DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (15 page)

Midalis nodded, and was glad for these few moments alone with the insightful ranger. He knew well the story of Fuldebarrow, where an Abellican church, established to convert Alpinadorans to the faith, had been burned to the ground and all of the missionary brothers slaughtered.

“It might be that I can get them to look past your faults—and that you can get your friends to look past theirs—long enough for the two sides to see the common ground instead of the differences,” Andacanavar said. Then he patted Midalis on the shoulder and headed back for the Alpinadoran lines.

Midalis watched him for a moment, further digesting the words—wise words, he understood. Then he turned to find Abbot Agronguerre hard at work over one of the fallen archers, and he went to speak with the man, to smooth the hard feelings from the morning’s disagreements, to remind the abbot that he and his brethren would still be besieged within the abbey—and that Midalis and his followers would be trapped in there as well, if they had been lucky this morning—had not Bruinhelde and his proud warriors come to their aid.

Yes, it would be a difficult alliance, but the ranger’s observations gave Prince Midalis hope that Vanguard and Alpinador might use this time of war to begin a lasting understanding.

“Common ground,” he whispered, reminding himself.

“I
trust that your day was enjoyable,” Abbot Je’howith remarked to Constance Pemblebury when he found the woman again standing alone at the taffrail, gazing wistfully at the waters of the great Masur Delaval.

Constance turned a sour look upon him, not appreciating his off-color attempt at humor.

“So do tell me,” the abbot pressed, “did King Danube remember your name?”

Constance stared at him hard.

“In his moments of passion, I mean,” the surprising old abbot continued. “Did he call out ‘Constance’?”

“Or ‘Jilseponie’?” the woman finished sarcastically and bluntly, wanting Je’howith to understand in no uncertain terms that he was not catching her by surprise.

“Ah, yes, Jilseponie,” Je’howith said, rolling his eyes and sighing in a mock gesture of swooning. “Heroine of the north. Would any title do justice to her actions? Baroness? Duchess? Abbess?”

Constance gave him a skeptical look and stared back out at the waters.

“Mother abbess?” the old man continued. “Or queen, perhaps? Yes, there would be a title befitting that one!”

Je’howith’s wrinkled face erupted in a wide grin when Constance snapped a glare over him. “Have I hit a nerve?” he asked.

Constance didn’t blink.

“You saw the way King Danube looked at her,” Je’howith continued. “You know as well as I that Jilseponie could find her way to his bed, and to the throne beside his own in Ursal, if she pursued such a course.”

“She would not even accept the barony of Palmaris,” Constance reminded him, but her words sounded feeble even in her own ears.

Now it was Je’howith’s turn to stare skeptically.

“She grieves for the loss of Nightbird, a wound that may never heal,” Constance said.

“Not completely, perhaps,” Je’howith agreed, “but enough so that she will move on with her life. Where will she choose to go? I wonder. There is no road she cannot walk. To the Wilderlands, to St.-Mere-Abelle, to Ursal. Who in all the world would refuse Jilseponie?”

Constance looked back at the water, and she felt Je’howith’s gaze studying her, measuring her.

“I know what you desire,” the old abbot said.

“Do you speak your words to wound me?” Constance asked.

“Am I your enemy or perhaps your ally?”

Constance started to laugh. She knew the truth, all of it, and understood that old Je’howith was taking great amusement from this posturing because he figured that he could win in any event. If Danube married Constance, or at least sired her children and put them in line for the throne, then Je’howith would be there, ever attentive. That did not make him an ally, though, Constance realized, for Je’howith’s greatest concern was to keep Jilseponie out of his Church, away from the coveted position of mother abbess; and what better manner for doing that than to have her marry the King?

“Jilseponie intrigued Danube,” she admitted, “as her beauty and strength have intrigued every man who has gazed upon her, I would guess.” She turned and fixed the old abbot with a cold and determined stare.

“Beautiful indeed,” Je’howith remarked.

“But she is a long way from Ursal, do not doubt,” Constance went on, “a long way, down a road more perilous than you can imagine.”

Old Je’howith returned her stare for a long moment, then nodded and bowed slightly, and walked away.

Constance watched him go, replaying his words, trying to find his intent. Obviously,
the wretch did not want her to fall under Jilseponie’s charm and ally with the woman. Je’howith was trying to sow the seeds of enmity against Jilseponie, and she had readily fallen into his plan.

That bothered Constance Pemblebury profoundly as she stood there at the taffrail, staring at the dark water. She had liked Jilseponie when first she had learned of the woman’s adventures, had admired her and had cheered her in her efforts against Markwart’s foul Church. In Constance’s eyes, Jilseponie had been an ally—unwitting, perhaps, but an ally nonetheless—of the Crown, of her beloved King Danube. But now things had changed. Nightbird was dead, and Danube was smitten. Jilseponie had gone from ally to rival. Constance didn’t like that fact, but neither could she deny it. Whatever her feelings for Jilseponie Wyndon, the woman had become a danger to her plans for herself and, more important, for her children.

Constance didn’t like herself very much at that moment, wasn’t proud of the thoughts she was harboring.

But neither could she dismiss them.

Chapter 6
 

A
BBOT
B
RAUMIN WALKED THROUGH THE GREAT GATES OF
C
HASEWIND
M
ANOR
humbly, his brown hood pulled low to protect him from the light rain, his arms crossed over his chest, hands buried in the folds of his sleeves. He didn’t glance up at the imposing row of Allheart knights lining both sides of the walk, with their exquisite armor, so polished that it gleamed even on this gray day, and their huge poleaxes angled out before them.

He understood the meaning of it all, that Duke Targon Bree Kalas had offered to meet him on the Duke’s terms and in the presence of his power. The battle between the two was just beginning, for the city hadn’t really settled down after the fall of Markwart until after King Danube had departed. Then winter weather had minimized the duties of both Church and Crown. Now, the King was back in Ursal and most of the brethren from St.-Mere-Abelle had returned, or soon would, to that distant abbey. For the first time in more than a year—indeed, for the first time since the coming of the demon dactyl and its monstrous minions—the common folk of Palmaris were settling back into their normal routines.

He was let in immediately, but then he spent more than an hour in the antechamber of Kalas’ office, waiting, waiting while it was reported to him several times that Kalas was attending to more pressing matters.

Abbot Braumin recited his prayers quietly, praying mostly for the patience he would need to get through these trying times. He wished again that Jilseponie had agreed to accompany him—Kalas would never have kept her waiting!—but she would hear none of it, claiming that her days of meetings and political intrigue had reached their end.

Finally, the attendant came out and called for the abbot to follow him. Braumin noted immediately upon entering Kalas’ office that several other men stood about—bureaucrats, mostly—shuffling papers and talking in whispered, urgent tones as if their business were of the utmost importance. Duke Kalas, Baron of Palmaris, sat at his desk, hunched over a parchment, quill in hand.

“Abbot Braumin Herde of St. Precious,” the attendant announced.

Kalas didn’t even look up. “It has come to my attention that you have put out a call for craftsmen, masons, and carpenters,” he remarked.

“I have,” Braumin agreed.

“To what end?”

“To whatever end I desire, I suppose,” the abbot replied—and that brought Kalas’ eyes up, and halted every other conversation in the room.

Kalas stared hard at him for a long and uncomfortable moment. “Indeed,” he said at length, “and might those desires entail the expansion of St. Precious Abbey, as I have been told?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then save time,” Kalas said sternly, “both for yourself and for the craftsmen. There will be no such expansion.”

Now it was Braumin’s turn to put on a steely expression. “The land about the abbey is Church owned.”

“And no structures may be built within the city walls, Church or otherwise, without the express consent of its baron,” Kalas reminded him. He looked to one of the bureaucrats at the side of the room, and the mousy man rushed over, presenting Abbot Braumin with a parchment, signed and sealed by Baron Rochefort Bildeborough and by Abbot Dobrinion Calislas, that seemed to back up Kalas’ claims.

“This refers to structures built by ‘common men,’ ” Braumin noted, pointing out the phrasing.

Kalas shrugged, not disagreeing.

“This text was written to prevent the influx of Behrenese,” Braumin reasoned, “to prevent every open space within the city walls from becoming even more crowded. Common men, which includes neither the Church nor the nobility.”

“That is one way to interpret it,” Kalas replied. “But not the way I choose.”

Abbot Braumin tossed the parchment to the desk. “You obscure meanings and pervert intentions, then,” he said. “This parchment is irrelevant to any construction upon St. Precious Abbey, upon lands owned by the Abellican Church.”

“No, my good Abbot,” Kalas said, rising up ominously and matching the monk’s unblinking stare with one of equal determination. “It is perfectly relevant. It is the written law, endorsed by your own beloved former abbot, which I can use to arrest any who work upon your abbey, the written law I can use to confiscate tools and materials.”

“You risk angering the populace.”

“As do you, good Abbot,” Kalas snapped back. “You offer work to craftsmen who already have much work to do in the aftermath of the war. They do not need your work at this time, Abbot Braumin, but they do need their tools. Who will they come to hate? I wonder. The lawful baron, acting according to law, or the presumptuous new abbot of St. Precious?”

Braumin started to answer, but stuttered repeatedly, having no appropriate reply. He understood the bluff—Kalas would be starting a battle for the hearts of the Palmaris citizenry that could go either way. But was Braumin ready to join such a battle? He knew the fights he would soon face within his own Church; would he be able to withstand those inevitable challenges if the people of Palmaris turned against him?

A smile found its way onto Braumin’s face, an admission that, for the time being at least, Kalas had outmaneuvered him. He chuckled and nodded, then turned
and walked briskly from the room and out of the mansion, this time leaving his hood back despite the rain. The Allheart knights remained in position along the walk to the gates, and the nearest soldier moved over and pulled them wide for the abbot’s exit.

“Your workers did an excellent job in repairing them,” he remarked loudly, noting the gates, “after Jilseponie so easily threw them aside, I mean, as she threw aside your brethren who tried to stand before her.”

He heard the bristling behind him as he walked out and took some comfort, at least, in that minor victory.

H
e smelled it, so thick in the air that he could almost taste the sweet liquid on his feline tongue. The young girl had hurt her arm, scratching it on a branch, and now she was coming his way, calling for her mother, holding the arm up, the line of red, sweet red, visible to the weretiger.

De’Unnero turned away and closed his eyes, telling himself that he could not do this thing, that he could not leap out and tear her throat. He had killed only once throughout the harsh winter, an old lecherous drunk who had not been missed by the folk of the town of Penthistle.

The scent caught up to him, and the tiger’s head shifted back toward the approaching girl.

She would be missed, De’Unnero reminded himself, trying to make a logical argument to go along with his moral judgment. These people, who had taken him in during the early days of winter, after he had devoured the powrie and run away from the fields west of Palmaris, had accepted him with open arms, glad to pass an Abellican brother from house to house. He had offered to work for his food, but never had the folk of Penthistle given him any truly difficult jobs, and always had they given him all that he could eat, and more.

Thus, De’Unnero had run off into the forest whenever the tiger urges had called to him, too great to be withstood. He had feasted many times on deer, even on squirrel and rabbit, but he had killed a person only that one time.

But now the winter had passed. Now it was spring and with the turn of the season, the folk were again active outside their homes. De’Unnero had come out in search of conventional prey, hopefully a deer, but he had found this child instead, far from her home. As soon as he had spotted her, he had managed to turn away, thinking to run far, far into the forest, but then she had cut her arm, then that too-sweet scent had drifted to his nostrils.