DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (25 page)

But then he noticed something on the goblin’s now-exposed foot, and though the coloration was surely wrong—a yellowish blotch inside a circular scar—he recognized the pattern clearly.

Francis bent down low, bringing his torch in for a closer look.

“By God’s good graces,” he whispered, for he had just seen this same pattern, the pattern of the rosy plague, on the woman in the village. Only on this goblin, the scars seemed healed, as if the creature had overcome the disease. Francis checked the rest of the goblin’s body—finding more such scars—then he searched others. To his astonishment, nearly half of the creatures showed remnants of what looked to him like the rosy plague. He would have to research this more closely when he returned to St.-Mere-Abelle, he told himself, to learn if these strange scars were similar to the marks the disease had left on the few human survivors of the plague.

But Francis already had his answer, he believed, and as he followed his assumption along a logical path, he came to understand that the demon dactyl might now be waging another war upon the humans of Honce-the-Bear, a more subtle and more deadly war. Had the demon’s minions brought with them the plague?

Francis paused and took a deep and steadying breath, considering his next move carefully. Should he bring one of the infected goblins back to St.-Mere-Abelle? No, he decided almost immediately, fearing the consequences to his precious home if the creature was still spreading the plague. That same thought led him to an even more disturbing possibility: had he and the other brothers contracted the plague by battling the goblins?

“We can check, with hematite,” Francis muttered, needing to hear the reassuring words aloud. “We … no, the more powerful masters will search for signs when we return.”

“What is it, Master Francis?” he heard Brother Julius ask from not so far away.

Francis turned and faced the man squarely, but decided that sharing his disturbing fears at that moment might not be so wise a thing to do. “It is time, past time, for us to return to St.-Mere-Abelle,” he answered.

The younger brother nodded and turned away. “We are ready for the road,” he announced.

“Brother Julius,” Francis called, and the monk turned back to look at him. “Your plan was an excellent one. Without it, the goblins would have overwhelmed us, or, had we left them, would have overwhelmed Davon Dinnishire. The blood of our dead brethren is not on your hands. I thought you should know that.”

“I do, Master Francis,” Julius replied in a more accusatory tone. “I do.”

The monk turned and walked away, and for a moment, Francis entertained the thought of scolding him publicly for such impertinence. Just for a moment, though. Francis glanced back at the pile of diseased goblins and understood that he had more important issues to attend.

Chapter 10
 

A
BBOT
J
E
’
HOWITH FELL DEEPER
,
DEEPER INTO THE GEMSTONE
,
FELL INTO THE
swirl of its magic and down, down, into its depths. There his spirit found release from the confines of his aged body. To the old abbot, this was the epitome of grace, the closest state one might attain to God while still physically maintaining one’s mortal coil. Now he was free of earthly bonds, spirit-walking without physical ailments and limitations, without boundaries.

He saw the woman reclining patiently before him, her hand clutching a sunstone brooch, as he had instructed. Constance Pemblebury was no master of gemstone magic, surely, but with this particular item, she did not have to be. If she felt the battle of wills begin between her and Je’howith, she was to pinch her skin with the enchanted brooch’s pin, nothing more, and the antimagic wave would wash the old abbot’s intruding spirit out of her.

Je’howith moved closer, fighting the urge to go into her being, to take over her body. That was the danger of spirit-walking—the instinctual desire of the spirit to find a corporeal body, even at the expense of another’s spirit.

Je’howith was right beside her now. He reached out his insubstantial hand toward her naked belly—and how he wished he were still of the flesh that he might feel Constance’s smooth and delicate skin.

The old abbot washed that impure thought from his mind and focused on the task at hand. He moved even closer, right up to the woman, right into the woman. Now it took all his willpower not to try to possess her immediately. He pushed ahead, searching, searching.

And then he felt it, undeniably: another life, another soul stirring within the woman’s womb. Je’howith could no longer resist—his spirit went for the child, joining with the child. It would be so easy to expel this tiny, undeveloped, and unknowing soul! To take the corporeal form! To begin life anew, from the womb, but with the understanding of a previous lifetime’s experience!

And then, suddenly, the old abbot was thrown out, expelled so fully that before he even comprehended the change, he was back in his own body, corporeal again, staring, blinking in disbelief as Constance sat up.

“What did you do?” she demanded sharply.

“I—I did as you asked me,” Je’howith stammered in reply, and he closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to orient himself.

“You went further,” Constance accused, but even as she spoke the words, her expression became perplexed. “You tried …” she started to say, but she paused and
looked up at Je’howith, and a wry smile came over her.

“Yes, dear Constance,” the abbot confirmed. “Your alluring wiles have worked their magic. You carry King Danube’s child.”

Constance clapped her hands together, then brought them up to cover her mouth, gasping with joy. “It is true,” she dared to say.

“Why are you so surprised?” Je’howith asked sarcastically. “Is this not what you wanted? Was this not your purpose ever since you saw your beloved Danube’s eye wander the way of Jilseponie Wyndon?”

Constance’s expression changed to sternness. “And do you disapprove?” she asked, an accusation as much as a question. “For if you did, then why did you not warn King Danube of my intent?”

Je’howith merely chuckled.

“I fear Jilseponie, but you despise her,” Constance went on. “I bear her no ill will, yet you would pay the headsman handsomely to take her pretty head from her shoulders.”

Je’howith bowed to her, an admission that her reasoning was sound. “I fear her more than you ever could,” he explained. “You fear that she will threaten your little place at Danube’s side. I fear that she will topple the world of the Abellican Church.”

“And what better way to keep her out of the Church than to involve her in the affairs of the Crown?” reasoned Constance, again in that accusatory tone. “Perhaps Je’howith whispers of Jilseponie in King Danube’s ear.”

The monk laughed. “Because I would be better off by far if Jilseponie came to Ursal as queen of Honce-the-Bear?” he asked incredulously. “No, my dear Constance, never would I desire that. I am glad that the woman has gone north, far out of the way, and is not meddling in the affairs of either Church or Crown.”

“And what of Constance, then, and her condition?” she asked.

Again the old abbot chuckled, belittling the whole thing. “This will not be Danube’s first child. Nor, I doubt, will it be his last.”

“It?” Constance echoed. “Boy or girl?”

“Most mothers do not wish to be told.”

Constance fixed the old man with a devastating glower.

“Boy,” Je’howith answered, and Constance clenched her fist with absolute glee. “You assume much if you think this will greatly alter your standing,” Je’howith said.

“You know nothing of my relationship with King Danube,” Constance replied. “You, not I, assume much.”

Je’howith draped his arm about the woman, fixing her with a disarming smile. “Listen to us,” he bade her. “We sound as if we are against each other in this matter, when, truthfully, we both share similar goals. The health of King Danube and his kingdom is to our mutual liking, is it not?”

“And how does my situation affect that health, in Abbot Je’howith’s thinking?” Constance asked bluntly.

The old man’s smile seemed genuine. “Why, Milady Pemblebury, it would not pain me to call you my queen.”

Constance returned the smile and nodded, then dressed and took her leave.

Abbot Je’howith, whose world had just been turned upside down in Palmaris, whose position in his beloved Church had been severely strained by his association with the man who lost the battle for the Church, watched her every step. Was she carrying the future King of Honce-the-Bear? Or—even more relevant to old Je’howith, who would not likely outlive young King Danube, would this situation elevate Constance to her coveted position as queen?

“So be it,” the old abbot said aloud, and he nodded, unconcerned. He had never truly been at odds with Constance—often he had considered her as Danube’s most reasonable secular adviser. He didn’t think it likely that Danube would take her as his wife anyway—if he meant to do that, he would have done so long ago.

But still, despite all of his logical arguments telling him that this situation was neither unexpected nor damaging, it nagged at Je’howith until he finally discerned his source of distress.

Again he nodded, his understanding of his own fears coming clearer. Might this situation push King Danube to other action? To the active pursuit of Jilseponie, perhaps, that he might sire a more acceptable heir?

Constance had gotten her wish, the culmination of her pursuit and treachery, but old and wise Je’howith wasn’t sure that the woman fully understood the consequences.

A
boy, a son for King Danube Brock Ursal! The news should not have surprised Constance, who had been working so long to just that end; and yet, from the moment Je’howith had told her about the child, all the world had seemed to slip out of focus.

She went immediately to her room, to her bed, and reclined there, deep in thought and steeped in joy. She would mother the future King of Honce-the-Bear! This child within her would rise through the ranks of nobility to the very highest level, would bring the name of Pemblebury the stature it had once known, many generations before.

Once, before the unification of the kingdom under King Danube’s great-great-great-great-grandfather, the Pembleburys had been the lords of Wester-Honce, an independent fiefdom. When King Bendragon Coelyn Ursal had unified the kingdom, subjugating Wester-Honce, the Pembleburys had remained an important family; but over the generations that stature, along with the population and importance of Wester-Honce itself, had gradually diminished, to the point where Constance’s grandmother had chosen to become a courtesan in order to retain any ties at all to the Throne. Constance’s mother, a bastard child of a duke, a distant relation to the family of Targon Bree Kalas, had followed suit, and had taught Constance in the family’s new profession.

Constance’s child would be the first male in the family for three generations
and, given its pedigree, held the promise of restoring all that the Pembleburys once were, and more.

Along with the hopes Constance fostered that morning were more than a few doubts. She understood, even more clearly now that her efforts had worked, that she had forced upon King Danube a delicate and potentially devastating situation. She had played her hand, had taken a great risk, in the hopes that King would remain loyal to her.

Constance took a deep and steadying breath, considering again the potential consequences, the risk that she would be forced from the city, into the circles of lesser nobles, as had both women who had previously become pregnant with Danube’s children. A moment of sheer terror gripped her, the sudden certainty that her actions to secure a greater role had thus doomed her to a minor position in a minor court.

It was a passing fear, though, for Constance reminded herself of how badly she had wanted a child. Her childbearing days were nearing their end, but Danube showed little movement toward formalizing their relationship, and so she had been given little choice.

Of course, she could have sought out a different sire, a less complicated union with a lesser noble—many of whom would have been thrilled to take her as wife. But Constance didn’t want just any man’s child, and had no intention of settling for another whom she did not love. No, she loved Danube, and had loved him since before his wedding to Queen Vivian two decades earlier. He was her friend and her lover, the only man who had ever seemed to genuinely understand her. And now he was the father of her child, and to Constance, nothing in all the world could have been more appropriate.

And so, as she settled in for a long morning’s rest, her joy overcame her fears, and she became at ease with the reality of her situation, very pleased that her child, Danube’s child, was growing within her.

“K
alas continues to hold the Abellican Church in check in Palmaris and all the northern reaches,” King Danube said happily to Je’howith when the old abbot came upon him, later that same day, reclining in his study, sipping fine brandy, and surrounded by the most extensive library in all the world, greater even than the collection of tomes hoarded at St.-Mere-Abelle.