DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (130 page)

Salvage what? For truly it had gone too far. There was no repairing her relationship with Constance Pemblebury, Jilseponie knew, especially given Constance’s obvious feelings for King Danube. Constance’s hatred of Jilseponie went deeper than any fears the woman had for her children. Constance’s hatred was rooted in irrational and irreversible jealousy; and since Jilseponie could not alter King Danube’s heartfelt feelings, nothing she could say or do would repair things. Nor, given the wretchedness of the woman and her cronies at court, did Jilseponie have any desire to do so. No, the only remedy here, short of an open trial for treason, was for Jilseponie to follow her original plan.

“There is nothing left for us to discuss,” she said, holding her hand up to Constance to stem any forthcoming remarks. “I have given you the choices—you must do whatever you believe to be best for you, though I warn you one more time that I have all the evidence needed to convict you in open court.”

She patted her open hand toward Constance as the woman started to speak, then gave her one last stare, turned, and headed for the door.

“How long?” came the shaky question behind her.

Jilseponie turned, and her heart sank at the pitiful sight that was Constance Pemblebury.

“How long do I have before I must go?” the woman asked, her voice breaking with each word.

“Tomorrow will be your last day in Castle Ursal, with one day after that to secure passage out of the city,” Jilseponie replied, and she knew that Constance would have little trouble securing her passage from her many wealthy and influential friends. “And beware of how you wag your tongue concerning your unexpected departure,” Jilseponie warned. “Implicate or deride me in any manner, and I will reveal my evidence and demand a trial.”

“Witch,” Constance muttered as the Queen turned again to leave.

Jilseponie accepted the insult and continued on her way. She felt good about her generous decision, though she understood that allowing Constance to leave would likely mean more trouble for her somewhere down the road.

Chapter 23
 

B
ECAUSE THEY
’
D HAD TO WAIT UNTIL THE FIRST SNOWS
,
THE WANDERING TRIO
now found themselves trapped in Dundalis for the winter, but it was not wholly unpleasant for Aydrian, De’Unnero, and Sadye. The folk of Dundalis treated them well, welcoming them with open arms. The town was larger now than in the days of Elbryan’s childhood, its population having nearly tripled during the days of the plague, since Dundalis sat on the main route to the Barbacan and the covenant of Avelyn. Still, the folk were, for the most part, of a similar type as those who had always inhabited Dundalis and so many of the other frontier communities. Close-knit by necessity, trusting one another, the community of Dundalis survived through cooperation. Aydrian, with his tracking abilities, De’Unnero, with his strong work ethic and many, many skills, and Sadye, with her haunting and entertaining ballads, soon proved welcome additions to the somewhat stagnant community.

Up there, in the dark north on a midwinter night, the trio witnessed the rare sight of the Halo, the spectacular multicolored rings of Corona, glowing majestically in the sky with a surreal, supernatural beauty that transcended earthly bounds. To De’Unnero and to Sadye, the sight was a spiritual experience, confirmation to the former monk that, despite the transgressions of the weretiger, he remained within the good graces of St. Abelle and God. For Aydrian, the Halo proved a more confusing sight, a hint that there might be something greater than this mortal presence and existence. The young man, who had constructed his own theories and pathways to immortality, found that revelation, combined with his confrontation with the dead, strangely unsettling.

The Dundalis nights were also the setting for other seemingly mystical events: music drifting on the evening breeze, haunting and melancholy. The three would find themselves merely sitting and enjoying the distant sounds, oblivious of them for many minutes. Among the group, only De’Unnero thought he knew the source, and the former monk wasn’t pleased at all to learn that the wretched Bradwarden might still be about the forests of the Timberlands.

He contemplated going out in tiger form to do battle with the centaur, but only briefly. For the ever-pragmatic De’Unnero recognized that if he so engaged Bradwarden, but did not kill the centaur, then he might be alerting others, Jilseponie most of all, that he was still about. Given the true lineage of his newest traveling companion, that would not be a good thing.

“You know of the source,” Sadye said to him one night when the piping drifted into their small cottage.

“Perhaps,” De’Unnero replied. “Perhaps not. It is not important.”

“I should like to meet the player.”

“No,” De’Unnero answered bluntly, and he quickly smiled and lightened the mood. “The Forest Ghost, as that one is called, has been piping in the Timberlands for decades,” he explained, and that part of his dodge was honest enough. “Some say it is a man, others a horse, others say something in between.”

Sadye’s eyes narrowed. “Bradwarden, then,” she reasoned with a sly smile.

De’Unnero knew that he was caught. Sadye was an impossible one to bluff! “It may be,” he admitted. “And that would make any meeting disastrous at best.”

Sadye nodded her understanding and agreement. “Though I would love to meet him,” she said quietly, moving closer to De’Unnero, that he could wrap his strong arms about her.

“As would I,” the former monk whispered under his breath; but he knew, if Sadye did not, that his enjoyment at meeting the troublesome centaur would be of a very different nature indeed!

Still another call found them during those long and dark nights—or found Aydrian, at least.

“There is something out there,” he explained to his two companions late in the season, “calling to me.”

De’Unnero glanced at Sadye, and both did well to hide their alarm, thinking that the young man might be speaking of Bradwarden or perhaps of some other former friend of his dead father.

“What is it?” Sadye prompted.

“I know not,” Aydrian admitted. “I only know that it calls to me—perhaps only to me.”

“Ignore the feeling,” De’Unnero instructed. “Our time here grows short, and there is nothing else about that is worth our time or trouble.”

“But—”

“Ignore it,” the former monk said again, more forcefully. “The forests about Dundalis are not to be taken lightly. There are many things out there better left alone—Lady Dasslerond and her kin, perhaps, among them.”

His reference to the Touel’alfar did give Aydrian pause, and so he nodded and excused himself, and went to his private bed. He was soon fast asleep.

Only to awaken sometime later, hearing again that strange and insistent call in his mind. He recognized that gemstone magic was somehow involved in this strange communication, but it was like nothing he had ever heard before, nothing he had ever seen from Dasslerond or the other elves. Furthermore, the source of the communication seemed somehow different than anything Aydrian had ever experienced. He thought of waking De’Unnero and demanding that they go to investigate, but as he considered that option, as he considered the monk’s somewhat stern warning, Aydrian decided that this choice was his own to make.

He was dressed soon after and out of the house, Hawkwing slung over his shoulder, Tempest strapped to his waist. During the day, he didn’t dare show his recent acquisitions, but no one in the town was awake, he knew.

The snow was still deep, but Aydrian found paths windblown enough to navigate in the general direction of the call. He walked for hours, too excited to feel the cold wind. Then, in a small clearing some miles from Dundalis, his efforts found their reward.

There stood a stallion, and such a horse Aydrian had never seen! Such a magnificent horse he had never believed existed! The steed’s coat glistened black in the moonlight, with a white crest between its eyes and white socks on its muscled legs. The wild black mane told Aydrian that this creature was no man’s pet or possession.

He heard the call again, a greeting, a question, a connection that he sensed was as confusing to the horse as it was to him.

The stallion reared and Aydrian noted a flash in the muscled area at the center of its powerful chest.

“A gemstone,” he breathed, and he understood that to be the telepathic connection. “Who are you?” he asked, approaching.

The horse reared again and whinnied threateningly, but Aydrian didn’t shy away. He reached into his pouch and produced the soul stone, then went out with his spirit to explore.

Symphony—for of course it was Symphony, the horse of Nightbird, though Aydrian didn’t know it—accepted that communication eagerly at first, but then, suddenly, and for some reason that Aydrian did not understand, the stallion resisted, obviously alarmed. Aydrian blinked open his eyes to see the stallion whinnying and rearing, kicking out at him, then leaping away.

But Aydrian would not let Symphony run away! No, this would be his horse, he had already decided. This was the horse of a king, of a conqueror, an unparalleled mount for an unparalleled leader. He flew through the soul stone again, his thoughts rushing into Symphony aggressively, commanding and not parlaying with the beast.

The horse responded with a wave of denial, of repulsion, throwing back at Aydrian a wall of instinctive fear and rage.

But they were in the realm of the gemstones now, and no creature in all the world could stand against the dark willpower of Aydrian. The struggle went on and on, much as a man might break a horse with a saddle. Symphony recoiled, and Aydrian pressed further. Still more, and the horse tried to back away; but there was no escape in this realm, nowhere for the powerful stallion to run. Relentlessly, growing in confidence and in intensity, Aydrian charged on.

And when Aydrian broke the connection at last, Symphony obediently walked over to him. For the first time, Symphony had, not a partner, but a master.

The future king had his horse.

“You’ve seen twenty winters,” Aydrian remarked, examining the truly magnificent beast.

“Thirty’d be closer to me own guess,” came a resonant voice from the side. The startled Aydrian drew Tempest and spun to see a curious and imposing creature,
with a human head and torso set upon the body of a horse!

“Who are ye, boy, and what’re ye doin’ with me friend Symphony?” the centaur asked.

“Symphony?” Aydrian echoed quietly, hardly able to breathe, for it was all falling into place now. He had heard of Symphony, and knew of the speaker, Bradwarden, from Belli’mar Juraviel’s old tales. Yes, this all made sense. He smiled eagerly at the centaur, who returned the look for just a moment.

But then Bradwarden noticed and recognized the blade in Aydrian’s hand. “So, ye’re more than a grave robber then,” the centaur reasoned.

Aydrian followed Bradwarden’s gaze to his hand, to Tempest. “Hardly a robber,” he said. “Merely taking that which is rightfully mine, from the graves and from the forest.” As he finished, he brought his hand up to stroke the neck of the horse—his horse. “Tempest went from Mather to Nightbird. Hawkwing belonged to Nightbird, as did Symphony. And now they, all three, move to Nighthawk, as is proper.”

Bradwarden stared at him curiously. “Nighthawk?” he asked.

“Tai’maqwilloq,” Aydrian stated proudly. “I am Nighthawk, the ranger of Festertool, the son—”

“Ranger?” Bradwarden interrupted. “And where did ye learn to be a ranger?”

Aydrian, not appreciating the demeaning tone, squared his shoulders. “Properly trained by those who instruct the rangers,” he answered.

Bradwarden’s expression grew even more confused, for the centaur had not been informed of any new rangers coming out his way—and was certain that Dasslerond and Juraviel would surely have alerted him. Besides, this one hardly seemed old enough to have completed the rigorous training the Touel’alfar exacted upon the rangers.

“Ye best be lettin’ go o’ the horse, boy, and givin’ meself the bow and the sword until I—”

“Come and take them,” Aydrian challenged with a wry grin.

“Don’t ye be a fool, boy,” Bradwarden warned.

“As my father carried them, so shall I,” Aydrian answered resolutely, and Bradwarden, who had indeed begun to stride toward him, abruptly halted.

“What d’ye say?” the centaur asked.

“As these belonged to Nightbird,” Aydrian answered boldly, “so they pass to Nighthawk, the son of Nightbird. I’ll not ask your permission, centaur, to take that which is rightfully mine.”

“Son of Nightbird?” Bradwarden asked doubtfully.

Aydrian stared at him hard, not backing down an inch.

“Ye’re meanin’ that ye’re the Touel’alfar’s appointed follower to Nightbird,” the centaur reasoned.

“Son of Nightbird. By blood, and soon enough by deed,” Aydrian assured him. “Nightbird, Elbryan, was my father, and I am a ranger, trained as was he. I claim Tempest and Hawkwing and Symphony, and let any who refute that claim stand before me now and learn the truth.” He brandished Tempest as he spoke, and Symphony
reared and whinnied again.