DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (26 page)

Danube’s smile was genuine; he was in fine spirits, and not because of the drink. He was happy to be home again, in the bright summer, and with his kingdom finally settling back into its previous state of calm. He was happy that he could again go riding in the fields around Castle Ursal, that he could enjoy the balls and parties with the many nobles and courtesans. It seemed that the pall of the demon dactyl was finally lifting from his kingdom, and that the upstart brothers of the Abellican Church, often his most bitter rivals, would soon again be huddled within their dark walls.

“I do miss Duke Kalas,” the King admitted, and he laughed again when
Je’howith, who had never been a friend to the fiery and ultimately secular Duke, frowned deeply. “Perhaps I will be able to invite him home soon enough.”

“Do not underestimate Abbot Braumin Herde and his intentions,” Je’howith warned.

“Word from Kalas says that Jilseponie has left for the northland,” the King replied. “Without her, our friend Braumin will prove much less formidable. And as the darkness recedes, so too will the influence of the Church. The people of Palmaris remember well the oppression of Bishop De’Unnero, I assure you, and his reign of terror suited Duke Kalas well.”

“Because Duke Kalas was ever such a gentle man,” Je’howith said with obvious sarcasm.

King Danube only laughed again. “It is a fine day, my friend, with the promise of many better days yet to come,” he said, hoisting his glass in toast.

Abbot Je’howith assumed a pensive posture; and Danube lowered his glass, looking hard at the old monk, finally catching on that the man’s arrival was more than a casual visit.

“I met with Constance this morning,” Je’howith remarked.

“And …” Danube prompted. “If there is trouble in my court, then speak it plainly.”

“She is with child,” Je’howith informed him. “Your child. A son, I believe, who will be born next midwinter, unless there are complications.”

Danube swallowed hard. “Impossible …” he started to say. “Constance is well versed in methods of preventing …” He paused there and considered the information, wondering immediately if the conception was accidental or deliberate. Constance had long been his trusted friend and his off-and-on lover for decades—and once she had questioned him directly about his intentions toward her, if he had any beyond their liaisons.… But to think that she had purposely tricked him …

“These things do happen, my King,” Abbot Je’howith said. “You have sired two before—have you forgotten? Many of the courtesans find themselves with child, I assure you, though they do not carry through with the pregnancy.”

“Children of mine?” Danube asked, his eyes widening in an accurate reflection of his shock.

Abbot Je’howith began patting his hands in the air to calm the man. “It happens,” he said quietly. “They consider their condition and their future. Their places at court, after all, are ones reserved for the most beautiful and the most talented … and the ones least burdened. Many courtesans understand well the complications that a child will bring to their lives, a situation that might send them back to a life of poverty and without position.”

King Danube settled back in a chair that seemed suddenly not so comfortable to him, and took a hearty swallow of his potent liquor. He didn’t like being told of the seedier side of his life, but neither could he deny the truth of Je’howith’s observations. When he compared that truth to Constance’s present situation, though, he took some comfort. “Constance will not do that,” he remarked.

“No, she will not,” Je’howith agreed. “I doubt that she views carrying the child of King Danube Brock Ursal as a burden or a cause for tears, unless they be tears of joy.”

His tone as he finished made it clear to Danube that the old man fully believed that Constance had become pregnant on purpose; but strangely, to Danube, even that possibility did not invoke his wrath. How many years had Constance Pemblebury stood steadfastly beside him? How many times had she been there to comfort him in days of distress, to reassure him on those few occasions when he was faced with momentous decisions: the pardoning of a condemned criminal or the portioning of rations among communities where starvation seemed inevitable?

“Perhaps she has earned this child,” Danube muttered, speaking more to himself than to Je’howith.

“And what, exactly, is this child?” Je’howith asked bluntly, drawing him from his private contemplations. The king looked up at the old man. “You have sired two before, and have done well by the mothers, awarding them comfortable positions and even minor titles for your children,” the abbot reminded him. “Yet at the same time, you invoked Refusal of Acceptance, separating them forever from the ruling line, denying them for all time any claims to the throne of Honce-the-Bear. Will you follow the same course with the child of Constance Pemblebury?”

Danube started to reply
Of course
, but the words got stuck in his throat as he considered the reality of the situation, of this woman. He gave no answer, then, but merely blew a deep and contemplative sigh.

“Do you love her?” Je’howith asked.

Danube shook his head, but at the same time, he answered, “I do not know.”

“Do you love the woman Jilseponie?” the surprising abbot went on, and how that question widened King Danube’s eyes!

“How could you ask such a question?” he responded loudly, but again, Je’howith was patting his hands in the air, motioning for a calm discourse.

“I saw the look in your eyes when you gazed upon her,” the abbot replied. “She is beautiful beyond question, a sight to stir the loins of any man, and by deed alone she has made herself fit for the throne—indeed, I would reason that there is no woman in all the world more suited to sit by your side than Jilseponie Wyndon.”

Again, Danube found no rebuttal against the sound reasoning. He carried it one step further, though, and reminded himself that perhaps the second woman most fit to be queen would be none other than the woman now carrying his child. The confusion inspired by that realization showed clearly on his face.

“I have delivered stunning news to you, my King,” Je’howith said with a bow. “There is no need to make any decisions at this time.”

“Soon enough,” Danube replied. “The seasons will pass quickly, and Constance’s condition will be known before summer’s end. Many will whisper and ask questions.”

“You need not marry her, obviously.”

“But I will need to make a decree concerning her status and that of the child,”
Danube reasoned. “To invoke Refusal of Acceptance would wound Constance profoundly, something I do not wish to do.”

“But something, perhaps, that she has brought upon herself,” Je’howith reminded him.

Danube’s stern expression showed that he wasn’t ready to accept that notion, that he understood that whatever Constance’s actions to prevent or allow conception had been, he, too, had played more than a minor role.

“There is also the matter of your brother,” said Je’howith, quickly changing the subject.

“And if I do nothing?” Danube asked, for he recognized that Je’howith, as abbot of St. Honce, was among the most knowledgeable men in the kingdom of the affairs of court. “If I simply let events take their place—let the child be born and do not invoke the Refusal, nor openly claim the child—then will the boy become heir to the throne above Midalis?”

Je’howith hesitated a moment, then nodded. “If you die before Midalis and it is commonly accepted that this child is yours, and by a woman who remains at your side, then the child will indeed have some claim to the throne. It will be no easy ascent, I expect, but rather, one strongly contested by writ and, perhaps, by sword. Wars have begun for lesser reasons, my King.”

“Then I need to choose, and soon,” Danube replied. “Do I wound Constance or enrage Midalis? For either way, it seems as if I am about to bring pain to a friend.”

“There remains a third option,” said Je’howith.

“I would never ask her to be rid of the baby,” Danube insisted.

“No, not that,” said Je’howith. “Never that!”

Danube tilted his head, studying the man, convinced that if, as the abbot had remarked, other women had been rid of their unwanted children, then hypocritical old Je’howith, or some other gemstone-wielding monk, had likely played a role in the process.

“You can use a delaying tactic,” the abbot went on, “a way for you to let the situation go on and let the passage of time guide you to a more decisive and definitive action. This is not without precedent—you can issue a decree of Denial of Privilege, a technical term and legal maneuver that will not deny the child’s claim to the throne forever, as you have done with your other bastard heirs, but will, rather, maintain the present status, keeping Constance’s child outside the line of succession and keeping your option—or that of Midalis should he succeed you and die childless—for recognizing the child as rightful heir at a future date.”

“Denial of Privilege?” Danube echoed.

“A temporary measure that has been used in centuries past,” Je’howith answered. “And it is possible for you to even include contingencies that will lift the injunction against the child’s becoming king. Let us suppose that you outlive your brother, then die unexpectedly.”

“A truly inspiring supposition,” Danube said dryly.

“In that case, had you so specified, Constance’s child would assume the throne,”
Je’howith explained.

“And if I decree a Denial of Privilege and Midalis outlives me?”

“Then the child will have no claim to the throne above your brother, and it would be up to him to either assign rights to the child in the event of his childless demise or deny them outright with a formal Refusal of Acceptance.”

King Danube settled back again and put his hand to his chin, trying to digest all of these options.

“How much easier it all would be if you, and your brother, had both married and sired proper heirs,” the abbot lamented.

Danube glanced up at him, eyes narrow, a poignant reminder to the old abbot that he had indeed been married to Queen Vivian, who had died despite Je’howith’s efforts to save her. And those efforts—or at least, the lack of their effectiveness—had in effect split the court of Ursal for many years and were the source of the lingering hatred between Je’howith and Duke Kalas.

Je’howith promptly bowed and turned to leave.

And King Danube Brock Ursal, who had been happily celebrating what he thought would be a return to normalcy, found himself full of questions and turmoil. The delaying tactic sounded most promising, both for sparing Constance the pain and for placating Midalis, who had never really been close to his brother, the King, but had never been his rival either.

Yes, the Denial of Privilege seemed a promising course; and, in truth, when he looked at things that way, this all didn’t seem like such a momentous problem.

However, there was one other complicating factor, an image of another woman, a warrior, a gemstone witch. It was an image King Danube could not shake out of his head.

Chapter 11
 

H
E HAD A FEELING
,
AS HE FLITTED FROM TREE TO TREE
,
OF TRUE WARMTH AND
friendship, a feeling not unlike that he experienced whenever he returned home to Andur’Blough Inninness after one of his forays into the realm of the humans. For Juraviel, the Timberlands region around Dundalis, Weedy Meadow, and End-o’-the-World—the former haunt of Nightbird, the home of both the ranger and Jilseponie—had the same smell and feel as the elven valley. How curious that notion struck the elf now as he moved along the forested hills and valleys, how surprising.

Juraviel was Touel’alfar, of the people. That fact was the primary truth in his long life, the binding code of responsibility and of a specific and shared understanding of all the world and its varied inhabitants. In Juraviel’s thoughts, in the thoughts of every Touel’alfar, even the least of friends among his own people—the other elf with whom he could not agree on anything, the elf he found most unpleasant—ranked far above the best of friends he might make among
n’Touel’alfar
, the folk
not
of the people. Juraviel did not question that tenet of his existence—never before and not now—but his feeling warmth as he neared the small human settlement of Dundalis, his feeling almost as if he were going home surprised him.

Perhaps, had he looked more deeply into himself, Belli’mar Juraviel would have noted then that his lines of ingrained reasoning were not in accord with the feelings within his heart.

The elf paused in his travels late one afternoon, finding a high branch of a wide maple where he could settle for a short rest. Soon he was comfortably asleep.

And then, soon after, he awoke to a haunting melody drifting on the evening breeze, echoing through the forest as if every tree were taking it inside in a deep and lingering breath and then blowing it out again for the rest of the forest to share, but altered, only slightly, by the heart of its last host tree.

“The Forest Ghost,” Juraviel whispered, and he smiled as he heard the name aloud, the name the humans of Elbryan’s first home had bestowed upon the centaur, Bradwarden, and his bagpipes. How many times had young Elbryan and Jilseponie heard that tune? Juraviel wondered. How many times had it been just below their level of consciousness as they drifted off to sleep in their little beds?