DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (241 page)

“Perhaps that is a discussion for you and my master on another day,” Mackaront said.

“Doubtful,” came the reply, the tone uncompromising.

Master Mackaront, no novice to the inevitably narrowed viewpoint of long-term clergy, accepted the response with a nod.

“Aside from that, my master is well aware that you are in dire need here,” Mackaront said. “He is a friend of Jacintha, first and foremost, and as such, a friend and ally to Yatol Mado Wadon.”

The man held fast his skeptical expression, but Mackaront could see the cracks growing in that façade—cracks wrought of desperation, he knew.

“Abbot Olin is not without resources at this time.”

“I would think that King Aydrian would need all of those resources and more, usurping a kingdom as mighty as Honce-the-Bear,” said the suspicious Yatol Wadon.

“A nearly bloodless ascent, and one that has only added to Aydrian’s considerable strength, I assure you,” Mackaront explained. “Entel is secure—more secure than you can imagine—and Abbot Olin’s position in the Abellican Church has never shone more brightly. We have resources to spare, and we offer them to you in this, your time of need.”

“In exchange for?”

“As a gesture of friendship. The troubles of the Chezru religion are a great source of concern for Abbot Olin, who has always understood that the Abellican
and Chezru churches were not as opposed as many believe. Abbot Olin, who loves Jacintha as he loves Entel, desires stability in Behren, for only in the calm of order might the greater questions concerning the dramatic events within Chezru be properly explored.”

“And your master believes that he should have a voice in such discussions?”

“He would be grateful if you and your fellow Yatols included him, of course,” said Mackaront. “Abbot Olin is a man of philosophy and education. He is no ideologue locked into a particular focus so strongly that he believes there is nothing left to learn. Inquisition and exploration lead to the truth, though it is a road that may continue for centuries to come.”

“Fine words,” Yatol Wadon said, with a hint of sarcasm holding in his tone. “But words for another day. Tell me what you offer.”

“Yatols Peridan and De Hamman will continue to play out their fighting—there is little we can do to stop that,” Mackaront explained, and Yatol Wadon predictably scowled at the words. It was important to him, after all, to calm the side battles so that Yatols like the two warlords to the south of Jacintha could aid him in his more important cause.

“What we will do is keep the fighting balanced, allowing neither to gain a major advantage,” Mackaront went on. “Trust me in this. Events have already been put into motion to secure that end.”

“You presume much,” Yatol Wadon replied, an edge of unmistakable anger creeping into his voice.

“We understand much,” Mackaront corrected, not backing down. “The best scenario for you and for Jacintha is to keep all of the other regions away from your expected personal struggle with Yatol Bardoh.”

Wadon’s expression showed that he had been thinking in exactly the opposite direction.

“You alone defeat Bardoh and secure Jacintha, and your position will not be questioned by any of the others,” Mackaront explained. “And you will defeat Yatol Bardoh, and soundly, because my master is your friend.”

He ended with a grinning expression, locking stares with Yatol Wadon. He could see that Wadon wanted to deny his claim, desperately so.

But he could not.

Mackaront recognized clearly that Mado Wadon was not pleased by his announced plans for Peridan and De Hamman, and that the Jacintha leader understood exactly what was going on here. Abbot Olin was forcing his hand and his allegiance. And yet, whatever he thought of that, there was nothing that he could do about it.

That last line,
because my master is your friend
, was not so veiled a threat. If Mackaront’s master was not Wadon’s friend, the implication seemed clear enough that Abbot Olin would quickly become Yatol Bardoh’s friend.

Master Mackaront excused himself then, ending with a polite and respectful bow. He didn’t want to press his advantage too strongly, after all.

The ten thousand Bearmen soldiers crossing the eastern stretches of the Belt-and-Buckle, the tremendous fleet of pirate ships leveling the conflict between Peridan and De Hamman, and the fleet of Honce-the-Bear warships even then assembling in Entel harbor, preparing to deliver soldiers of Aydrian’s army to Jacintha, would do that all on their own.

And then Abbot Olin would arrive, the friend of victorious and indebted Yatol Mado Wadon.

Chapter 4
 

“
Saudi Jacintha
,
THE SHIP OF
C
APTAIN
A
L
’
U
’
MET
,
SAILED OUT OF
P
ALMARIS
,” D
UKE
Bretherford informed his guests on
River Palace
, the royal ship of the Honce-the-Bear fleet. “We have reason to believe that one of the masters of St. Precious, likely Marlboro Viscenti, was aboard.”

“Heading for St.-Mere-Abelle,” Duke Kalas reasoned, looking to Aydrian.

The young king nodded and grinned. “My mother reached them. She set them all in a frenzy, I would guess.”

“We can assume that word has reached Fio Bou-raiy, then,” Marcalo De’Unnero put in. “St.-Mere-Abelle will lock down her gates.”

“Good,” Aydrian replied. “Put them in their hole. They will be easier to catch that way.”

“Spoken like one who has not witnessed the power that is St.-Mere-Abelle,” the former monk sharply warned, and all about the table, eyebrows arched at De’Unnero’s surprisingly blunt rebuttal of the king.

But Aydrian merely grinned all the wider. “Still you doubt and fear,” he said to the fiery De’Unnero. “When will you come to trust me?”

There were far too many tangential implications reaching out from that question for De’Unnero to begin to answer.

Across the table, Duke Bretherford cleared his throat.

Aydrian turned a wry grin the smallish man’s way. “Speak freely here,” the young king instructed, though he knew that Bretherford would do no such thing—knew that if Bretherford revealed his honest feelings about all of this, then Aydrian would probably be forced to kill him on the spot. Duke Bretherford had been a dear friend of King Danube’s, and of the whole Ursal line. It was he who had first taken Prince Midalis to Vanguard, those decades before, when Midalis and Danube’s father was the king of Honce-the-Bear.

Duke Bretherford glanced over at Kalas briefly, and Aydrian did well to hide his amusement at the exchange between the two. He held Kalas firmly, he knew, and Kalas had convinced many of the other dukes to swear fealty to this new king. As far as Kalas was concerned, Aydrian was the best choice for Honce-the-Bear, particularly in restoring the kingdom to what it had been before all the trouble with the demon dactyl. His nostalgic view of a blissful kingdom those decades ago had been generally well received by some of the dukes.

Others, like Bretherford—arguably the second most powerful duke in the kingdom, for he most controlled the great Ursal fleet—had come to Aydrian’s court with considerably less enthusiasm.

“You do seem willing to allow your enemies to gather their strength,” Bretherford
remarked. “You say that this is because you are confident of victory, but is such a strategy not inevitably to cost more men their lives and to make this conflict, if a war it must be, even more bloody?”

Aydrian was acutely aware of the others in the room sucking in their collective breath at that remark—certainly an inappropriate remark for any nobleman to make of his king. This was a test, Aydrian knew, to take his measure not only to Duke Bretherford, but to some of the other noblemen as well. He took his time, pondering the question and his answer as the seconds slipped by—and that was not anything that the impulsive and cocky Aydrian Boudabras was known to do!

“My mother will prove to be more a hindrance to our enemies than a useful ally,” he began, and he looked all around as he spoke, even at De’Unnero. “As for the Abellican monks … well, better that they know of the events in Ursal. No doubt they have heard a skewed version of the truth, but better that to measure their loyalty to the throne. Let them stand on one side or the other now, and be done with it.” The young king didn’t miss the slight grin that escaped De’Unnero at his words, nor the satisfaction splayed on the face of Duke Kalas, who hated the Church above all else and who would surely welcome an assault against St.-Mere-Abelle, whatever its reputation.

“A skewed version?” Duke Bretherford dared to ask, and De’Unnero started to argue, and Kalas started to berate the man.

But Aydrian called for calm. “This is all yet unfolding,” he told them. “We have much to learn of these folk before we label them as friend or enemy. For now, let us continue our glorious march to Palmaris. The disposition of that city will go far in telling us what we might expect as the word of my ascension spreads throughout the kingdom.”

He dismissed them all, then, explaining that he was tired, and he went to his private quarters and lay down on his bed. And there, his physical form rested, but his mind wandered.

Aided by the powerful soul stone, Aydrian slipped out of his corporeal form and glided unseen across the deck of
River Palace
, to the taffrail, where Kalas and Bretherford were conversing.

“Are you so quick to dismiss Prince Midalis?” the smaller Bretherford asked. “To forsake the line of Ursal, that has served Honce-the-Bear for so many years?”

“I have seen the truth of our young king,” Kalas calmly replied. “With all of my heart, I believe that he is the proper ruler of Honce-the-Bear.”

“Despite your feelings about his parents?”

Duke Kalas shrugged. “Jilseponie has her strengths, and great weaknesses. The strengths are what she passed along to Aydrian. And were you not ever more a friend to Jilseponie than I?”

“I pitied the woman,” Bretherford replied. “My loyalties were ever with King Danube, as I thought were yours.”

Aydrian watched with great interest as Duke Kalas straightened and squared his shoulders.

“I blame Jilseponie for the downfall of King Danube,” he said.

“And you embrace her son?”

“There is irony in that,” Kalas admitted. “But no inconsistency. The blood of Jilseponie gives Aydrian claim to the throne, but—”

“Above Prince Midalis?” Duke Bretherford interrupted.

Kalas stared at him hard. “You should take care your words, my friend. Aydrian is king of Honce-the-Bear, and he holds the power of Ursal behind him. I pray that Prince Midalis comes to understand and accept this.”

“And Prince Torrence, as well?” Bretherford asked, and it was obvious that the man wasn’t really buying deeply into any of this.

Aydrian caught Kalas’ slight wince at the mention of Torrence Pemblebury, but he was certain that Duke Bretherford did not notice.

“We will see,” Kalas replied. “Aydrian is king. He has the Allhearts and the garrison of Ursal behind him, as well as the army that followed him and understood the truth of his ascension before he even rose to the position. He will secure the kingdom, through negotiation or through war, and he will reshape the Abellican Church—”

“That hope is what binds you to him, I’d guess,” Bretherford interrupted. He turned out over the taffrail and spat into the water. “Are you hoping for a war to bring about a change in the Church to fit the visions of the crazy Marcalo De’Unnero?” he asked incredulously. “Or is it just the thought of a war within the Abellican Church that has you thrilled? Is that it, my old friend? Maybe King Aydrian will weaken the monks and push their Church to the fringes of the kingdom. Is that what you’re wanting?”

Kalas leaned on the rail and did not bother to respond.

Aydrian was smiling when he returned to his waiting body.

T
he one-armed Father Abbot of the Abellican Church sat perfectly straight in his chair. His gray hair, as always, was neatly trimmed and perfectly styled; not a strand seemed out of place on him—physically. But none around Fio Bou-raiy, not the visiting Abbot Glendenhook of St. Gwendolyn, not Machuso or any of the other masters at St.-Mere-Abelle, and not Viscenti, who had brought the news from St. Precious, had ever seen the man so obviously shaken.

They were in the newly remodeled audience hall of the great abbey, on the eastern edge of the complex, overlooking the All Saints Bay. This large room, a hundred feet square, had been three separate halls, one on top of the other. But Father Abbot Bou-raiy, with visions of expanding the Church during the time when one of its sovereign sisters had sat on the secular throne as queen, had desired something grander for the abbey, a place where he could entertain noblemen and perhaps even King Danube himself. So the ceilings and floors had been removed, leaving one huge hall that soared to nearly sixty feet, with a balcony running the length of the wall opposite Bou-raiy’s grand throne, and all the way down the left-hand wall as well. The floor, a black-and-white patchwork of large marble tiles,
was actually below ground level and was accessed by a single anteroom, the great double doors opening from the west, to the left of Bou-raiy’s throne, and directly across from the most imposing design in the entire place: a huge and circular stained-glass window, set in the eastern wall above the wide staircase that ascended the thirty feet to the balcony. Filled with glass of rose and purple, blue and amber, the design on the window depicted the mummified arm of Avelyn Desbris, rising from the flattened top of ruined Mount Aida. A one-armed priest—obviously Bou-raiy—his brown robe tied off at one shoulder, knelt before the sacred place, bending low to kiss the bloody hand.