DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (235 page)

De’Unnero thought to respond, but the murmurs about him told him clearly that he had few allies in this room against Aydrian’s decision. He still believed that Aydrian had made a tremendous error. He knew Jilseponie well, had battled against her for most of his adult life, and understood that she was a formidable foe, perhaps as formidable as Aydrian could know in all the world. “We will see her again,” he did say, and ominously. “On the battlefield.”

“And when we do, she will watch her friends and allies die, then she will die,” Aydrian calmly assured him.

“You do not understand the power of—”

“I understand it better than do you,” Aydrian interrupted. “I took her measure, fully so, while she stood on that trial stage on the day of my ascent. I saw into her, saw through her, and I know the power of Jilseponie! And I know that power is diminished, and greatly so, by my reappearance in her life. Oh yes, my friend—my friends!—I know my enemy, and I do not fear her in the least. And neither should you. The execution of Jilseponie in a quiet and hidden place within Castle Ursal would have done us no good as we strive to reunite the kingdom. Indeed, if word had gone out of such an act, it might have martyred the witch. No, let our would-be enemies see her impotence in this, and lose all heart to resist us. Or let them
witness her devastating demise if she chooses to come against me. They will lose all heart for continuing the fight. Jilseponie’s role in all of this might not be over, but if she has any impact left in the coming events, then it will be one to benefit us.”

The young man’s words, and the calm and assured way in which he had spoken them, had De’Unnero back on his heels. Who was this young king he had helped to gain the throne? Who was this young man, once his eager student and now acting as if he was the teacher?

De’Unnero didn’t know, and started to question, but Sadye tightened her grip on his arm, and when he looked at her, her expression begged him to let the subject drop from public discussion.

She was right, the monk knew. If he persisted here, he might actually be undermining Aydrian with the other noblemen, allies desperately needed if the new kingdom was to hold, if the legitimacy of Aydrian Boudabras was to spread out from Ursal to the north.

“Perhaps I am too reminded of who Jilseponie once was,” the monk quietly admitted.

“She is not that woman any longer,” Aydrian replied. “She is old and she is worn. Her road has been long and difficult, and her decisions have risen from the dead to haunt her every thought. She is nothing to concern us.”

“She was once mighty with the gemstones and with the sword,” interjected Duke Kalas, a warrior much like De’Unnero in spirit—which was probably why the two hated each other. He was a large and dashing man, powerfully built yet graceful in stride, the epitome of the nobleman warrior.

“Her skills with the sword have diminished with age and lack of practice, no doubt,” Aydrian replied. “But even if she was at her peak of strength, and even if Elbryan was alive and fighting beside her, I would easily defeat them. As for the gemstones …” He paused and held up the pouch of stones, a magnificent and varied collection that had once belonged to Jilseponie. “Well, she has none, and if she acquires some, I will have to defeat her in that realm. It is not a battle that gives me the slightest pause, I assure you.”

Not a person in that room doubted his confidence. And none who knew him, who truly understood the power that was Aydrian, doubted his claim.

“And what of Torrence?” asked Monmouth Treshay, the Duke of Yorkey, referring to the one living son of Constance Pemblebury and King Danube, a bastard child who had been placed third in the line of ascension, behind Danube’s brother Prince Midalis, and his own older brother, Merwick. Aydrian had slain Merwick in a duel after the death of Danube. As he had with Jilseponie, Aydrian had allowed Torrence to ride out of Ursal.

Well, not quite like Jilseponie, De’Unnero knew.

Aydrian turned a curious smile on the man, sizing him up, as did De’Unnero. Aydrian’s hold over some of the dukes was tenuous. Kalas, the most powerful of the noblemen, had settled firmly in Aydrian’s court, and that brought legitimacy to the new king that few of these southern dukes would dare question. For Kalas
controlled the Allheart Knights, and they, in turn, controlled the general army of Ursal, a force that could sweep aside any resistance in the southland. Monmouth Treshay, though, had seemed less enthusiastic from the outset. The older duke was obviously torn. Yorkey County served as the retreat where most of the Ursal nobles spent their leisure time. Constance Pemblebury had lived there for most of the last years of her life, as had her children. The arrival of Constance’s ghost exonerating Jilseponie might have brought Aydrian some measure of legitimacy with Duke Monmouth, but the ensuing fight, where Aydrian had defeated and killed Prince Merwick, had obviously not sat well with the man.

“How many would-be kings or queens will you allow to roam freely about your kingdom?” Duke Monmouth pressed.

In response, Aydrian grinned and looked over to Duke Kalas, who nodded grimly, his expression telling them all that he wasn’t approaching the problem of Torrence with as much enjoyment as was Aydrian.

The intrigue of the moment was not lost on Marcalo De’Unnero, nor was he pleased to realize that Aydrian had decided to use Kalas in his secret plans for Torrence Pemblebury. Though such plans were prudent, no doubt, the monk did not like it one bit that Aydrian was stepping out from him, was taking control here and without any apparent consideration to him!

Gnashing his teeth with boiling anger, De’Unnero turned to Sadye for support, for surely she would see the same problem here as he.

He stopped short when he regarded the small and beautiful woman, the woman who had stolen his heart with her enchanting music and her wisdom, with her wheat-colored hair, grown to her shoulders now, and those shining gray eyes.

For though Sadye continued to hold De’Unnero’s arm, her gaze was not fixed upon him, but upon another. She stood there, transfixed, a bemused expression on her face as she watched the every movement of … Aydrian Boudabras.

“W
e will journey to Vanguard and my uncle, the prince,” Torrence Pemblebury told the man sitting next to him, one of the five soldiers who had chosen to leave Ursal with the deposed would-be king.

“Perhaps we would be wise to resettle in Vanguard,” said the man, Prynnius by name, and the only Allheart Knight to abandon the court of the new King Aydrian. Prynnius had been one of the primary instructors of Torrence’s older brother Merwick in the early stages of his Allheart training. Though a friend of Duke Kalas, Prynnius could not abide the killing of Merwick and could not bring himself to swear allegiance to Honce-the-Bear’s new king. “Far from Ursal and the court of Aydrian. Far from the Allhearts and Duke Kalas, and far from the turmoil that is obviously about to befall the Abellican Church.”

“You say that in the hopes that Aydrian’s arms will not be so long.”

“He will not penetrate Vanguard short of an all-out war,” Prynnius said with conviction. “I know Prince Midalis well. He’ll not welcome Aydrian—surely not!—for he is the greatest threat to Aydrian’s legitimacy. All the kingdom knows
that Midalis should have succeeded Danube.”

“And with Merwick next in line, and myself behind him,” said Torrence. “And yet this new king allows me free passage out of Ursal.”

“His personal mercenary army is well paid, and now he has added the bulk of the army of Danube’s Honce-the-Bear, the very same army that you would need to call your own to do battle with him,” said Prynnius. “Perhaps he sees you now as no threat, and perhaps you—we—would be wise to keep him thinking that way.”

“The greater our advantage of surprise when we strike back?” Torrence said eagerly.

“The longer we may both stay alive,” Prynnius corrected. “Surrender your claim to the throne, in your heart at least, for the time being, young Prince Torrence. You have not the strength to do battle with King Aydrian.”

Torrence sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and assumed a petulant expression. “You think he’s won,” the young man stated bluntly.

“He has won,” Prynnius agreed, and Torrence shot him an angry glare. “He has Ursal and he has the Allhearts. He has all the land to Entel and the sea, and he has Duke Bretherford and the fleet. Honce-the-Bear is his, I fear, and I see no way …” He paused as the coach lurched to a stop. Up in front, they heard the driver yelling at someone to clear the road.

Prynnius leaned forward and poked his head out the coach’s window.

“Ye get outa the way!” the driver yelled. “Don’t ye know who I’m carrying, ye fool highwaymen?”

“Highwaymen?” Torrence asked, coming forward in his seat. He slowed though, when he noted the grim expression on Prynnius’ face, when he noted the man shaking his head slowly, his eyes telling Torrence clearly that he recognized some of the supposed highwaymen who had intercepted their coach.

“It would seem that our new King Aydrian is not as secure in his victory as we presumed,” Prynnius remarked, and he looked at Torrence and shrugged, then pushed open the coach door and drew out his sword as he exited the carriage.

Torrence sat there numbly, trying to register what this was all about even as the sounds of fighting erupted about him. He heard the hum of bowstrings, and heard one man call Prynnius a traitor to the Allhearts. A moment later, the coach shook as someone fell against it, then Prynnius opened the door and slumped in. He looked up at Torrence, his face a mask of resignation and defeat.

And then he lurched, and Torrence looked past his wincing face to see a man standing behind him, a man dressed as a common thief but wielding a fabulous weapon that no commoner could possibly afford. Prynnius jumped again a bit as the man twisted that sword within him.

With a growl of rage, Torrence grabbed up his own sword and dove forward, but the killer nimbly moved back out of reach.

Torrence sprawled across the dying Prynnius, half out of the coach. He started to scramble forward to pursue Prynnius’ killer, but then he got hit from the side, and hard, and then got hit again. Dazed, he was only partly aware that his weapon
had slipped from his hand. He hardly understood that he was being dragged from the coach, he hardly felt the boots and gauntlets smashing against him, pounding him down into darkness.

“D
oes it so bother you that your protégé has stepped forward from your shadow?” Sadye asked quietly, the blunt question and her innocent tone throwing a bucket of water onto the fires that burned within Marcalo De’Unnero. “Is that not what you would want from him?”

“What do you mean?” the monk asked, shaking his head in disbelief. They were back in their room in one of the buildings near to Castle Ursal reserved for visiting lords—which De’Unnero had pretended to be during the usurping of King Danube’s throne.

“Did you and Abbot Olin truly expect Aydrian to remain dependent upon you for his every move?” Sadye asked. “Did you truly wish that? How, my love, are you to get about the business of converting the Abellican Church to your vision if you are needed for King Aydrian’s every move? How do you and Abbot Olin expect to truly defeat Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy and men like Abbot Braumin Herde if you are busy concerning yourself with affairs of the state?”

“Aydrian may err, and such an error could cost us everything,” De’Unnero replied, not convincingly.

“Only yesterday, you were singing his praises and admiring the beauty that is Aydrian,” Sadye pointed out.

“I was giddy with victory, perhaps.”

Sadye scoffed and gave a doubting little chuckle. “Aydrian took control of the situation here in Ursal sometime ago,” she reminded. “It was he who facilitated the trial of Jilseponie Wyndon, discrediting both her and King Danube. It was he who tore Constance Pemblebury from the realm of death itself, that she might act on his behalf in ending the reign of Danube. It was he who pulled Duke Kalas back from that same dark realm and thus manipulated the man into subservience. Do not underestimate him! Take great heart and hope that your pupil has risen to become your—”

“My better?” There was no hiding the bitterness in De’Unnero’s tone as he spat those two words.

“Your peer,” Sadye corrected. “And you will need him as such if you are to have any hopes of dominating the Abellican Church. Yes, with Aydrian’s armies behind you, you might sweep away Bou-raiy and his followers, but to gain the heart of the Church, you need to do more than that. Be pleased, my love, that young Aydrian has stepped forward to worthily fill the throne.”

Marcalo De’Unnero slumped back on his bed as those words settled within his thoughts. Sadye was speaking wisely here, he knew, and it was surprising for him to recognize that he and Sadye had almost completely swapped their viewpoints in a period of a few days.

Aydrian’s road to win the entirety of the kingdom would be a difficult one
indeed, but De’Unnero’s quest to remake the Abellican Church into what it once had been, into something even greater than it had once been, would be no less so.

For a long time, De’Unnero sat there, considering the events of the last few tumultuous weeks, considering the actions of Aydrian. The turning point, he knew, had come that day on the jousting field, when Aydrian had defeated, and seemingly killed, Duke Kalas, only to reach into his enchanted soul stone and tear Duke Kalas back from the netherworld.

So much of this amazingly quick rise to the throne had been facilitated by Aydrian, without consulting either De’Unnero or Olin. And now it was continuing.

It did not sit well with Marcalo De’Unnero that Aydrian was acting so much on his own here, and yet Sadye’s reasoning made good sense. The first part in the plan De’Unnero and Olin had concocted called for getting Aydrian on the throne, and now that had come to pass.

The second part of that plan, the takeover of the Abellican Church, had just begun here, in St. Honce, and would carry them all the way to St.-Mere-Abelle, so they hoped. If the kingdom was to be Aydrian’s and the Church the province of Olin and De’Unnero, then, yes indeed, it would bode well for the monks if Aydrian proved capable of handling his end.