DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (263 page)

“Ye didn’t now!”

“I did. Symphony is not the horse of this new king, worthy though he may be …”

“Ye’re not for believing a word of that!” Illthin said with a phlegm-filled laugh.

“Symphony is not the horse for this new king,” Roger reiterated deliberately.

“Oh that ye believe suren enough,” said Illthin. “It’s the other,
worthy
, part …”

Roger straightened and didn’t flinch or blink.

“Many’re feelin’ the same way,” old Illthin said. “Despite the words from Bishop Braumin. Curious, that. I’d not’ve expected Braumin to turn in favor of that one! Not after he had men die holding back King Aydrian at the southern wall.”

“What did Bishop Braumin say?”

“He spoke for the king—the rightful and lawful king, he called him,” Illthin explained. “And for Abbot De’Unnero of St. Precious—now there’s a turn o’ the moss for ye!”

Roger Lockless listened to it all silently. He didn’t doubt the veracity of what Illthin was saying, and it wasn’t hard for Roger, no stranger to the ways of gemstone magic, to figure out how Aydrian might have so manipulated Braumin into saying things so preposterous as that.

“Perhaps all is not what it seems to be, good Illthin,” he replied, and old Illthin laughed again.

“I pray you say nothing,” Roger bade the man. “For Symphony’s sake, if not my own.”

Illthin eyed him suspiciously.

“For Jilseponie’s sake, if not my own,” Roger added, and that seemed to melt the man’s doubting façade.

Before Illthin could respond, the commotion moved about the side of the great house, with many men in pursuit of the agitated Symphony.

“I must be away,” Roger said, and he and Illthin shared one last agreeing look before Roger Lockless melted into the shadows, expertly picking his way back to and over the wall.

By the time Roger had worked his way back around the compound, many soldiers, some astride To-gai ponies, were charging out the main gate and down the street in pursuit of Symphony. Roger did not know that it was Illthin who, feigning terror and running from the charging horse, had conveniently opened the gate to make his own escape, and thus allowed Symphony to break free of the compound.

The chase went on through the streets of Palmaris, but it was really no chase at all, for no horse could match the stride of Symphony, especially no horse carrying a rider. And none of the Allheart ponies was behaving with their usual discipline in any case, all lured by the same centaur piping that was leading Symphony home.

Palmaris’ northern gate was open, as always, and no one there had a chance to close it in time when they realized the identity of the stallion charging their way. One soldier bravely and stupidly stepped out to block the horse, but Symphony
just ran him down, knocking him to the ground.

And then the stallion was running free across the rolling farmlands north of the city, following the promise of Bradwarden’s melody.

The promise of freedom, the promise of home.

F
or Aydrian, meetings such as this one were among the most useless and boring aspects of his running adventure. During all the planning with Abbot Olin and De’Unnero to design his ascent, Aydrian had been forced to sit through similar sessions, where the principals gathered to go over and over and over their upcoming actions. What amazed and dismayed Aydrian most of all was his absolute understanding that the gatherings, as they grew repetitive, did nothing productive. These were meetings to calm the nerves of the various leaders, to comfort them and reassure them that they were acting properly.

Aydrian needed no such reassurances anymore. He had his guidance from the shadow at Oracle. Day by day, he was growing more confident in his abilities and more aware of his limitations, few that they were. To Aydrian, these bureaucratic exercises were merely delays along the course to the inevitable.

He had to admit that this one was more important than most of those previous, though. This one was not for the benefit of Marcalo De’Unnero, who was busy putting the house of St. Precious in order, or Duke Kalas, who was off in the northland securing Caer Tinella and Landsdown, nor for any of the other war leaders who had traveled with Aydrian from Ursal. This meeting concerned the leaders of Palmaris—other than Bishop Braumin, obviously, who remained locked in a room in De’Unnero’s St. Precious.

Aydrian looked around the huge table in the great hall at them, reminding himself of their importance to his cause. Palmaris would be the pivotal city if Midalis ever came south, and having the support of these many lords, the great landowners and influential citizens, would go far in making certain that Palmaris was not welcoming to the dispossessed prince.

But still, it was tedious, at best, and whenever Duke Monmouth Treshay of Yorkey, the formal host at the event—though they had gathered at the home of a prominent Palmaris landowner—addressed an issue to the Palmaris lords, then referred to Aydrian, the young king had to sit up straighter and remind himself to care.

“So, as you can well see, my lords,” he heard Monmouth saying, “the transition of power in Ursal was nearly bloodless, and would have been completely so if all in attendance had simply accepted the declarations of King Danube himself.”

“King Danube was your friend, Duke Monmouth,” said one man, a wealthy merchant who often visited Ursal.

“Indeed he was, and I was proud to call him so!”

“Prince Midalis was your friend, as well, was he not?” the merchant asked, and that got Aydrian’s attention! “When he ventured south with the Alpinadoran barbarians to attend the wedding of Danube and Jilseponie, was not Duke Monmouth
pleased to see him? Did you not ride with him the very next morning?”

“True enough, Lord Breyerton,” admitted Monmouth. “And I shall still call Prince Midalis friend if, when he learns of the transition of power, he accepts the desires of his dead brother who was king. And I expect he will.”

That brought more than a few doubting stares from around the huge table, Aydrian noticed. Given Monmouth’s doubting expressions back in Ursal, Aydrian understood those doubts. Indeed, the young king had many times wondered if he might have to “replace” Monmouth, perhaps brutally so. Thus, soon before beginning the march out of Ursal, Aydrian had visited Monmouth Treshay, not in body, but in spirit, and he had shown the man the glories he might know in Aydrian’s shadow.

And he had shown the man the horror he might realize out of that protective shadow.

Lord Breyerton looked directly at Aydrian in what could only be interpreted as a challenge, which caused more than a few of the others to widen their eyes in alarm. “And if he does not?” the bold lord asked. “If Prince Midalis claims the throne as his own?”

“He has no legal claim,” the all-too-convinced Duke Monmouth replied strongly. “He—”

“He has no throne to claim,” said Aydrian, the first words he had spoken since the opening of the meeting more than an hour before. “The throne of Honce-the-Bear is occupied. That is the simple truth of it. If any others are to make a claim on this throne, given to me by my stepfather in his wisdom, then they are traitors to crown and country and will be accordingly dealt with by the soldiers who serve crown and country.”

“Many people support Prince Midalis,” the defiant Lord Breyerton dared to remark. Eyes about the table opened even wider, and more than one man gasped.

“Is Honce-the-Bear now a product of the will of the people, Lord Breyerton?” Aydrian asked. “If the people had decided that King Danube was not a good king, could they have simply found a replacement and set him upon the throne? What sort of anarchy do you profess?”

“Indeed, what idiocy is this?” asked another of the gathered lords.

“It is an honest question!” Lord Breyerton declared. “If there is to be war—”

“Then you should choose wisely your alliances,” Aydrian interrupted. “If in his disappointment, Prince Midalis cannot accept the vision of King Danube and acts foolishly and traitorously, then he will face the wrath of the crown. You have seen but a fraction of my army and my power, I assure you, and yet Palmaris wisely relented their folly before the city was laid to waste. Even Bishop Braumin, so dear a friend to my mother, came to understand the inevitability and the correctness of my rule. This is no longer about who will sit on the throne of Honce-the-Bear, Lord Breyerton, for that issue is long decided.

“And as your king, I have come to understand that I must reach out to the great cities and the great men who lead them,” Aydrian went on. “King Danube ruled
long and ruled well, mostly because he understood that his eyes and ears alone would never suffice for a kingdom as large and powerful as Honce-the-Bear. His wisdom lay in his ability to recognize the attributes of others and to allow those other great leaders the freedom to serve the kingdom within their own judgment.”

That last line had nearly every head bobbing, had several of the lords staring with hopeful and sparkling eyes. Olin and De’Unnero had schooled Aydrian well here. A king who offered the ambitious and greedy merchants free reign over their own little kingdoms within Honce-the-Bear would be a beloved king indeed—at least by those people who mattered. Even Lord Breyerton seemed a bit off balance, as if suddenly torn between the carrot Aydrian had just subtly dangled and his loyalties to Prince Midalis.

Aydrian recognized clearly the conflict within Breyerton, and he determined then and there to sway that conflict in his direction.

The lords continued to argue amongst themselves for a bit, until a page rushed in, running over to stand beside Lord Breyerton. The young page bent low, whispering excitedly into Breyerton’s ear, and the lord’s eyes widened immediately.

“What is it?” Aydrian asked of him.

Lord Breyerton rose from his seat. “A minor disturbance, my King,” he said, and it was clear that the man was quite unnerved. With a quick bow, Breyerton turned and started away.

“Lord Breyerton!” Aydrian said suddenly, stopping the man in his tracks. Breyerton turned about to look at the king.

“What have you learned?” Aydrian coolly asked.

“There is a disturbance by the north wall, my King,” Breyerton admitted. “A group of Palmaris soldiers have taken control of the smithy. Some of your Kingsmen were wounded, I am afraid.”

Aydrian rose and moved beside the man. “Lead on,” he instructed.

“My King, the area will be dangerous,” Breyerton protested, and several of the others, especially the escorting Allheart Knights, seconded the notion. “You have not even your armor to wear.”

In response, Aydrian gave a wry grin and put a hand to the hilt of Tempest, belted at his hip. “Lead on, Lord Breyerton. I wish to speak with these … confused men.”

“My King—” Breyerton started to argue, but Aydrian cut him short.

“Lead on,” he insisted, and he practically shoved the man out of the door.

The Allhearts and Duke Monmouth were close behind, followed by the other lords. This particular house wasn’t far from the northern wall and the area of the disturbance. As soon as they exited the building, they could hear the sounds of battle.

Needing no guidance, Aydrian moved ahead of Breyerton, striding confidently toward the sounds. He found many of his Kingsmen encircling a small barn set against the northern wall of the city. Nervous horses nickered and skittered about a small corral to the side of the structure. A few men lay dead about the place, most
wearing the armor of the Palmaris garrison, but a couple showing the insignia of Kingsmen. All about the area, hundreds of Palmaris citizens looked on at the spectacle, mostly from distant balconies or from behind the protection of stone walls or water troughs.

Their focus quickly shifted, though, from the fighting to the unexpected arrival of the new king of Honce-the-Bear.

As always, Aydrian found that he liked the feeling of so many people looking at him, of so many people looking on in awe of him. He shook away the distraction, though, and continued ahead, reaching into the pouch on his hip to sort through the gemstones.

The front of the smithy was open, an orange-glowing hearth showing within, but bales of hay had been piled there. Every so often, a man would pop up and loose an arrow out at the encircling force, only to have it answered by a barrage of return fire.

Aydrian drew out Tempest and put a soul stone into his left hand and continued to stride right past the ring of his own soldiers, heading for the smithy. When one of the commanders took the cue and started to call to his men to follow their king into battle, Aydrian turned and hushed him and waved him away. Similarly, when Aydrian’s Allheart escorts rushed up beside him, one grabbing at him to pull him back to safety, the young king shoved them away and ordered them to stop.

“You cannot approach, my King!” a frantic Allheart Knight cried.

“Find cover and watch,” Aydrian commanded. “These men do not understand the truth of their new king, so I am going to show them.”

“I am sworn to protect you!” the Allheart insisted. “With my life, and I willingly give it, my King!”

“King Aydrian, be reasonable!” cried Lord Breyerton. “Allow the soldiers to put down the traitors! That is their duty.”

“Come not another step beside me,” Aydrian said, and the young king kept walking.

“You have not even your armor!” Breyerton protested, but Aydrian merely grinned, knowing from the receding voice that the man had not only stopped, but had rushed back behind some cover.

Aydrian strode out from the encircling ring of barricades and cover, into the open area before the confiscated smithy. He was in plain sight of all of them now, of the rebels, of his own soldiers, and of the many Palmaris onlookers.

He saw an archer pop up from behind a hay bale at the side of the door and he fought hard not to flinch, not to slow his stride at all. The greater shadow in the mirror of Oracle had told him he could do this, that he could find a place between spirit and body where he could not be harmed.

Aydrian clutched the hematite more tightly and fell into its swirl. He kept enough of his physical consciousness to witness the archer let fly his arrow—and Aydrian had to fight hard to resist the reflexive urge to snap Tempest across to attempt a deflection.