DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (90 page)

Brynn threw her left leg over the horse, balancing sidesaddle as she took aim and let fly.

The fourth target shook from the impact, and then the fifth, just as Brynn started her second left turn, back the way she had come.

She heard Juraviel start to cry out—no doubt to remind her that one remained alive—but the elf’s voice trailed away as Brynn executed a maneuver she had been practicing in private, one that the To-gai-ru warriors had long ago perfected. She stood straight on Diredusk’s left flank, with only her left foot in a stirrup, and facing backward!

Off went her seventh arrow, and then her last, just in case.

She needn’t have worried, for the first shot struck the last target right in the heart, and the second hit home less than an inch from the first!

Brynn rolled back over Diredusk’s back, settling easily into her saddle and slinging her bow over one shoulder.

Her smile was brighter than the light of the full moon.

U
p on the hillock, Aydrian lay with his mouth open and his eyes growing dry, for he could hardly think to blink!

The younger ranger-in-training could not deny the beauty of Brynn Dharielle, nor the beauty and grace and sheer skill of her accomplishment this night. Whatever test the Touel’alfar might have intended for her, she had surely passed, and well enough to draw admiration, even awe, from her strict and uncompromising instructors. Aydrian could certainly appreciate that, would even be thrilled to see the elves flustered by the human’s incredible talent.

But at the same time, young Aydrian wished that he had a graphite gemstone in his possession that he might blow Diredusk right out from under the heroic Brynn.

Chapter 2
 

A
LWAYS BEFORE
,
SHE HAD THOUGHT OF THIS TIME OF YEAR
,
THE SPRING
,
AS HER
favorite, a time of renewal, of reaffirming life itself. But this year, like the last few, brought with it a springtime that Lady Constance Pemblebury of the court at Ursal dreaded. For King Danube—the man she so adored and the father of her two sons—was leaving again, as he did every spring, loading up his royal boat and sailing down the Masur Delaval to the city of Palmaris and that woman.

Baroness Jilseponie Wyndon. The very thought of her brought bile into Constance Pemblebury’s throat. On many levels, she could respect the heroic woman. Had their situations been different, Constance could imagine the two of them as friends. But now there was one little impediment: Danube loved Jilseponie.

He wasn’t even secretive about that anymore. In the last couple of years, he had often proclaimed his love for the woman to Duke Kalas, his closest friend, trusted adviser—along with Constance—and the leader of his Allheart Brigade. To his credit, King Danube had tried to spare Constance’s feelings as much as possible, never mentioning Jilseponie in Constance’s presence. Unless, of course, Constance happened to bring up the matter, as she had that morning, pleading with Danube to remain in Ursal this summer, practically throwing herself at his feet and wrapping her arms about his ankles in desperation. She had reminded him that Merwick, their oldest son, would begin his formal schooling in letters and etiquette this summer, and that Torrence, a year younger than his brother, at ten, would serve as squire for an Allheart knight. Wouldn’t King Danube desire to be present at Merwick’s important ceremony? After all, the boy was in line to inherit the throne, after Danube’s younger brother, Prince Midalis of Vanguard, and who knew what might befall Midalis in that northern, wild region?

So of course King Danube would want to personally oversee the training of one as important as Merwick, Constance had reasoned.

But Danube had flatly denied her request; and though he had tried to be gentle, his words had struck Constance as coldly as a Timberlands’ late winter rain. He would not stay, would not be denied his time with the woman he so loved.

It hurt Constance that Danube would go to Jilseponie. It hurt her that he no longer shared her bed, even in the cold nights of early winter when he knew that he would not see the Baroness of Palmaris for many months to come—and Constance found it humorous that even when he was in Jilseponie’s presence, Danube was not sharing her bed. What was even more troubling to her was that Jilseponie was still of child-bearing age, and any offspring of Danube’s union with her would surely put Merwick back further in the line of succession.

Perhaps Jilseponie would go so far as to force King Danube to oust Merwick
and Torrence altogether from the royal line.

All of those thoughts played uncomfortably in Constance’s mind as she looked out from the northern balcony of Castle Ursal to the docks on the Masur Delaval and the King’s own ship,
River Palace
. Duke Bretherford’s pennant was flying high atop the mast this day, a clear signal that the ship would sail with the next high tide. That pennant seemed to slap Constance’s face with every windblown flap.

A strong breeze
, she thought,
to carry Danube swiftly to his love
.

“You will not join King Danube on his summer respite?” came a strong voice behind her, shattering her contemplation. She swung about and saw Targon Bree Kalas, Duke of Wester-Honce, standing at the open door, one hand resting against the jamb, the other on his hip. Kalas was her age, in his early forties, but with his curly black hair, neatly trimmed goatee, and muscular physique, he could easily pass for a man ten years younger. His eyes were as sharp as his tongue and more used to glancing up at the sun and the moon than at a ceiling, and his complexion ruddy. He was, perhaps, Constance Pemblebury’s best friend. Yet, when she looked at him of late it only seemed to remind her of the injustice of it all; for while Kalas appeared even more regal and confident with each passing year, Constance could not ignore that her own hair was thinning and that wrinkles now showed at the edges of her eyes and her lips.

“Merwick will begin his formal training this summer,” Constance replied after she took a moment to compose herself. “I had hoped that the Duke of Wester-Honce would personally see to his initiation into the knightly ways.”

Kalas shrugged and grinned knowingly. He had already discussed this matter at great length with King Danube, the two of them agreeing that Merwick would be tutored by Antiddes, one of Duke Kalas’ finest commanders, until he reached the ability level suitable for him to begin learning the ways of warfare, both horsed and afoot. Then Duke Kalas would take over his supervision. Constance knew that, too, and her tone alone betrayed to Kalas her true sentiments: that he should not be going along with Danube when Danube was going to the arms of another woman.

And as Constance’s tone revealed that truth, so did Kalas’ grin reveal his understanding of it. The Duke’s constant amusement with her predicament bothered Constance more than a little.

Constance scowled and sighed and turned back to the rail—and noted that Danube’s ship was gliding away from the dock, while an escort of several warships waited out on the great river. Surprised, the woman turned, noting only then that Duke Kalas wasn’t dressed for any sea voyage, wasn’t dressed for traveling at all.

“Danube told me that you were to go along,” she said.

“He was misinformed,” the Duke answered casually. “I have little desire to lay eyes upon Jilseponie Wyndon ever again.”

Constance stared long and hard, digesting that. She knew that Kalas had tried to bed Jilseponie several years before—before the onset of the rosy plague, even—but he had been summarily rebuffed. “You do not approve of Danube’s choice?”

“He will make a queen of a peasant,” Kalas replied with a snort and without
hesitation. “No, I do not approve.”

“Or are you jealous?” Constance asked slyly, glad to be able to turn the tables on Kalas for a bit. “Do you fear Jilseponie will not rebuff his approaches, as she rebuffed your own?”

Duke Kalas didn’t even try to hide a sour look. “King Danube will pursue her more vigorously this year,” he stated knowingly. “And I fear that she will dissuade his advances, insulting the King himself.”

“And you fear more that she will not,” Constance was quick to add.

“Queen Jilseponie,” Kalas remarked dramatically. “Indeed, that is a notion to be feared.”

Constance turned away, looking back out over the great city and the distant river, chewing her lips, for even to hear that title spoken caused her great pain. “There are many who would disagree with you—Danube, obviously, among them,” she said. “There are many who consider her the hero of all the world, the one who defeated the demon dactyl at Mount Aida, who defeated Father Abbot Markwart when he had fallen in evil, and who defeated the rosy plague itself. There are many who would argue that there is not another in the world more suited to be queen of Honce-the-Bear.”

“And their arguments would not be without merit,” Kalas admitted. “To the common people, Jilseponie must indeed seem to be all of that and more. But such rabble do not appreciate the other attributes that any woman must, of necessity, bring to the throne. It is a matter of breeding and of culture, not of simple swordplay. Nor do such rabble appreciate the unfortunate and unavoidable baggage that Jilseponie Wyndon will bring along with her to Ursal.”

He stopped abruptly, stalking over to stand at the railing beside Constance, obviously agitated to the point that Constance had little trouble discerning that he was jealous of Danube. Targon Bree Kalas, the Duke of Wester-Honce and the King’s commander of the Allheart Brigade, was not used to rejection. And though Jilseponie’s refusal had occurred a decade before, the wound remained, and the scab was being picked at constantly by the knowledge that Danube might soon hold her in his arms.

But there was something else, Constance knew, something that went even deeper. When she took a moment to consider the situation, it was clear to see. “Her baggage is her allegiance to the Abellican Church,” the woman reasoned.

“She is a pawn of Abbot Braumin Herde and all the other robe-wearing fools,” Kalas replied.

Constance stared at him incredulously until he at last turned to regard her.

“After all these years, you still so hate the Church?” she asked, a question that went back to an event that had occurred more than twenty years before. Kalas had been an upstart at the court of the young King Danube, often bedding Danube’s wife, Queen Vivian. When Queen Vivian had succumbed to an illness, despite the efforts of Abbot Je’howith of St. Honce and his supposedly God-given healing gemstones, Kalas had never forgiven Je’howith or the Church for not saving his
beloved Vivian.

“You wear your hatred for the Church more obviously than the plume on your Allheart helm,” Constance remarked. “Has Danube never discovered the source of your bitterness?”

Kalas didn’t look back at her, just stared out at the city for a long, long while, then gave a little chuckle and a helpless shrug. Had King Danube ever learned of Vivian’s connection with Kalas? Would Danube, who had been busy bedding every courtesan in Ursal, Constance Pemblebury included, even care?

“He never loved Vivian as he loves Jilseponie,” Constance remarked. “He has been courting her so patiently for all these years—he will not even share my bed nor those of any others. It is all for Jilseponie now. Only for Jilseponie.”

Now Kalas did turn his head to regard her, but the look he offered was not one that Constance could have expected. “That is the way love is supposed to be,” he admitted. “Perhaps we are both wrong to show such scorn for our friend’s choice.”

“An epiphany, Duke Kalas?” Constance asked; and again, Kalas gave an honest shrug.

“If he loves her as you love him, then what is he to do?” the Duke calmly asked.

“We share two children!” Constance protested.

Kalas’ laugh cut her to the bone. It was well known in Ursal that King Danube had fathered at least two other children. In Honce-the-Bear, in God’s Year 839, that was nothing exceptional, nothing even to be given a second thought.

Now Kalas wore the same sly grin that she had first seen on his face this day. “Is it the loss of your love that so pains you?” he asked bluntly. “The mental image you must carry of Jilseponie in Danube’s arms? Or is it something even greater? Is it the possibility of greater loss that Jilseponie Wyndon will bring with her to Ursal? She is young, yet, and strong of body. Do you fear for Constance’s heart or Merwick’s inheritance?”

Constance Pemblebury’s lips grew very thin, and she narrowed her eyes to dart-throwing slits. The word
both
! screamed in her mind, but she would not give Duke Kalas the pleasure of hearing her say it aloud.

The shake of his head and his soft chuckle as he walked back into the palace told her that she didn’t have to.

D
uke Bretherford, a smallish man with salt-and-pepper hair and leathery skin that was cracked and ruddy from years at sea, stood on the deck of
River Palace
, staring at the back of his good friend and liege, King Danube, and grinning; for the King’s posture was noticeably forward, with Danube leaning over the front rail.