DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (237 page)

To Jilseponie, there was no purer incarnation of evil than he, unless it was the
demon dactyl Bestesbulzibar itself! How could Aydrian have taken up with the man who had murdered his own father?

It made no sense to Jilseponie, and in truth, the woman had not the strength to try to sort out the confusing morass.

Aydrian was alive.

Nothing else mattered, truly. No other questions could find their way to a reasoned conclusion within Jilseponie in light of that terrible and wonderful truth. Aydrian was alive.

And he was the king, the unlawful king. And he was in league with De’Unnero and of like heart with the hated man.

That was all that mattered.

The coach lurched to a stop, and only then did Jilseponie realize that the road beneath them had turned from dirt to cobblestone, and that the fields beside them had changed to crowded streets, farmhouses to shops and taverns. The door opened and her driver, an older man with sympathetic eyes, offered her his hand.

“We’re here, milady Jilseponie,” he said tenderly.

Palmaris. A city Jilseponie had known as her home for much of her life. Here she had found refuge after the catastrophe that had destroyed Dundalis to the north. Here she had found her second family, the Chilichunks. Here she had married, though it had ended abruptly and disastrously. Here she had ruled as baroness. Here her friends presided over St. Precious. And here, Elbryan had been killed, as he and she had defeated the demon within Father Abbot Markwart. Moving as if in a dream, Jilseponie drifted out of the coach and onto the street. She was dressed modestly—not in any of the raiments suitable for the queen of Honce-the-Bear, surely—and so her appearance caused no stir among the folk moving about the crowded city avenue.

Jilseponie slowly looked around, absorbing the sights of the city she knew so well. Across the wide square stood St. Precious, the largest structure in the city, a soaring cathedral that could hold thousands within its stone walls, and that housed the hundred brothers under the leadership of Bishop Braumin Herde.

The thought of her friend had Jilseponie walking toward that cathedral, slowly at first, but then breaking into a run to the front door.

“Seems a one needin’ her soul mended, eh?” a passerby remarked to the old driver, who stood by the coach, watching her disappear into the abbey.

“More than you’d ever understand,” the driver replied absently, and with a sigh, he climbed back to his seat and turned his coach about, for the south road and Ursal. He had been explicitly instructed not to approach Bishop Braumin or any of the other leaders of the city, and while the old driver thought it strange that no formal emissary had come north from Ursal to this important second city, he knew enough of the history here to gather the motivation behind the silence.

King Aydrian, and more specifically, Marcalo De’Unnero, wanted to make the announcement personally.

“F
ew if any will oppose you openly,” Aydrian said to Duke Kalas, as the pair, along with Marcalo De’Unnero, Abbot Olin, and some other commanders, stood about the large table in what Aydrian had turned into the planning room. A large map of Honce-the-Bear was spread before them, with the areas currently under Aydrian’s secure control, notably the southern stretch from Ursal to Entel, shaded in red—just as he had seen at Oracle.

“None will stand before my Allhearts,” Duke Kalas said.

Marcalo De’Unnero smirked at him, quietly mocking his proud posture. “Not openly, perhaps,” the monk corrected. “The key to our victory will be to look honestly into the hearts of those you leave in your wake. Will they accept King Aydrian? And if not, how great is their hatred? Enough for them to take up arms against him?”

“Most will do as they are told,” Abbot Olin insisted. “We have seen this before, during our march from Entel. The people care little who is leading them as king, as long as that king is gentle and fair toward them.” He looked to Aydrian. “I suggest that Duke Kalas’ journey be more a parade of celebration than the conquering march of an army. You are not invading the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear, after all, but rather spreading the word that the kingdom is rightfully yours.”

“Many might not see it that way,” Duke Kalas reminded. “Certainly, Prince Midalis and his followers …”

“Who are mostly in the distant land of Vanguard,” Abbot Olin went on. “You will find few along the road to Palmaris who readily embrace Prince Midalis, if they even know of the man. We must simply tell them the truth of the situation: that Aydrian is king, and accepted as such by the Ursal nobles. Almost to a man, the common folk will go along without argument.”

“For how could they begin to argue?” Marcalo De’Unnero added with a snicker, one that was shared about the table.

But not by Aydrian. “Let us not forget that he who leads Palmaris is a great friend to Jilseponie, and certainly no friend to Marcalo De’Unnero,” the young king pointedly reminded. “Bishop Braumin Herde will oppose us, no doubt.”

“Do you believe him foolish enough to denounce your authority?” Duke Kalas asked. “Do you believe that he will force the army of Ursal to crush the folk of Palmaris?”

“I know not, but certainly St. Precious will not open wide her doors to Marcalo De’Unnero and Abbot Olin,” Aydrian remarked.

De’Unnero looked to Olin, and then to Kalas. For that moment, at least, it seemed as if the fiery monk and the warrior duke were in complete agreement. Kalas even nodded as De’Unnero replied, “Then we will open the door for them.”

“St. Precious will be a fine prize,” Abbot Olin said. “I greatly anticipate seeing her halls.”

“But you will not,” Aydrian said bluntly, and the declaration brought looks of surprise from all about the table, particularly from Abbot Olin himself—and the old abbot’s expression fast shifted from startled to suspicious.

“Abbot Olin will have better and more pleasing duties to attend,” Aydrian explained to the curious stares. “We have all heard the reports of the tumult in Behren, of the revolt of the To-gai-ru and the downfall of the Chezru Chieftain. Behren is a country drifting aimlessly now, with no leader, spiritual or secular. Perhaps it is time for Honce-the-Bear to come to the aid of our southern brothers.”

“What are you saying?” De’Unnero asked incredulously.

“You believe that I should go to Jacintha?” Abbot Olin asked, almost as doubtfully. “To lend support and friendship?”

“To assume the mantle of leadership,” Aydrian declared, and the doubting expressions only magnified, and a few murmurs of disbelief followed. “We cannot allow this open door to close to us,” the king explained, and he began to walk about the table, settling his gaze on each leader in turn. “Not now. Behren is in desperate straits. The people have just learned that their Chezru religion was founded on a complete falsehood, and was in fact one based on the same gemstones that the Yatols use as proof that the Abellicans are demonic. The people of Behren are desperate, I say, for both a friend and a leader. Abbot Olin will be that man.”

“To what end?” De’Unnero demanded, and his tone drew a dangerous look from Aydrian.

“Behren will be mine, perhaps before the fall of Vanguard,” the young king explained to them all, and there was no room for debate within his tone.

“How thin will we stretch our armies?” De’Unnero asked.

“It will take fewer than you believe,” Aydrian shot right back. “We have the wealth to bribe enough of Jacintha’s garrison and the confused Yatols to our side. If this is done properly, and I hold all faith in Abbot Olin, our conquest of Jacintha will be nearly bloodless. And once Jacintha is ours, once we have given the people a new religion and a new hope to grab on to, once we have shown them that we are their friends and brothers, my kingdom will spread from Jacintha to engulf every Behrenese town.”

De’Unnero started to argue further, but Aydrian cut him off.

“I have seen this vision and I know it to be true,” Aydrian proclaimed. “Go to Entel, Abbot Olin. Speak with the pirate fleet we used to secure Entel from Danube. Duke Bretherford will support you with several warships. Gather enough of an army together, not to crush Behren, but to convince those scrambling for power there that you are the necessary alternative to the chaos that now grips their land. Our coffers are deep with gemstones.”

Before De’Unnero could argue further, which he obviously meant to do, Abbot Olin voiced his intrigue. “Could this be possible?” he asked, his eyes verily glowing.

Aydrian and everyone else spent a few moments studying the man. It was no secret in Honce-the-Bear that Abbot Olin of St. Bondabruce in Entel favored Behren, perhaps even over Honce-the-Bear. The reason this senior Abellican abbot had been defeated by Fio Bou-raiy in the last election for Father Abbot of the Church was his close association with Chezru Chieftain Yakim Douan and the Behrenese people. To the Abellicans, Olin had always been a bit too comfortable
with the southern kingdom.

And now here was Aydrian, hinting that the southern kingdom might be his.

“More than possible, it is likely,” Aydrian assured the eager man. “Understand, Abbot Olin, that you will come to Jacintha as a friend, and more than that, as a savior. The Yatol priests will follow you because you will bring them the security they have lost with the downfall of the Chezru Chieftain and the chaos it has created among the flock. And because you will pay them—they are a greedy lot!”

“Not all will abandon the way of Chezru,” Abbot Olin warned.

“But enough will to marginalize the others, and you will have enough power at your disposal to … well, to dispose of those who prove most troublesome. I expect that Jacintha will be yours, my friend Abbot Olin, and very quickly. And from there, I have no doubt that you will spread your influence and spiritual kingdom, and my secular kingdom, in rapid manner.”

Aydrian looked away from Olin, to the others. De’Unnero was staring at him blankly, trying to absorb it all, obviously, while Duke Kalas was just shaking his head, his expression still doubtful.

“Fear not, Duke Kalas, for Abbot Olin’s press to the south will take little of your resources from the duties of securing the main prize, the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear,” Aydrian remarked. “He will use part of the mercenary armies that brought us to Ursal, and not the professional armies of the kingdom.” He looked back to Olin. “You go there offering friendship and support above all else.”

“And it will be an honest offer,” Abbot Olin replied.

“Indeed,” said Aydrian, “as long as they ultimately agree to the rule of King Aydrian Boudabras.”

Olin’s face darkened for just a moment, but then he grinned, and replied, “Of course.”

H
e hugged her and he held on for a long, long time. For Bishop Braumin Herde there was usually no more welcome sight than Jilseponie Wyndon, his dear and trusted friend, the woman who had led him through the fires of Bestesbulzibar and the hellish swirl of the rosy plague.

This day, though, the sight of Jilseponie tore at the man’s heart more than it elevated him. In all his years beside her, even during the plague, Braumin had only once seen Jilseponie this downtrodden, and that after the death of her beloved Elbryan. And aside from his fear for his wounded friend, the mere fact that she was here, and not sitting as queen of Honce-the-Bear, set off alarms in his head that many of the rumors creeping up the river might well be true.

“We have word of the death of King Danube,” remarked Brother Marlboro Viscenti, standing across the room from the hugging pair. “Truly I am sorry.”

Jilseponie, her face streaked with tears once again, moved back from Braumin. “It was Aydrian,” she tried to explain, though their looks told her plainly that these two had no idea of who Aydrian truly might be.

“Aydrian Boudabras,” said Braumin. “Yes, the proclamation has come up the
Masur Delaval that this young man is now king of Honce-the-Bear, though what that means for us all we do not yet know. I have never heard him mentioned in the royal line.”

“There are other rumors,” Viscenti started to add, but Braumin waved his hand to silence the man.

Jilseponie, though, steadied herself and looked back at the thin and always nervous Viscenti. “Rumors of a change in St. Honce, one that shall spread throughout your church,” she said.

Viscenti nodded slowly.

“Our new king was aided in his ascent by your own Abbot Olin,” Jilseponie confirmed. Then she paused and took a deep breath. “And by Marcalo De’Unnero.”

“Curse the name!” Bishop Braumin cried, and Master Viscenti stood there trembling, wincing repeatedly with his nervous tic.

“How has this happened?” asked Braumin, and he moved away from Jilseponie, stalking across the room. “How did this come about without warning? A young man, unheard of, suddenly proclaimed king? There is no sense in this! What claim might Aydrian Boudabras hold to the throne of Honce-the-Bear?”

“He is my son,” Jilseponie said quietly, though if she had shouted it, if she had brought in a thousand people to shout it, it would not have struck Bishop Braumin and Master Viscenti any more profoundly.

“Your son?” Viscenti echoed incredulously.

“He is but a child?” Abbot Braumin asked. “You bore King Danube a babe? Why did we not—”

“He is a young man,” Jilseponie corrected. “The son of Jilseponie and Elbryan.”

Both monks stood dumbfounded, Viscenti shaking his head and Braumin just staring at Jilseponie, trying to find some reason in this unbelievable turn.

“How is that possible?” the bishop of Palmaris finally managed to ask.

“The child I thought lost on the field outside of this very city was not lost,” Jilseponie explained. “He was taken away and raised in secret by …” She paused and shook her head.

“And now corrupted by De’Unnero and Olin, to the doom of us all,” reasoned Viscenti.

“So it may prove,” Bishop Braumin answered, when it was apparent that Jilseponie would not. “And Duke Kalas and the armies have thrown in with this phony king? It seems impossible! What of Prince Midalis? Surely he will not stand idly by while this pretender to the throne dismantles his brother’s kingdom, and the Abellican Church, as well!”