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

by R. A. Salvatore

  Her interruption made Danube step back and consider her even more carefully. “You do not feel the need to question whether or not I have resumed my relationship with Constance?” he asked.

  Pony laughed, recognizing that she had jumped to a different, far more nefarious, conclusion at the beginning of his remark.

  “The need to ask did not occur to me,” she said. “For if you had—have—resumed such a relationship, you would tell me, I am sure.”

  The show of trust brought tears to Danube’s eyes, and he brought Pony’s hands up to his mouth and kissed them again and again.

  He left her soon after, at her insistence that he give her the night to consider his words.

  “You plan to return,” Roger remarked as soon as the King was gone, his tone showing his disapproval more clearly than his frown.

  “I consider it,” she replied.

  “How can you?” Roger asked.

  “Perhaps I went to Ursal the first time without truly understanding that which I would face,” she said.

  “And that ye’ll still face,” Dainsey said sourly.

  Pony nodded. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But never did I face anything in Ursal that I could not tolerate, as long as King Danube stayed by my side throughout it. I do have responsibilities to him, and I do not wish to hurt him.”

  Dainsey started to say something more, but Roger grabbed her and quieted her. “Just promise me that, should you go, you will remember well the road home, and take that road if you need it.”

  Pony walked over and placed her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “Or I will yell so loudly that Roger will hear and come to my rescue,” she said.

  Predictably, King Danube was back at Chasewind Manor at the break of dawn, having ridden hard from River Palace where he had spent the night.

  He was waiting for Pony at the breakfast table, his expression caught somewhere between smiling eagerly and terror stricken.

  “If I return, it will not be as it was,” Pony explained as soon as she sat down, before even piling the assorted fruits set out for her on her plate.

  Danube merely continued to stare at her.

  “I will be more your wife and less your queen,” she explained. “I will move about the castle as I desire, and it is likely that I will spend less time within than without. I will embrace my role as a sovereign sister and work with the poor and the sick, using gemstone magic to heal, and without the trumpet blare and military escort.”

  “There remains a matter of security,” Danube started to say, but Pony’s incredulous look put that thought away before it could gain any real foothold.

  “Then you will return?” the King asked.

  Pony looked away, looked out the window at the gardens of the manor house. After a while, she looked back and shrugged. “If I return,” she said again.

  The King nodded. “Come back with me, I beg,” he said quietly, “on whatever terms you decide.”

  Jilseponie put her hand on his. She gave no direct answer, but her expression made her intent quite clear.

  Danube’s smile was wider than it had been in many months.

  Roger and Dainsey, along with Braumin, Viscenti, and several other brothers of St. Precious, watched River Palace drift away from the Palmaris docks a few days later, carrying their friend back to that other world of Castle Ursal.

  They had all argued with Pony not to go, but only to a point. Roger believed that she was returning ready this time, and though he feared for her, he trusted her when she assured him that if things got nearly as terrible this time, she would be fast out of there.

  Still, Roger could not help biting his lip and second-guessing himself for letting her go, for not insisting that he go with her, as he watched the ship glide away from the docks and turn south.

  Chapter 30

  Bruce of Oredale

  HIS BEARD WAS GONE, HIS LONG HAIR NOW NEATLY TRIMMED OVER THE TOP OF HIS ears. Marcalo De’Unnero looked every bit as fit and in control as he had in his glory days at St.-Mere-Abelle, except that his brown robes had been replaced by the finery of a wealthy landowner, including a gem-studded eyepatch covering his right eye and some rather distracting jewelry: a dangling diamond earring and a lip cup, a small golden clasp that fit tightly over half of his upper lip, a fashion that was all the rage that year among the wealthy of Ursal.

  De’Unnero hated the jewelry and the eyepatch, but though it had been more than a decade since he had last seen any of the Ursal nobles, like Duke Targon Bree Kalas, he knew that his appearance hadn’t changed all that much, and he had to be certain that he would not be recognized.

  It hadn’t been difficult to get to this point. A well-placed bag of gemstones had bought him the social sponsorship he needed. He was calling himself Bruce of Oredale, supposedly a visiting landowner friend of the Earl of Fenwicke, a small but wealthy region in the southernmost reaches of Yorkey County, abutting the Belt-and-Buckle. Bruce of Oredale had brought along his beautiful young wife and their peasant squire.

  De’Unnero and Sadye attended their first ball—there was one every week!—at the end of their second week in the city. King Danube was on his way to Palmaris, so De’Unnero didn’t have to pass that test just yet. As for the other test … he spent half the night chatting easily with Duke Kalas, and the nobleman obviously had no idea of his true identity.

  The couple returned to their lavish apartment, with Sadye seeming perfectly giddy, laughing and excited.

  “What?” Aydrian asked her when she first entered, and she burst out in laughter.

  “A bit too much boggle,” De’Unnero explained.

  “Oh, but it is not true!” Sadye cut in, her voice a bit slurred. “I am drunk with anticipation! Aydrian, you cannot imagine the beauty of court—of your court someday! What a life we will find!”

  Aydrian looked at her curiously, then turned his gaze to De’Unnero, who was grinning as well despite himself.

  “This part of our plan has gone more smoothly than I could have imagined,” he explained.

  “The King has not heard of you yet,” Aydrian reminded. “Nor has Jilseponie.”

  “By the time Danube returns, I will be so established among the nobles that he will not think to question me,” De’Unnero explained.

  “And if the woman returns with him?” Sadye asked. A dark cloud passed over her face and over De’Unnero’s.

  “We will see,” the former monk replied grimly. “Our plan is on schedule—ahead of schedule. Everything is in place: the soldiers, the weapons, the Abellican brothers loyal to Olin. When the opportunity presents itself, we will strike.”

  “When?” Aydrian asked.

  De’Unnero calmed himself in merely considering the word, the unanswerable question. He spoke of a plan as if everything had been written down, but in truth he knew that he and his companions were improvising, waiting for an opportunity to step forward and present their case for Aydrian. Even in the best of circumstances, however, Marcalo De’Unnero knew well that this would lead to conflict, likely to civil war.

  With their unparalleled wealth, and with Olin’s tireless efforts to infiltrate their men into both the rank of the Church and the soldiers of the Crown, they would be prepared for even that.

  “No, no, no!” the haggard woman, her hair more gray than its former blond, shouted, and she threw the pitcher she had been holding against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces and splashing water all over the walls.

  She slammed her fists into her eyes and ran about in circles, howling.

  Duke Kalas stepped in and forcefully caught her, holding her steady, wondering whether he had done right in coming to Constance with the news that Danube would soon return, Queen Jilseponie beside him.

  “I cannot bear to see that witch again!” Constance wailed. “She has put a curse on me—yes, that is it! She has used her gemstones to make me ugly, to make my voice scratchy and weak, to make my limbs shake. Oh, she will see to my death and soon!”

  Duke Kala
s bit back a chuckle, realizing that his derisive doubts would likely break Constance then and there. It did hurt Kalas to hear his friend so obviously delusional. Jilseponie had put no curse on her, unless that curse was age; and if Jilseponie were the source of that common malady, then Constance would have to stand in a long, long line before getting her fingernails into the Queen!

  “What am I to do?” she wailed, sinking to her knees and sobbing pitifully. “What am I to do?”

  Duke Kalas stared at her for a moment, chewing his lip and gnashing his teeth, his smile long gone. He hated Jilseponie for bringing Constance to this pitiful condition, whether she had intended to do so or not.

  “Get up!” the Duke commanded, grabbing Constance by the arms and hoisting her back to her feet. “What are you to do? Stand tall and proud, the Queen Mother of Honce-the-Bear!”

  “She will rip my bastard children from the royal line!”

  “Let her try, and know that a war would ensue!”

  “Oh, Kalas, you must protect them!” Constance cried, grabbing him hard. “You must! Promise me that you will!”

  Duke Kalas thought the request perfectly ridiculous. He knew that Queen Jilseponie had done nothing to harm the boys, had, in fact, been pleased that Danube had put them in the line of succession, even above herself, for Danube had excluded her outright. For all her faults, Jilseponie had never questioned that line, as far as Kalas knew, nor had she ever interfered with the formal training of Merwick and Torrence for their ascension, should that day come.

  Constance didn’t want to hear any of that, he realized. She wouldn’t even understand his reasoning on that point. “Your children will be protected,” he assured her, and he hugged her closer.

  She grabbed on to him as if her very life depended upon it, and wouldn’t let him let go—for a long while, burying her head in his strong chest, sobbing wildly.

  Duke Kalas could only sigh and hold her as she needed. He had begged Danube not to sail to Palmaris, not to chase after the Queen. He had told Danube that bringing Jilseponie back would only lead to more grief and more trouble.

  King Danube had made up his mind, though, and had dismissed Kalas as forcefully as ever before.

  Danube Brock Ursal was Kalas’ friend, but he was also the king of Honce-the-Bear, and when he told the Duke to stand down on any issue, Kalas had no choice but to comply.

  He could see the storm coming, though, standing there holding wretched Constance, who was near to breaking.

  “You are not pleased that the Queen will return?” Bruce of Oredale asked a brooding Kalas one morning when he had the opportunity to join the fierce Duke on a morning hunt.

  Kalas looked at him incredulously, his expression clearly relating that his battle with Queen Jilseponie was common knowledge.

  “Do you believe that she returns for the King or for the lover that she left behind?” Bruce asked slyly.

  Kalas pulled his powerful pinto pony to a halt and looked over at the man curiously. “What do you know?” he asked grimly.

  “Only the rumors that have circulated the streets.”

  “I have been on those streets often,” Duke Kalas said, obviously doubting.

  “The streets of Oredale,” Bruce corrected, “and of every town in southern Yorkey.”

  Kalas furrowed his brow.

  “The Queen’s lover, so it is said, is one of our own,” Bruce replied. “He’s the son of a nobleman and a fine warrior, who previously came to Ursal in the hopes of joining the Allheart Brigade, but who got—how may I put this delicately?—sidetracked.”

  Duke Kalas turned back to the path ahead and urged his horse into a trot. “You do know that you could be executed for merely uttering the suspicion of such treason,” he said.

  “My pardon, good Duke,” Bruce said with as much of a bow as he could manage on his borrowed To-gai pony. He thought to say more but changed his mind and let his pony fall far behind the Duke’s mount.

  The seed had been planted.

  It occurred to De’Unnero that he might be moving too quickly; his words to the Duke had been no more than an impetuous improvisation. Still, he was smiling. Aydrian was growing impatient and so was he—and certainly so was old Olin. Everything was being put into place, but once there, it would not hold for long. Loyalties were a shifting thing, De’Unnero knew. Today’s hero was tomorrow’s villain—witness Jilseponie’s fall from popularity as clear evidence of that!

  De’Unnero spent the rest of the morning hunt with those nobles closest to him, including a few—friends introduced through Olin—who knew the true identity of Bruce of Oredale. When that small group returned to the gardens of Castle Ursal, they found many of the ladies gathered about, gossiping and tittering and drinking—they always seemed to be doing all three of those things, De’Unnero noted with a frown.

  He handed his mount over to a groom and went along with the other hunters to join the gathering. The topic of conversation was singular, he found, with everyone chatting about an event fast approaching: King Danube’s fiftieth birthday. All the ladies spoke of presents they wanted to give the King, with a few lewd suggestions thrown in, while all the noblemen chimed in with promises of finding the perfect To-gai pony or perhaps a wondrous hunting bow to offer their beloved King.

  “He’d rather my charms,” one perfumed young woman said with a grin, and that had everyone laughing.

  “I fear that I cannot compete with that!” a young nobleman replied, and they all laughed harder.

  “But Queen Jilseponie can, I fear,” Bruce of Oredale remarked, and that cut the mirth off abruptly, all eyes turning to him.

  “I do not see how she could possibly compete with you, fair lady,” De’Unnero went on, bowing to soothe the wounded pride of the insulted maiden. “But King Danube apparently remains blinded to the truth.”

  “Blind indeed to bring her back,” someone whispered at the side.

  “I suspect the charms of the men of court might prove a more worthy gift for our King,” Bruce remarked, and more than a few looks of confusion or of disgust came his way. “Not those charms,” he quickly clarified, laughing. “The warrior’s skills, not the lover’s.”

  “What do you mean?” one man asked.

  “When is the last time Castle Ursal saw a proper tournament?” De’Unnero asked.

  “At the King’s wedding,” one man replied.

  “That was a show, and no real tournament,” another was quick to correct, eagerness evident in his tone.

  De’Unnero said no more, just let that seed germinate—and it did indeed, into excited chatter about holding a grand event to celebrate Danube’s birthday, many chiming in with “Why did none of us think of this before?” and “It will be the grandest tournament Ursal has ever known!”

  The talk went on and on, gaining momentum with hardly a naysayer. The planning was in full bloom when Duke Kalas returned to the gathering.

  “A tournament?” he asked skeptically of the nearest man.

  “A grand celebration, my Duke! With a feast to celebrate King Danube’s birthday!” replied the nobleman.

  Kalas stood there, listening, and seeming to De’Unnero to be intrigued at least, though perhaps with a bit of skepticism remaining. He adjusted his eyepatch and moved beside the Duke.

  “And would not every aspiring young knight in all the land rush to take part?” he murmured to Kalas.

  The Duke glanced at him.

  “Especially a young knight hoping to someday ride beside mighty Duke Kalas in the Allhearts,” Bruce of Oredale added. He walked away, leaving Kalas to stew in the interesting mix.

  “I do not like the greaves,” Aydrian said, shaking his leg so that Garech’s assistant, in a precarious crouch to begin with, tumbled away.

  “Your legs must be protected!” Garech Callowag insisted. “One slash across the knees would lay you low.”

  “No one gets close enough to my legs,” Aydrian replied with all confidence.

  “Tell him,” Garech said to S
adye, who was sitting at the side of the room, seemingly quite amused by the nearly constant bickering between the young warrior and the armorer, especially now that the suit was nearly complete.

  “Tell me what?” Aydrian asked. “How to fight? I could defeat the strongest warrior you could find to wrap in one of your metal shells, Garech, if I was naked and holding a broomstick for a weapon!”

  If Garech was impressed, he didn’t show it. “When an opponent’s sword cuts low and you are about six hands shorter, I will find you and gloat,” he said dryly.

  Aydrian smirked at him, then kicked at the assistant, who was stubbornly trying to come back and fit the greave once more.

  “Enough, Aydrian,” Sadye interrupted. “You are acting the part of a fool.”

  The young warrior glowered at her.

  “Your first battle will not be against an enemy at all, need I remind you?” the woman went on. “It will be a joust, a tournament of warriors, where the splendor of the show is at least as important as the outcome of the fight. Allow them to fit the greaves and wear them at the tournament with the rest of your armor.” As she finished, she gestured at the armor, strapped to an Aydrian-sized mannequin against the wall.

  And what a suit it was! A complete set of silver-and-gold plate armor, head to toe, polished and gleaming, with gemstones set into it. Garech had wanted it to be all of silvery hue, like the armor of the Allhearts. But De’Unnero, who wanted Aydrian to outshine even those splendid warriors, had insisted on the golden trimmings. The interlocking plates had been fitted exactly, with the intent that they would be adjusted with every change in Aydrian’s body. They moved smoothly and with minimal noise and a full range of motion.

  The bowl-shaped helm tapered down in the back but only covered the upper part of Aydrian’s face, to just below the bridge of his nose, so that from the front, it looked more like a bandit’s mask than a warrior’s helmet. It was lined in gold, though gold comprised the entire horizontal piece that crossed over the nose and under Aydrian’s eyes. Garech had crafted a decorated ridge as ornament, that ran from behind the eyes around to the back, almost like the brim of a hat.