DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (13 page)

“You would have us forgive her and return to her the child.”

Juraviel swallowed hard. “She would have made a fine ranger, had she been
trained in Andur’Blough Inninness,” he dared to remark.

“Indeed,” she was quick to reply, “but she was not. Never forget that, my friend. She was not.

“I’ll not deny, diminish, or refute your feelings for the woman,” Lady Dasslerond went on. “Indeed, your faith in her gives me hope that Nightbird’s error will not lead to disaster. However, Jilseponie’s role was in bearing the son of Elbryan. Understand that and accept it. He is ours now. Our tool, our weapon. He is our repayment for the sacrifice that we made to help the humans in their struggle with Bestesbulzibar, and our way to minimize the lasting effect of that sacrifice.”

Juraviel wanted to argue that the war against the demon dactyl was for the sake of elves as well as the humans, but he held his words.

“And thus, and because of your honest feelings, understand that you are to have no contact with the child,” she went on, and Juraviel’s heart sank. “He is not Nightbird—we will name him appropriately when he has shown to us the truth of his soul. But Belli’mar Juraviel will learn that truth in time, through the work of others more suited to the task.”

Juraviel was not happy at all with the news, but neither was he surprised. Through all these months, he had been complaining, and often, about the lack of interaction with the child, by him or by any other Touel’alfar, and complaining that what interaction there was came more often in the form of testing, and hardly ever the simple act of sharing a touch or a smile. That had bothered Juraviel profoundly, and he had spoken rather sharply to Lady Dasslerond about his fears.

And his words had not been met with sympathy.

So he was not surprised now, not at all.

“You know of the other?” Lady Dasslerond asked him.

“Brynn Dharielle,” Juraviel replied, naming the other human currently under Touel’alfar tutelage, a young orphaned girl from To-gai, the western reach of the kingdom of Behren, the land of the greatest human horsemen in all the world.

“You will enjoy her,” Lady Dasslerond assured him, “for she is possessed of more spirit than her little frame can contain, a creature of impulse and fire much akin to young Elbryan Wyndon.”

Juraviel nodded. He had heard as much concerning Brynn Dharielle. He hadn’t yet met the novice ranger, for though Brynn had been in the care of the Touel’alfar for almost a year, and though Andur’Blough Inninness was not a large place, Juraviel’s business had been elsewhere—his eyes, his heart, in the paths of Elbryan and Pony, his concern in the fate of the demon dactyl and Markwart and the turn of the human world. Those in the valley who knew of Brynn Dharielle had spoken highly of her talents and her spirit. Dare the Touel’alfar believe they had another Nightbird in training?

“I give you her charge,” Lady Dasslerond went on. “You will see to her as you saw to Nightbird.”

“But do you not believe that I failed with Nightbird?” Juraviel dared to ask. “For did he not fail in his vow as ranger, in teaching
bi’nelle dasada
?”

Lady Dasslerond laughed aloud—for all of her anger at Elbryan and his sharing of the elven sword dance with Pony, she knew, as all the elves knew, that he had not failed. Not at all. Nightbird had gone to Aida and battled Bestesbulzibar; and when the demon had found a new and more insidious and more dangerous host, Nightbird had given everything to win the day, for the humans and for all the goodly races, Touel’alfar included, of the world.

“You will learn from your mistakes then,” Lady Dasslerond replied. “You will do even better with this one.”

Now it was Juraviel’s turn to chuckle helplessly. Could his lady even begin to appreciate the standard to which she had just set Brynn Dharielle? Would his lady ever see past her immediate anger to the truth that was Elbryan the Nightbird, and the truth that remained in the heart of Jilseponie?

Or was he wrong? he had to wonder and to fear. Was he too blinded by friendship and love to accept the failings of his human companions?

Belli’mar Juraviel blew a long, long sigh.

Chapter 5
 

C
ONSTANCE
P
EMBLEBURY WATCHED THE DOCKS OF
P
ALMARIS RECEDE INTO THE
morning fog. She was glad to be away from the city, away from dead Markwart and his all-too-complicated Church, away from a populace so on the edge of hysteria and desperation, and, most of all, away from Jilseponie. Even thinking of the woman made her wince. Jilseponie. The heroic Pony, the savior of the north, who defeated the demon dactyl in Aida and in the corporeal vessel of Markwart. Jilseponie, who could become abbess of St. Precious with but a word and could cultivate that into something much greater, perhaps even become mother abbess of the entire Abellican Church. Jilseponie, the woman to whom King Danube had offered the city of Palmaris. Baroness, governess. What other title might she choose? What other title might King Danube bestow upon her?

Jilseponie hadn’t been at the dock when the
River Palace
, the royal barge, and its fifteen escort warships had left the city. She hadn’t shown herself to the royal entourage at all since the final meeting in St. Precious.

Constance was glad of that.

In truth, Constance admired the woman—her fire, her efforts—and she could not deny the value of Jilseponie’s actions in the war and in the even more dangerous aftermath of the war. In truth, Constance recognized that, had the situation been different, she and Jilseponie might have become the best of friends. But that was a private truth Constance would not admit to anyone but herself.

For the situation
was
different; Constance had not missed the looks King Danube had bestowed on Jilseponie.

Beautiful and heroic Jilseponie. A woman who had, in the eyes of the majority of the kingdom, raised herself above her commoner birth to a position of nobility. Nobility of deed and not blood.

And how King Danube had stared at her, fawned over her with a sparkle in his tired eyes that Constance had not seen in years. He would make no move toward Jilseponie yet—not with her husband, Elbryan, barely cold in the ground. But Constance didn’t doubt the length of Danube’s memory or the magnetism of his charms. Not at all.

When she looked at Jilseponie, then, was she seeing the next Vivian? The next queen of Honce-the-Bear?

The thought made her clench her jaw and chew her lower lip. Yes, she admired the woman, even liked the woman, and, yes, Constance had understood for some time now that while she might share Danube’s bed, he would not take her as his
wife. But, still, to have the door—through which she understood she could never walk—so obviously closed before her, offended her. She was in her mid-thirties now, a decade older than Jilseponie, and she was starting to show her age, with wrinkles about her eyes—eyes losing the luster of youth—and a body that was just beginning to lose the war against gravity. Measured against Jilseponie’s smooth skin and sparkling blue eyes, her strong muscles and the spring in her youthful stride, Constance understood that she would lose.

Thus she had taken Danube the previous night, and the night before that, seducing him shamelessly, even coaxing him with drink so that he would not ignore her obvious advances. Thus she would take him again this night on the ship, and every night all the way to Ursal, and every night after that.

Until she became great with his child.

Constance hated her actions, her deception, for Danube believed that she was taking the herbs—as per the arrangement with every courtesan—that would prevent pregnancy. She hated more the thought of serving Queen Jilseponie. How many years had she worked by Danube’s side, easing him through crises, serving as his best adviser? How many years had she stood by him against all his enemies, and quietly reinforced his better qualities to his allies? To Constance’s thinking, she had been serving as queen ever since Vivian had died, in every capacity except that of the King’s constant bed partner and the mother of his children.

Now she meant to remedy that situation. He wouldn’t marry her, likely, but he would sire her children; and in the absence of another wife, he might grant one of them the status of heir to the throne. Yes, she could get that concession from him. His other bastard children—and there were two at least—were grown now and had never been trained for the crown, had never been as sons to Danube; and he held little love for his lone sibling, his brother, Midalis, a man he had not seen in years. Constance believed with all her heart that he would come to love their child and would train the child, boy or girl, as he had not trained the others and could not train Midalis, to serve as heir to the throne of Honce-the-Bear.

Constance recognized the unlikelihood that she would ever be queen, but she realized that she would be more than pleased with the title of queen mother.

Still, she wished it could be different, wished that she could inspire an honest love in Danube. She had hoped that the situation in Palmaris, the greatest crisis in Danube’s reign, would provide opportunity for her to raise her station through deed; and indeed, by Danube’s own accounting, she had performed admirably over the weeks of trial. But how her efforts paled against those of Jilseponie! As her fading beauty paled beside that woman’s luster!

“It is, perhaps, time to relax,” came the voice of Abbot Je’howith behind her, startling her. When she glanced at him and followed his gaze to the taffrail, she understood the source of his comment, for she was unintentionally clutching the railing so tightly that all blood had gone from her knuckles.

“The trials are behind us,” Constance agreed, letting go of the rail and selfconsciously hiding her hands within the folds of her thick woolen cloak.

“Most, perhaps,” said old Je’howith, his expression pensive. “For the Crown and court, at least, though I fear that I’ve many trials ahead of me.” The old man walked up beside Constance, gripping the rail and staring out, as she had been, at the receding shapes of Palmaris’ dock.

Constance eyed him curiously; never had she and Je’howith been on good terms, though neither had they been openly hostile toward each other, as was the case between the elderly abbot and Duke Kalas.

“They are so young and idealistic,” the abbot continued, and he glanced over at Constance. “The young Abellican brothers, I mean, who take the downfall of Father Abbot Markwart as a signal that it is their time to step to the forefront of the Abellican Church. They believe they have seen the truth; though the truth, you and I both understand in our wisdom of experience, is never as simple as that. They will overreach, and pity the Church if we older abbots and masters cannot tame the fire of youth.”

Constance’s expression turned even more curious and skeptical; she wondered why old Je’howith was confiding in her, and she trusted him not at all. Was he, perhaps, using her ear to get his seemingly sincere feelings whispered to King Danube? Was he seeking an unspoken alliance with the King by using the mouth of an unwitting third party? Though, of course, Constance Pemblebury was hardly that!

“The young brothers now leading St. Precious are nearly my own age,” she reminded Je’howith; and it was true that Braumin, Marlboro Viscenti, and Francis were all near their thirtieth birthdays.

“But how many of their years have been spent within the sheltered confines of an outland abbey?” Je’howith asked. “The other houses of the Abellican Church are not as St. Honce, you see. Even great St.-Mere-Abelle, with its seven hundred brothers, is a secluded place, a place of few viewpoints and little understanding of anything that is not Abellican. We of St. Honce have the advantage of the city of Ursal about us, and of the wisdom of the King and his noble court.”

Constance’s expression betrayed her skepticism, particularly given the recent battles between Church and Crown. If Je’howith meant to call her on that point, though, he did not do so immediately and lost the opportunity as another voice piped in.

“Farewell, Palmaris,” King Danube said with a chuckle, “and good luck to you, my friend Duke Kalas! For your task, I know, is the most wretched by far!” He walked up to Constance and Je’howith, his smile wide and sincere, for it was no secret among them that King Danube was glad indeed to be sailing for home.

“My King,” said Je’howith, dipping a bow.

“Ah, so you remember?” Danube replied slyly. Behind the old abbot, Constance smiled widely, barely suppressing a laugh.

“Never did I forget,” the abbot insisted seriously.

Danube looked at him doubtfully.

“Can you doubt the influence of the Father Abbot?” Je’howith asked, and Constance did not miss the fact that a bit of the cocksureness seemed to dissipate from
King Danube’s serene face.

“Will the new father abbot prove so influential, I wonder?” Danube retorted, his voice thick with implication. He narrowed his eyes as he spoke, and Constance understood him to be signaling the influential abbot of St. Honce in no uncertain terms that he had tolerated about all that he would from the troublesome Abellican Church.