DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (142 page)

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.

“Y
ou 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 Sadye, 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.

Without Aydrian’s additions, this marvelous creation would have been among the finest suits of armor in the world. With those additions, with a few well-placed magnetites and a soul stone, the suit was doubly effective at turning blows and capable of quickly healing its magic-using occupant if an opponent’s blow did somehow get through.

With Garech’s skilled assistance, Aydrian had made an improvement to his weapon as well. The pair had delicately set a tiny ruby and graphite into the base of Tempest’s shining silverel blade, and a small serpentine now adorned the crosspiece. With hardly a thought, the magically mighty Aydrian could turn his already fine blade into a flaming sword, and with another thought, could make it strike like lightning.

The tournament was fast approaching—De’Unnero’s subtle suggestions had been seized upon by the courtiers as a great opportunity for them all to win Danube’s highest favor, and the call had gone out across the land for every able-bodied warrior and archer to come and test his skills before his King.

This was much more than a birthday party for an aging King, though. As far as De’Unnero and Sadye were concerned, this was a passage to manhood for a future king.

Sadye looked at Aydrian, now dutifully allowing the greaves to be fitted about his lean and tightly muscled legs. Then she glanced over to the most extraordinary suit of armor she had ever heard of, let alone seen. She knew that this joust, the first formal knightly competition in Honce-the-Bear since the one held after the end of the rosy plague, would be one that would live on in legend for centuries to come.

Chapter 31
 

B
Y THE TIME
River Palace
TIED UP TO
U
RSAL
’
S LONG DOCK
,
THE PREPARATIONS FOR
the tournament were well under way—so much so that few in the city or at court even commented on the return of Queen Jilseponie.

Pony—and though she had returned, she still thought of herself as Pony again—was glad of that. The preparations would likely keep most courtiers busy throughout the winter of 845–846, offering her some time to settle in without the constant tension.

King Danube embraced the tournament wholeheartedly, with a rousing cheer for Duke Kalas and the others who were making the arrangements. “No finer gift could a king receive from his court!” he proclaimed.

Pony just smiled, glad of the distraction and happy that her husband was happy. She moved about quietly and said little, letting others carry the conversation at the nightly dinners and weekly balls. Often she left the castle, as she had promised she would, going out among the peasants to try to help them with their illnesses and with the general misery of their lives—particularly during this, the coldest of seasons.

When she was not out, the Queen kept mostly to herself, sometimes in prayer, sometimes just sitting at a window and trying to figure out where in this confusing life she truly fit in. There was no self-pity in her, though. Not at all. Pony had more memories—grand memories—than most could ever hope for, and now she understood that the situation was hers to control. She could either let the gossipers and troublemakers bother her, or she could ignore them and go on with her plans, pursuing her goals, shaping this newest chapter of her life.

In the castle, she was Queen Jilseponie, but out in the streets among the peasants, she was Pony. Just Pony, a friend of those in need.

With Danube, she was a little of both. She had to be there to support him during the times of tension that inevitably accompanied his position. And so she did, but quietly, from behind the scenes. She would not normally be in attendance any more when Duke Kalas or some other nobleman came for an audience complaining about this problem or that, but she would be there beside King Danube later on, lending her ear that he could relieve his tension with animated outbursts.

And after, when he wanted, with lovemaking.

Pony didn’t recoil from him at all. She would remain a good wife to this man, because she did indeed care for him deeply, did even love him.

For his part, King Danube kept his promises. He did not question his queen when she went out of Castle Ursal, and he did his very best to ignore the few rumors that had inevitably started circulating once more, now that she had returned
to the city.

By the end of the third month of 845, the King’s birthday was fast approaching, and so was the end of winter. Several knights from Palmaris had come in before the winter, fearing that the roads would be closed until long after the joust, but the winter that year was a mild one, and a short one.

M
arcalo De’Unnero watched the preparations—the great tents and the combat yard, the gathering of minstrels and chefs and warriors from all over the kingdom—with anticipation and a bit of trepidation. He had been staying away from the court proper of late, for the last thing he wanted was to be seen by Queen Jilseponie. Kalas had not recognized him, and in many ways he looked very different from the man the Duke had accompanied all the way to the Barbacan in pursuit of Elbryan and the heretics those many years before, but he had no doubt that if Jilseponie looked into his eyes but once, she would know the truth.