DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (66 page)

She called to Elbryan, she called to Avelyn, but what she found instead, whether in her mind or in that other dimension she believed existed behind the mirror, was an image of the world before the human kingdoms, a preternatural world of great beasts and exotic plants, of ragged clans of men living under pine boughs or in caves: a world before the Abellican Church, before civilization itself.

Before human civilization, for there were races far older than Man.

And there was something else, Pony realized as she examined that strange sensation of times long past: the rosy plague. It was older than the kingdoms, older than the Church, older than mankind.

Perhaps the answer lay in the past, in those whose memories were longer than the records of mankind.

Another image came to Pony then, but surely in her head, in her fairly recent memories, when she and Elbryan had camped on the side of a mountain in the west, staring down at an opaque veil of fog, with Andur’Blough Inninness, the valley of the Touel’alfar, hidden beyond it.

Later that night, back in her room at Fellowship Way in Dundalis, Pony went into the soul stone again, with all her strength—not to attack Jonno’s plague this time, but to fly out across the miles, to the west, to the elves.

In mere minutes, she came to mountain passes she had walked once before, with Elbryan. Had she been walking now, she realized, she never would have found the specific trails to the well-hidden elven valley, but in her spiritual form, she was able to soar up past the peaks, getting a wide view of mountains majestic. Still, it took Pony a long, long time to sort out that maze of mountains, to find, nestled in one wide vale, a familiar opaque blanket of magical fog.

She went down to the mountain slope above that blanket and paused. She
knew that the elves had set an enchantment upon the place to prevent unwanted visitors—and anyone who was
n’Touel’alfar
was considered an unwanted visitor!—but she had no idea if their magical wards extended into the realm of the spirit. She spent a long time studying that veil, and she did indeed sense danger there, even for her in this form.

Perhaps she could flow through the mountain, she thought, down through cracks in the stone that would bring her into the elven valley underneath the poisoned carpet of fog. She studied the rock beneath her, picking her path. Then she stopped abruptly, shifting her attention; for there, rising out of the fog, was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, an elven woman with golden eyes and golden hair, with features angular yet soft, and perfectly symmetrical. She was dressed in flowing robes of the palest green, trimmed with golden lace, and a crown of thorns adorned her forehead. Pony knew before a word was spoken that this was Lady Dasslerond standing before her.

The elf held up her hand, and Pony saw the sparkle of a green gem within, and then she felt the waves of magic rolling over her spirit and body, as if the miles themselves were somehow contracting to bring her wholly to this place.

Pony knew that she could resist that magic, could fight back, and her instincts almost led her to do just that. But she held back and trusted in the fair Lady of Caer’alfar.

A strange sensation washed over Pony, and she felt as if she were corporeal again—corporeal and standing on the slope just above the elven valley, hundreds of miles from Dundalis.

“I would have been disappointed if you did not seek us out,” Lady Dasslerond remarked. “And I have been disappointed in you before, Jilseponie Wyndon.”

The words caught Pony off guard, and she looked at the elf curiously.

“Your actions in Palmaris were not unknown to me,” Dasslerond went on. “I am not fond of assassins.”

Pony knew then that the elf had to be talking about her attempt on Markwart’s life, a shot with the lodestone from a rooftop far away.

“Better for all the world if I had succeeded, then,” Pony replied without hesitation.

“But better for Jilseponie?”

“Better for Nightbird!” Pony retorted, and that seemed to set Dasslerond back on her pretty little heels a bit.

The elf paused, then nodded. “I expect much from one who has learned
bi’nelle dasada
,” she said.

“I understand my responsibilities,” Pony replied. “The sword dance will not be shared with anyone.”

“So Belli’mar Juraviel has told me, and so I believe,” Dasslerond said.

“But I did not come to you to speak of the sword dance,” Pony went on, feeling the tug of her magic and fearing that exhaustion would overtake her and send her careening back to Dundalis—if that’s where her physical form remained. “Our
lands are thick with a disease, the rosy plague.”

“This is known to me.”

“You and your people have battled this disease before,” Pony reasoned, “or at least, you have watched the humans battle against it.”

Dasslerond nodded.

“Then tell me how to fight it,” Pony pleaded hopefully. “Show me the wisdom of the ages, that I might bring some hope to a world grown dark!”

Dasslerond’s expression dropped, and with it, Pony’s hopes. “That wisdom is already known to the Abellican brothers and to your King,” she explained.

“To hide?”

“Indeed.”

“As you and your people will hide?”

“Indeed,” said the lady of Caer’alfar. “This plague is the affair of humans, and we intend to keep it that way.” Pony’s expression hardened into a sneer, but Dasslerond continued undeterred. “We are not numerous,” she explained, “nor do we procreate quickly. If the rosy plague found us in our home, it could destroy all that is left of the Touel’alfar. I cannot take that chance, whatever the cost to the humans.”

Pony bit her lip—and felt the physical sensation as if she were indeed corporeal.

“This I will give you, and only this,” Dasslerond went on, and she reached her other hand out from within her robes, showing a parchment to Pony. She let go of the parchment and gave a gentle puff, and it floated across the expanse on magical winds into Pony’s waiting hands.

“A poultice and a syrup,” the lady of Caer’alfar explained. “They will not cure the plague—nothing that I know of in all the world will do that—but they will bring some relief to, and extend the life of, those afflicted.”

Pony glanced down at the parchment, recognizing some names of herbs and other plants. “Why were these mixtures not known before?” she asked.

“They were,” Dasslerond replied, “in the time of the last plague. The memory of Man is not long, I fear.”

Pony glanced down at the parchment again, not knowing if it would return with her to Dundalis and wanting to remember well the recipes.

“That is all I can do,” Lady Dasslerond said suddenly, drawing Pony’s attention back. “You must now leave from this place. Perhaps we will survive this time, and if so, then perhaps we will meet again. Farewell, Jilseponie Wyndon.” And she held up her hand and that sparkling emerald gemstone.

Pony held up her hand, as well, trying to make the lady pause long enough for her to commit the recipes to memory; but then, suddenly, she felt the waves of emerald magic and she was flying, flying, across the miles, soaring faster than the wind out of the mountains, away from Lady Dasslerond’s secret domain and back to her own room in Fellowship Way in Dundalis.

She was there for just a moment, in body and in spirit, and then, overwhelmed by magical exhaustion, as if Dasslerond had somehow tapped into her own energies
to bring about the more complete physical teleportation, she collapsed into unconsciousness.

B
elli’mar Juraviel was waiting for Lady Dasslerond just beneath the opaque veil of mist. He nodded his approval and his thanks, for in truth, he had little idea of how sternly Dasslerond would treat their uninvited guest.

“You wanted to tell her,” he remarked slyly.

Dasslerond fixed him with a puzzled expression.

“About her child,” Juraviel said with a hopeful smile.

But that grin could not survive Dasslerond’s ensuing glower. “Not at all,” the lady said determinedly, and Juraviel knew that his hopes and his guess were misplaced.

“She has no child,” Lady Dasslerond added; and she walked past, back down to the world of the Touel’alfar.

Belli’mar Juraviel stood on the mountain slope for a long, long while, wounded by the unyielding coldness of his lady. He had thought that he had found a chink in her armor, a weak link in her great coat woven of duty; but he knew now that he was wrong.

He thought of the young ranger in training, Aydrian, and wondered if the boy would ever know the truth of his mother or that she was still very much alive.

“Aydrian,” Juraviel said aloud, an elvish title that meant “lord of the skies,” or “eagle.” Lady Dasslerond had allowed Juraviel finally to name the boy, and had approved of his lofty choice wholeheartedly—yet another signal to Juraviel that Lady Dasslerond thought this young lad could aspire to the epitome of the profession, could become the perfect ranger. Only one other ranger in the history of the training had been given the title Aydrian, the very first ranger ever trained in Andur’Blough Inninness.

That ranger had gone on to live a long, though fairly uneventful, life; and since that time, no one had ever presumed to give the name to another young trainee.

But this one was different. Very different and very special.

Juraviel just wished that Dasslerond would involve Jilseponie with the lad, for her sake and, more important, for the sake of the child.

W
hen Pony awoke, she found, to her relief, that it had not all been a dream; for in her hand she held the parchment given her by Lady Dasslerond. She didn’t understand the magic that had worked the physical transportation of her corporeal body—or at least some of it—and then of the parchment.

But that was a question for another day, for a day when the rosy plague was beaten. She still had no solution, no cure, but at least she had a weapon now. She looked down at the parchment and nodded her relief to find that neither the poultice nor the syrup required any ingredients that could not be readily found. It also struck her that many of the ingredients were flowers, including many of those commonly found in the monks’ tussie-mussie beds. Perhaps there was something
to those old tales of posies and the like.

Armed with her parchment, Pony rushed downstairs, to find that it was morning again, and late morning at that.

“I thought ye’d sleep the whole of the day away,” Belster remarked, and the grim edge to his voice told Pony of his deeper fears: that this time, the rosy plague had caught her.

“Gather your friends,” Pony said, scampering over to the bar and placing the parchment before the startled innkeeper. “We need to collect all these things and put them together quickly.”

“Where’d ye get this?”

“From a friend,” Pony replied, “one who visited me in the night, and one we can trust.”

Belster looked down at the beautiful script on the page, and, though he could barely read, the delicate lines of calligraphy certainly gave him some indication of who that nighttime visitor might have been.

“Will it work?” he asked.

“It will help,” Pony answered. “Now be off and be quick. And find one who can scribe copies, that we might send them to the south!”

Later that same afternoon, Pony knelt beside the bed of Jonno Drinks. She had lathered his emaciated, racked body with the poultice and had spooned several large doses of the syrup into him. And now she had her soul stone in hand, ready to go in and do battle with her newest allies beside her.

She found the plague waiting for her, like some crouched demon, wounded by the elven medicines. But that wound only seemed to make the tiny plague demons even more vicious in their counterattack, and Pony soon found herself slouched on the floor, overwhelmed and exhausted.

Jonno Drinks was resting more comfortably, it seemed, but Pony knew that she had done little to defeat the plague, that she and her elven-made allies might have bought the poor man a little comfort and a little time, but nothing more.

Still, she went at the plague again the next day, and the next after that, fighting with all her strength, again trying various gemstone combinations.

Jonno Drinks was dead within the week, leaving Pony frustrated and feeling very small indeed.

Chapter 31
 

A
BBOT
B
RAUMIN
’
S EYES WIDENED WHEN HIS DOOR SWUNG OPEN AND
T
IMIAN
Tetrafel, Duke of the Wilderlands, Baron of Palmaris, stormed in, a very agitated Brother Talumus right on his heels.

“I tried to keep him out,” Talumus started to explain.

“Keep me out indeed!” Tetrafel boomed. “I will raze your walls if ever I find the doors closed to me again.”

“The abbey is closed,” Abbot Braumin said, working hard to make his tone calm, to show complete control here.

“And the streets are full of dying people!” Tetrafel yelled at him.

“That is why the abbey is closed,” Braumin replied, “as should be Chasewind Manor—none to enter and none to leave.”

“I am watching my city die about me,” Tetrafel fumed, “and I have had to expel several servants and soldiers from my own house these last three weeks! It will catch us in our holes, I say!”