DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (116 page)

As she took a moment to consider her own thoughts, Jilseponie was surprised to find that the unavoidably conjured image of Constance and Danube in a passionate embrace bothered her more than a little. A dark part within her wanted to rush across the room and slap the woman!

Jilseponie turned away and even laughed aloud a bit at her own foolishness. She thought back to her days of running across the land with Elbryan, locked in a life-and-death
struggle against the minions of Bestesbulzibar. She thought of Brother Francis, once her avowed enemy but later a man who had repented and found his heart and his God, as he lay dying on the field outside St.-Mere-Abelle. And finally she focused her thoughts on the upraised arm of Avelyn Desbris, on the blood in the palm, the covenant of Avelyn that had saved the world from the brutal and merciless rosy plague. In light of those realities—the passion, the repentance, the miracle—could she be of so little spirit as to allow her petty jealousy to bring darkness into her heart and mind?

Jilseponie looked back at Constance, a sincere smile now showing. But when Constance looked her way and noted the grin, her own expression darkened even more.

Jilseponie sighed and silently scolded herself. Constance thought she was mocking her!

How crazy and unwinnable this game of courtly politics seemed to Jilseponie at that moment. She would have to constantly battle to find her real emotions and her honest spirit, and yet, revealing that sincerity, even briefly, could lead to issues more complicated by far.

She lifted her drink to her lips but paused, realizing that this, too, might be dangerous, for there was a bit of a kick in the juice. It would be dangerous for Jilseponie to become in any way incapacitated by drink in this public place, surrounded by so many people who were far closer to the realm of enemy than to friend. Duke Bretherford’s warnings to her on the trip along the great river echoed in her mind.

Jilseponie sighed again. Not for the first time—and, she knew, not for the last—she questioned her wisdom in coming to this place.

“H
ow do you suffer this?” Roger asked Jilseponie that midsummer morning. Around them, all the palace grounds seemed gay and full of life, with birds chattering and the mighty knights of the Allheart Brigade practicing the precision steps of their To-gai ponies, for they, led by Duke Kalas, would serve as honor guard at the great celebration.

The irony of Duke Kalas leading the celebration of Danube and Jilseponie’s wedding was not lost on Jilseponie.

“Aye, ye look like ye’re suffering greatly,” Dainsey added with a sarcastic laugh.

Roger gave his wife a sidelong glance. “Can all the fineries make up for the unpleasantries?” he asked her.

“They’d be going a long way to me own thinking,” Dainsey replied with a snort, and she lifted a piece of cake and stuffed it into her mouth.

Roger was about to protest again, but Jilseponie’s chuckle stopped him short. Indeed, Jilseponie could understand Dainsey’s sentiments. The woman had grown up dirt-poor in the bowels of Palmaris, had gone to work at a very young age and for very long hours, practically begging for tips from patrons at the establishments in which she waited tables, including Fellowship Way, just so that she could put enough food in her to keep her belly from grumbling. To her, the palace grounds in
Ursal must have seemed a piece of heaven. Indeed, Jilseponie could hardly imagine a more beautiful paradise than the gardens and fields, with the intricate mazes, the birds, the dozens of fountains, and the rows and rows of brightly colored flowers, each bed humming with a multitude of bees.

But Jilseponie could also understand and wholeheartedly agree with Roger’s complaints. The beauty was shallow, she knew, masking debauchery and hypocrisy beyond anything she had ever before witnessed.

“I am thrilled to be here,” Roger said, almost apologetically, to Jilseponie. “Never would I miss so important a day. But I cannot suffer their demeaning glances! By God!” he cried at one woman, lifting her chin as she walked by to the side. “And pray tell me how many minions of the demon dactyl you slew during the war! And how many lives did you save?”

The woman appeared shocked and she quickly scurried away.

“She was but a child when the forces of Bestesbulzibar threatened our homes in the north,” Abbot Braumin remarked, coming over to join the trio.

“But she thinks little or nothing of me,” Roger argued. “The contempt was obvious upon her face! They scorn us because we are not of noble blood, but—”

“Calm, Roger,” Jilseponie pleaded.

“Can you deny it?” the volatile man asked, his thin, angular features bunching together in anger.

“I do not,” Jilseponie admitted. “But I care little, and neither should you.”

Roger just snorted and shook his head. “Will they show such disdain for you when you are queen?” he muttered under his breath.

Jilseponie only chuckled again. But in truth it was hard for her to deny Roger’s words, and harder for her to ignore the attitude shown her than she had made it seem to be. She was thrilled, of course, that her friends—these three and Brothers Viscenti; Castinagis, who was now the parson of the Chapel of Avelyn; and Talumus, along with Captain Al’u’met—had journeyed on the
Saudi Jacintha
all the way to Ursal to attend the wedding. But the darker side of the visit was that it poignantly reminded Jilseponie of how badly she missed these friends and others, like Belster O’Comely, who had not been able to make the journey. There was an emptiness here at Danube’s court that she could not easily ignore, and she doubted that things would get much better as the days, weeks, even years, passed. For Jilseponie believed that everyone here shared her loneliness; only they, the nobility, had never known a different existence, had never known true friendship and likely didn’t understand the concept. So they had little idea of what they were missing. Danube himself was treating her well, and happy was she during those hours when he could free himself from his duties to be with her.

“They will treat you better when they learn that you are the Baron of Palmaris,” Jilseponie remarked, for Roger kept on grumbling.

“Aye, and all the ladies’ll be shoulderin’ up to him,” Dainsey remarked sourly, and she slugged Roger on the shoulder.

Roger started to protest, then merely laughed helplessly. “I do not doubt either
of the claims,” he admitted. “And that makes this place all the more unpleasant in my eyes.”

“It is not so bad,” said Jilseponie.

Abbot Braumin stared at her curiously, and she knew that he had caught onto the truth of her feelings.

“Indeed,” he said, grabbing Roger’s arm as the man was about to say something more. “And all of the trials are far outweighed by the good that Jilseponie might bring to all the world when she wears the crown of queen. Perhaps some of the noble born show disdain. Perhaps they are not the most welcoming of people. But they are no worse company, I would suppose, than were the goblins and powries of Bestesbulzibar’s army, and Jilseponie moved among them to better the world.”

“And better would be the world if she took the same actions against Danube’s courtiers that she took against the goblins and powries!” Roger exclaimed, his tone showing that he was joking here, and he brought a much-needed laugh to them all.

There was an undercurrent to that mirth, though, in Jilseponie’s thoughts and, more important, in her heart. She missed her life in the northland, in Palmaris, and even more so, in Dundalis.

But she knew her duty, and, yes, she could and did love King Danube.

“To the morrow’s great occasion,” said Abbot Braumin, lifting a glass in toast.

“And pray that Roger’s next visit to Ursal will be more to his liking,” Jilseponie added, tapping her glass against Braumin’s.

They all toasted, then sipped their fine wine. Dainsey kept on eating the delicacies, while Roger and Braumin and Jilseponie spoke of good times past and of their dreams for a better future.

Jilseponie could speak of the future with great hope and anticipation, but in truth, she wasn’t looking any further ahead than the morrow’s dawn, when she would walk down the aisle of St. Honce to be wed to King Danube Brock Ursal, when she would become the queen of Honce-the-Bear.

Those thoughts followed her to bed that night, affording her little sleep. Still, despite her exhaustion, in the morning when the attending ladies came with their paints and perfumes and her beautiful white gown, there was no more lovely woman in all the world.

She entered St. Honce and saw King Danube waiting for her before the great altar where stood Master Fio Bou-raiy and Abbot Braumin, who together, to the dismay of Abbot Ohwan, had been chosen to perform the ceremony.

And such a ceremony it was! A spectacle that would enter the tales of bards for centuries to come, the joining of the greatest hero in the world to the King of Honce-the-Bear, the marriage of Church and State, the marriage of secular and spiritual. All those in attendance and all the tens of thousands of Ursal crowding the streets nearby and all the folk of the land took great hope and great cheer that their world had somehow dramatically improved.

Almost all the folk of the land.

Duke Kalas and some of the other noblemen did well to hide their disdain, even
disgust, as their beloved King Danube entered into a union with the peasant girl of the northland. What a contrast Jilseponie was from his former wife, Queen Vivian, whose bloodlines were as pure as anyone’s in the kingdom!

And Constance Pemblebury surely viewed the wedding with something far less than hope, with something bordering on dread. How long would it take Jilseponie, she wondered, to wrest all possibilities of power from Merwick and Torrence? That was her greatest fear. Or at least, Constance—protecting a heart that could not bear to imagine Danube in a love embrace with another woman—told herself that her greatest worry was for the inheritance of her children.

The ceremony went smoothly, with Master Bou-raiy offering the blessings of the Church, the most important part of the joining as far as the Abellican Order was concerned, then turning the procedure over to Abbot Braumin for swift conclusion. Braumin rolled through the promises and the vows, the Hopes of Joining litany and the Touching of Flesh and Souls prayers, then paused and looked at the congregation, asking, “Be there any souls here and now who feel that they, in good heart and conscience, must deny the continuance of this joining? Speak now or never!”

How Constance Pemblebury wanted to shout out at the moment! But to her surprise, and delight, she found that someone else did it for her.

“I demand a pause!” came a stern, powerful voice from the back. All heads turned, and Jilseponie clasped Danube’s hand ever more tightly, fearing that he would draw his sword and behead the speaker.

But Danube relaxed a moment later, and so did Jilseponie, when they recognized the intruder. He looked much like Danube, only younger and thinner, and the smile he wore upon his face as he strode confidently down the aisle was genuine.

“My brother!” King Danube cried.

“All hail Prince Midalis!” the sergeant of the Allheart guard cried out.

“I deny the ceremony!” Midalis yelled above the confused and confusing multitude of whispers. He hesitated and smiled all the wider. “Until I am properly standing at the side of my brother, the King.”

And so the joy in St. Honce was even greater that day, for the people to see the brothers Ursal, the King and the Prince, on one of the rare occasions when they stood together. Danube and Midalis were not close, and had never been, with many years between them in age, for in truth, Midalis was much closer to Jilseponie’s age of thirty-five.

The Prince came forward and greeted his brother with a warm handshake, then started to bow to Jilseponie, but she caught him in mid-bow and wrapped him in a hug instead. They had met many years before, in the grove outside Dundalis where lay the bodies of Elbryan and his uncle Mather, and then again at the Barbacan when Midalis had led the folk of Vanguard and a contingent of Alpinadoran barbarians to the arm of Avelyn. Jilseponie had not seen him in those years since, but the bond of trust between them seemed no less.

Gasps from the back brought attention away from the altar, and Jilseponie guessed the source before she even looked that way.

Indeed, there stood Andacanavar, the great ranger of Alpinador, nearly seven feet tall and with more than seventy hard winters behind him. He didn’t stand quite as straight as he had those years before, Jilseponie noted, but was indeed still impressive. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he could break apart any two men in St. Honce. More surprising to her, Bruinhelde, chieftain of Tol Hengor, a major Alpinadoran community just across the border from Vanguard, stood beside Andacanavar. Flanking him was another old friend, Master Dellman of St. Belfour.

Truly Jilseponie, and particularly Abbot Braumin, were thrilled to see Dellman, who had been with them all those years ago when they had battled Father Abbot Markwart for control of the heart of the Abellican Church. But what impressed Jilseponie even more was the presence of the Alpinadorans. For she understood it to be a testimonial to her, the wife of Elbryan, the hero of the north. Bruinhelde was no unimportant leader among the savage people of Alpinador, and for him to travel all these hundreds of miles to attend the marriage of the King of Honce-the-Bear, a land for which Alpinador traditionally held little trust or love, was nothing short of amazing.

“May I stand at your side, brother?” Prince Midalis asked, even as King Danube was about to ask him if he would do just that.

King Danube pulled his brother in for another hug, then moved him into position directly at his side, displacing Duke Kalas one position—and Jilseponie noticed the Duke did not seem too pleased by that!

And so finished the ceremony, with an even greater resonance of joy filling Abbot Braumin’s voice.

King Danube ended the proceedings, moving to the podium next to the altar and calling out in a voice strong and regal and full of excitement and enthusiasm. “Bear witness ye all!” he cried. “For on this midsummer day of God’s Year 840, does Jilseponie Wyndon take the surname of Ursal. Hail to the Queen!”