DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (107 page)

There were varying levels of love, Jilseponie supposed, and with a sigh she admitted to herself that she did not know the specific points of their boundaries. Did she love King Danube enough to be his wife? Enough to share his bed, to love him and make love to him as she had done with Elbryan? She had given herself wholly to Elbryan, in body and soul, had let him see her completely naked, physically and emotionally. She had trusted him at her most vulnerable, implicitly, joyously.

Could she be that same wife to King Danube?

Did she have to be?

Chapter 11
 

“B
UT THE SOURCE OF MY STRENGTH IS MY HEALTH
,
IS THE PRACTICE OF THE DANCE
that hones both muscle and mind,” Aydrian remarked, sitting in the darkness beneath the big elm in Andur’Blough Inninness. He had come to Oracle angry this day, for he had been scolded yet again by Lady Dasslerond and her seemingly endless stream of critics, with nearly every one of the Touel’alfar chiming in at the sparring match earlier that day to tell Aydrian everything he was doing wrong.

With not a word of criticism to Toyan Miellwae, his opponent.

“Because Toyan Miellwae was perfect,” he said with heavy sarcasm, and he snorted derisively as he recalled the image of the perfect and perfectly unconscious elf lying on the ground at his feet. “Yes, every one of my moves was obviously flawed,” the sarcastic Aydrian spoke at the shape in the mirror, “and my beaten opponent was perfect.”

The shape in the mirror did not respond, of course, and that served as a calming influence on Aydrian, forced him to pause and consider the source of his ire. That, in turn, drew him back to the other truth of that source, that his accomplishments with the sword and the gemstones were not solely the result of heredity. The Touel’alfar had given him great gifts. He could deny that in his frequent outbursts and angry tirades, but he could not ignore it in here at Oracle, in this place of bared thoughts and emotions.

“I wish to be done with their gifts,” Aydrian said, and it was not the first time he had expressed that notion over the last few weeks in these private reflections. “Like Brynn Dharielle. I wish to be out on the open road, where I am master of my movements.”

He expected resistance to the notion, as he had found every time before, a nagging at his mind that told him he was not yet ready, that Lady Dasslerond and her minions had much more to teach him that would be valuable. On all of those previous occasions, this typical pause after his heartfelt rant had brought more contemplation than mere pragmatism, had brought a sense that Aydrian would benefit in more ways than physical from his time with the Touel’alfar, however long that may be. Perhaps he would learn to better control the anger that always seemed to be within him. Perhaps he would come to accept the reality of his human condition, that he would die long before Dasslerond and the others, though most of them had already been alive for centuries.

That was the typical result of this typical pause, and Aydrian waited for the simple logic to wash over him yet again.

But he found himself thinking in different directions. He found himself wondering even more eagerly about how he might fare on the open road. He wanted
to see other people, other
humans
. He wanted to see Brynn again—how badly he wished that he might talk to her again—or, absent that, he wanted to see other young women and talk to them and touch their soft skin.

The thoughts continued to grow, to expand. Aydrian was superior to most of the skilled Touel’alfar, perhaps all of them, though they, every one, had trained in the sword dance for decades; how might he fare among the much shorter-lived humans?

And they were out there, he knew. Hundreds of them, thousands of them! Tens of thousands! Soon enough, he believed, he could walk among them with their highest regards. Could any man defeat him in combat? Could any man power the gemstones more strongly than he? It was a bet that young Aydrian would be eager to take.

He sat back and relaxed, staring at the mirror with a knowing smirk on his face.

But then, suddenly, he came to realize that he understood less than he thought. Whether an impartation from the shadowy figure in the mirror or a sudden insight of his own he could not know, but Aydrian came to realize that he was allowing himself minuscule dreams that paled beside the truth of who he was or, at least, of who he could be.

Walk among them?

Nay, he realized in that moment of epiphany. He would never truly walk among his people. He was not born to walk among them but to tower over them. This power, with sword and with stone, could not be truly appreciated using other frail humans as his measuring rod.

I am special
, he told himself, or perhaps the image in the mirror told him.
Blood of hero, trained to …

To what? Aydrian wondered. For all his life, he had figured that he was being trained to serve as a ranger, and perhaps that would be a stepping-stone along the way. But, no, there was much more involved here, for he would be no simple ranger. His strength went far beyond that. He understood that now, suddenly and very clearly. Whatever the elves were training him for seemed perfectly irrelevant, for the truth of Aydrian was that he had been born not to serve but to rule.

“To dominate,” he said quietly.

The prospect of a showdown with Lady Dasslerond, of striking out on his own, suddenly seemed far less scary and far more intriguing.

“H
e spends far too much time in there,” Lady Dasslerond remarked to To’el, the two of them standing in the small meadow, looking at the tree under which Aydrian had again gone to Oracle.

“We wanted him to learn Oracle,” To’el reminded the obviously agitated lady. “It is his tie to his past, the great and noble tradition of his family. Surely Elbryan and Mather speak to him.”

“I had believed that Oracle would temper young Aydrian,” Lady Dasslerond explained. “I had believed that the spirit of Nightbird might calm the boy and teach
him some humility.”

“All boast,” To’el remarked.

Lady Dasslerond looked at her sourly, not disagreeing, for indeed Aydrian seemed more sure of his every step, thus lacking the humility necessary to learn. “The spirit of Nightbird will win out in the end,” the lady said, mostly because she herself needed to hear those words.

Despite her claim, Lady Dasslerond wasn’t so certain of that anymore. The longer Aydrian remained at Oracle, the more surly he was when he climbed out. As far as any lasting effects his conversations with his father and his soul might be having upon him … Dasslerond hadn’t noticed any. He was still a strong-willed, stubborn, arrogant young man. If anything, those negative and very dangerous traits had only become more evident during the previous weeks.

He is a young human without true companionship
, the lady forced herself to consider.
A man who has lost more than his best friend, who has lost his
only
friend
. As much as Dasslerond could sincerely remind herself of those troubling truths, though, she found that she could muster little sympathy for the boy. He tried her patience with his every word, and while she still believed that he might prove the solution to Andur’Blough Inninness’ troubles, she still wanted him to be gone from her homeland.

Or even worse.

Only the blackened scar of Bestesbulzibar, the constant reminder of why she had gone to the trouble of rescuing the dying baby from Jilseponie’s womb, allowed her to hold to her course concerning Aydrian. Even still, Dasslerond’s patience was wearing very, very thin.

“We must believe in the boy and his pure bloodline,” To’el remarked.

A yell from across the way brought the pair from their conversation. They turned as one to see a pair of elves running toward them, jumping and shouting.

“The gemstones!” one cried. “They are gone, every one!”

To’el gasped, but Lady Dasslerond, less surprised by far, merely scowled. “Gone?” she asked as the pair approached her.

“Yes, my lady,” said Toyan Miellwae, the same elf Aydrian had bested on the sparring field that morning. “The gem-stone pouch is missing. I had thought that perhaps you had taken—”

“Not I,” said Lady Dasslerond, narrowing her golden eyes and turning in the general direction of Aydrian’s place of Oracle. She was the lady of Caer’alfar, possessed of the magical emerald that was so tied to the land, and she would have known if any strangers had ventured in. She knew, too, that none of her disciplined people would take the pouch without first consulting her, and so that left a very simple solution to the puzzle quite evident.

“Aydrian?” asked To’el, her tone deflated.

Dasslerond steeled her gaze and tried to decide if this time, perhaps, the young would-be ranger, the young would-be savior, had gone too far.

“Y
ou are not my father,” Aydrian heard himself saying aloud as the stream of thoughts continued to flow into him—or perhaps through him; he could not really be certain how Oracle truly worked. All of those thoughts continued to point his nose away from the elven valley, continued to prod him to go out into the wider world, despite any consequence such an action might bring about by angering Lady Dasslerond.

“Nightbird would never so guide me away from the Touel’alfar,” the young man protested. “And did you not guide me in the opposite manner only a few weeks ago? Who are you, ghost? Inconsistent in nature, or two ghosts, perhaps?”

The shadowy form shifted along the mirror glass, and behind it came an image that had Aydrian leaning forward eagerly, a view of buildings, houses, but unlike anything he had seen here in Caer’alfar. Much larger structures, including one with soaring towers and gigantic, multicolored windows.

Multicolored?
the young man wondered, for all the images he had ever seen in the mirror previously had been merely shadows, shades of gray in a dim light. Aydrian leaned even further forward, squinting. A notion came over him to bring up some light, then, and so he reached into his pocket and pulled forth some gems. He could hardly see them in the dimness, though, certainly not well enough to discern one stone from another.

Aydrian growled in frustration, but another thought came over him then, a suggestion that he not look at the stones but rather that he feel the stones and their relative powers.

Aydrian’s smile widened, but he stopped short and looked at the shadowy image in the mirror. He knew much of Nightbird, of course, and knew, too, that his father had never gained any real proficiency in the use of gemstones. And yet that suggestion, along with more subtle instructions to him of how he might accomplish the task, seemed to imply a deep understanding of the magical stones.

“Who are you, ghost?” he asked again.

No answer, and Aydrian didn’t press the point. He changed his focus from the mirror to the gemstones, closing his eyes and merely feeling each stone, talking to each stone, and more important, listening to each.

In a few seconds, he held only two stones. He first called upon the weaker of the two, and felt a cool tingling about his skin as his fire shield came up. Then he reached into his second stone, which he knew to be ruby, and brought up a small flame.

The shadowy image went away immediately, but Aydrian still saw a glimpse of a great human city within the depths of that glass. Only for a moment, though, only until his eyes began to adjust to the new light. Then all he saw was the gleam of his magical candle and his own puzzled expression as he stood there, staring into an empty mirror.

“No!” he said, rising fast—too fast, for he smacked his head on an exposed root as he rose, then bent over, clutching his scalp. With a snarl, he grabbed his precious mirror, pulling it close, then smacked his head again as he stood up.

A wave of anger washed over him, and with it came another powerful suggestion; and before he even realized what he was doing, young Aydrian lifted his hand and ruby up to the cluster of roots of the base of the tree above him, and let the mighty anger flow through him and through the stone, up, up, up.

L
ady Dasslerond and an entourage of three others trotted easily through the forest, sometimes leaping and fluttering their delicate wings to climb to and about the lower boughs, sometimes running along the ground with a gait that seemed more a dance than a run, more a celebration of life than a means of travel. They sang as they went, a communal voice that blended harmoniously with the natural sounds of the nighttime forest, so much so that casual listeners would not even notice that the elven song floated about the trees. For that was the way with the Touel’alfar, a simple appreciation of life and beauty, a joining that was complete with their enchanted land. The rangers of Corona understood that truth, but few others ever could; for the other truth about the Touel’alfar was an attitude of absolute superiority over every other race, a belief that they alone were the chosen race. Only the elven-trained rangers even came close to measuring up beside one of the People, as far as the elves were concerned.

For rangers-in-training who did not measure up to the standards imposed by Lady Dasslerond, the consequences could be dire.