of Honce-the-Bear. Is this not true?”

  Danube looked away.

  “A fine king either of them will become, so removed from court and from their father,” Kalas said with obvious disdain. “And what resentments might they feel to learn that their father would not even come to visit them? Perhaps you should consider your responsibility to Jilseponie in the event of your death. How will your successor, if it is not Midalis, feel toward your queen?”

  Danube took a deep breath. He wanted to scold Kalas, wanted to turn and punch the man in the face for speaking so boldly. But how could he deny the truth of Kalas’ words? And why, why had Constance decided to leave Ursal? How Danube’s life had turned upside down since that event! For many of the court had secretly blamed Jilseponie. Danube heard their angry whispers against his wife and noted their scornful glances Jilseponie’s way.

  “Why did she leave?” he said aloud, speaking more to himself than to Kalas.

  “Because she could not bear to watch you with Jilseponie,” Kalas answered—his honest opinion, for, of course, Constance had not told anyone the truth: that she had been poisoning Jilseponie. And neither had Jilseponie spoken of the crime, to Danube or anyone else.

  “She knew the truth of my heart long before Jilseponie became queen,” Danube pointed out. “For years I was traveling to Palmaris to visit Jilseponie, and never did I hide my true feelings from Constance. Neither did I embrace those feelings at the expense of Constance’s heart.”

  “Are you asking me if you did anything wrong?” Kalas bluntly asked.

  Danube stared at him hard.

  “You did,” Kalas dared to say, and Danube winced but did not interrupt or try to stop him. “You should have taken Jilseponie as your mistress and left her in Palmaris, where she belongs, where she fits. If you were to name a queen, it should have been Constance Pemblebury. You chose to satisfy your needs above the needs of the court—”

  “Damn you and your court to Bestesbulzibar’s own hellfires!” Danube roared. “You dare to imply that Jilseponie does not belong in Ursal because the overperfumed ladies are angry that an outsider broke into their precious little circle and stole the throne most of them coveted? The throne, I say, and not the man who sits on the throne beside the queen. Nay, never that!”

  “You doubt that Constance loves you?” Duke Kalas asked incredulously.

  Danube bit back his response and simply growled in frustration. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner?”

  “Am I not your friend, then?” Kalas asked simply.

  “And as my friend, you should have helped me in this,” Danube pointedly replied, poking a finger Kalas’ way. “I notice that Duke Targon Bree Kalas has done little to help Jilseponie settle into life in Ursal. I have not heard Kalas defending his queen, defending his friend’s wife, from the vicious whispers and rumors that hound her every step!”

  Kalas stood very straight, he and Danube staring at each other hard for a long while, both realizing that this fight had been a long time in coming and both understanding, and regretting, that there would be no turn
ing back from this critical point.

  “I will winter in Yorkeytown,” Kalas announced.

  “Constance should not have gone,” King Danube said evenly.

  “She felt she had no choice.”

  “I should not have allowed it.”

  Duke Kalas nearly choked on that, his eyes going wide.

  “I should not have allowed the children to go,” Danube clarified. “Indeed, they will return to Ursal in the spring and spend every summer here; and they may return to Yorkeytown each winter to be with their mother, if they so choose, or Constance may, of course, return to Ursal. Yes, that is my decision.” He looked up at Kalas and raised an eyebrow. “Comments?”

  “You are the king. You can, and will, do as you see best,” the Duke of Wester-Honce replied diplomatically, though a hint of sarcasm did sneak into his voice.

  Kalas bowed then, rather stiffly, and turned and walked away; and Danube knew without doubt that things between them had just changed forever.

  She pretended not to hear the critical whisper, whatever it might be, or the ensuing giggle, but when Kenikan the chef entered the room from the door opposite bearing a tray of treats, and the two women giggled again, all the louder, Jilseponie found them harder to ignore.

  For this latest rumor, that Jilseponie and the chef had become somewhat more than friends, could not be taken lightly, the Queen knew. This was a rumor of treason, one that would harm more than her reputation, would go to Danube’s heart.

  Keeping her gaze forward, her expression calm, Jilseponie altered her course just a bit, so that she would pass right before the two women. “I should be careful of the gossip that leaves your foul mouths if I were you,” she said. And it was the first time in months that she had bothered to confront any of the gossipers, except of course for her fight with Constance.

  “Fear not the reputation of Jilseponie the Queen,” she quietly continued, walking past and not looking at the pair. “Fear instead the reputation of Jilseponie, the wife of Nightbird.”

  She did glance once at them, to see one blanching and the other staring back at her incredulously, as if Jilseponie had somehow just elevated the tension of the confrontation beyond all bounds of reason—which had been Jilseponie’s point exactly in putting her threat into physical terms. These women of the court were quite used to the battles of gossip, the constant sniping and rumormongering. But the experience of actually confronting an enemy, of doing battle face-to-face, was quite beyond them.

  Jilseponie held those images of confusion and terror close to her as she made her way through the castle to the private quarters she shared with Danube.

  And there she found her husband, looking miserable. She sat down opposite him, though he was looking down and not at her, and patiently waited for him to guide the conversation.

  “What I would give to share a child with you,” Danube finally said, not looking up.

  Jilseponie started to respond but paused. Was Danube speaking about a child to better share their love, or one for other, political reasons? His tone gave her the distinct impression that it was the latter.

  “Would that make things easier at court, do you believe?” Jilseponie asked.

  Danube shrugged, still staring at the floor. This uncharacteristic posture told Jilseponie that something was terribly wrong, that perhaps the rumor of her and the chef had come to his ears.

  “Or would it merely complicate the issues?” she asked, pressing on.

  “It would make my choices now more clear,” the King explained, and that unexpected answer gave Jilseponie pause. She looked at her husband curiously.

  “I fear that I must bring Merwick and Torrence back to court,” Danube explained, “for part of the year, at least, that they might properly learn their responsibility as my heirs.”

  “Of course,” Jilseponie answered, purposely filling her voice with eagerness. She had never held anything against Merwick and Torrence, after all, and while she didn’t know them very well and couldn’t measure their fitness for the throne, she had seen nothing from either of them to discourage the notion.

  Surprisingly, her enthusiastic agreement didn’t seem to brighten Danube at all.

  “Would it be better, do you suppose, if I name you as successor?” he asked unexpectedly. “Behind Midalis, perhaps, but ahead of Merwick and Torrence?”

  Jilseponie’s face screwed up and she worked hard and fast to get through the multitude of refusals that tried to rush out of her mouth. “Why would you even think such a thing?” she asked.

  “You are the queen,” Danube answered simply, and he finally did look up at his wife.

  “No,” she answered flatly. “I have no desire to be further immersed in the politics of Ursal. Nor do I desire, nor would I accept, any appointment to the line of succession. My life is complicated enough—”

  “Troubled enough, you mean,” Danube interjected.

  Jilseponie didn’t even try to disagree. “My possible ascension was never a part of our agreement, not before I came to Palmaris and not since. I see no reason to change the standing arrangement—a solemn vow that you gave to your brother and to the other nobles that goes in direct opposition to such a course. If you alter things now, if you change your mind and the formal line of succession, you will be openly betraying the trust and confidence of many of your court, including many who already consider me an enemy.”

  “Perhaps those courtiers do not deserve my trust and confidence,” Danube offered.

  Again, Jilseponie had to pause and fully digest the surprising words. “I’ll not lie to you,” she said at length. “If at our next grand celebration, a huge crack split the grand ballroom and dropped more than half of your courtiers into a bottomless pit, I would not lament their loss. But I did not come here to shake the court of Castle Ursal apart, nor do I wish to be put into such a position. Nor do I wish to be a ruling queen.”

  “Yet all of the former is a consequence of your simply being here at my side!” Danube yelled at her suddenly. “Split the court?” he echoed incredulously. “Have you not? Have I not by bringing you here? Where is Constance, then? And where Kalas?”

  “Kalas?” Jilseponie asked, for she had not heard of the King’s falling out with the Duke nor of Kalas’ plan to leave Ursal. Danube seemed not to even hear her, though.

  “Perhaps I erred in bringing you here, for measured against you and your ways of the northland, life at court seems pale indeed, wretched even to me, who grew up in this world,” Danube rolled on. “All your ideals, your quaint notions of friendship … they cannot stand against the realities of this life.”

  “My ideals?” asked Jilseponie. “These are not shared by you? What of the times we spent together in Palmaris? What of your proposal—your choice—in marrying me? Do you believe that to be an error?”

  “I did not foresee the depth—”

  “Of the shallowness of your court,” Jilseponie interrupted. “Quite an irony, and not one that you, or I, must assume responsibility for.”

  King Danube stared at her. “There is a rumor circulating that you have been taking herbs, the same ones used by the courtesans to prevent pregnancy,” he said.

  How Jilseponie wanted to lay it all out to him then and there, to tell Danube about Constance and her conspiracy. Perhaps she had erred in simply sending Constance away without explanation. Perhaps she should have brought it all out in the open and let an honest trial judge the woman. Perhaps she should do so now.

  Jilseponie had to take a deep breath to even get through the mere thought of it, for she understood the implications of such a course: a complete destruction of the present court, and some long-festering bad feelings from very powerful landowners and noblemen that could well haunt her husband for the rest of his days.

  “I am taking no such herbs,” she answered honestly, phrasing her words in the present tense. “Nor have I ever knowingly consumed any substance that would prevent pregnancy—nor did I ever even hear of such things until very recently.”


  Danube stared at her for a long while, and she did not blink, secure in the truth of her words.

  “Do you love me?” Danube asked suddenly.

  “I came to Ursal, gave up all of my life before this, because I do,” Jilseponie answered. “That has not changed.”

  Danube narrowed his eyes and stared at her even more intently. “Do you love me as you loved Elbryan?”

  Jilseponie winced and shrank back, her breath coming out in one long and desperate sigh. How could he ask her such a thing? How could she compare the two when she was at such a different place in her own life. “I have never lied to you about that,” she answered after a long and uncomfortable pause. “From the beginning, I explained to you the differences between—”

  “Spare me,” Danube begged, holding up one hand.

  If he had stood and slapped her across the face, he would not have wounded Jilseponie more.

  Duke Kalas wore his most threadbare outfit this evening, and had purposely neither shaved nor washed very thoroughly after an afternoon spent riding. He needed to get away, from Danube and all the trappings of court. For Kalas, that meant a journey to the slums of Ursal, to the taverns where the peasants gathered to gossip and to drink away the realities of their miserable existence. This was one of his secret pleasures, unknown to King Danube and to any of the other nobles—except for Constance, who had accompanied him on such expeditions in the past.

  He entered the tavern with an air of superiority, feeling above the many peasants and yet trying to blend in with them enough so as not to arouse any suspicion that he might be connected to the ruling class. Head down, listening and not talking, he sidled up to the bar and ordered a mug of ale, then found a quiet corner and settled in to hear the latest rumors.

  Predictably, they were all about Queen Jilseponie, some whispering that she was having an affair with the cook at Castle Ursal or with some other man—the name of Roger Lockless came up more than once, as well as a lewd reference to Abbot Braumin Herde of Palmaris. And it was all done, of course, with a good deal of laughter and derision.