DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (131 page)

Bradwarden hardly knew what to say; and he stood there, shaking his head, unable to even argue, as Aydrian mounted Symphony and trotted off into the forest.

B
radwarden was deeply troubled during the next few days. He knew that he should have confronted Aydrian, should have demanded the complete tale from the obviously lying young upstart. And yet Bradwarden could not deny the strange familiarity he had felt when looking at the boy and the nagging sensation that this young warrior was not lying.

But how could it be?

Bradwarden soon enough learned the problem of holding those doubts. He had assumed that finding young Nighthawk would prove no difficult feat, since he had figured that the “ranger” would haunt the region, as Nightbird had for so many years. To his surprise, only a few days later, he learned that Aydrian and his other companions, an older man and a woman, had left Dundalis for the south, with Aydrian riding a large black stallion.

Bradwarden tried to find their trail, even traveled far past Caer Tinella in pursuit. But, alas, the trio were moving swiftly, as if expecting the pursuit, and the centaur realized that he could not catch up to them before they reached Palmaris.

So Bradwarden returned to his forest home, to the cairns and the trails that had so often shown the tracks of mighty Symphony, leading the wild horses of the area. He tried to dismiss Nighthawk and the rest of it—Bradwarden had never been Symphony’s protector, of course, as Elbryan had never been the horse’s master. Nor did the centaur pretend to understand the designs of Dasslerond and her rangers.

He tried to put it out of his mind as the weeks passed, though of course, he could not, and his worries were only multiplied one night when a quiet and melodious voice called out to him.

“How could ye not tell me?” the centaur demanded when Lady Dasslerond and several others of the Touel’alfar walked into view.

“Then he has been here,” Dasslerond reasoned.

“Ye send a ranger with no warnin’ to me?” the centaur asked. “Why, I almost killed the boy when I saw him holdin’ the damned sword and bow.”

His words obviously surprised and alarmed Dasslerond and the others; and they all exchanged glances, seeming none too happy that the cairns had been pilfered. “The child of Nightbird is no ranger,” the lady of Caer’alfar flatly declared.

Bradwarden started to answer, then started to answer differently as he fully comprehended her words, then simply stammered for a long while, overwhelmed. “Child of Nightbird?” he cried at last. “Ye mean he was speakin’ literally?”

“What did he say?”

“He said he was the damned child o’ Nightbird, though I wasn’t thinkin’ he meant it!” Bradwarden roared. “How can it be? I knowed Nightbird all the time he was out o’ yer care, and knowed Jilseponie, too. She lost her only—” Bradwarden
stopped as the awful truth came to him then. “Ye can’t mean …” he started slowly, hesitantly, shaking his head.

“Aydrian is the son of Nightbird and of Jilseponie,” Lady Dasslerond replied evenly. “Taken from Jilseponie outside Palmaris, else both mother and child would have perished from the attack of the demon Markwart.”

Bradwarden sputtered over that for a long while!

“We did as we thought best,” Dasslerond explained.

“Ye never telled her!” Bradwarden roared. “She’s sittin’ on a throne in far-off Ursal, never knowin’ that she’s got herself a child—Nightbird’s child! Ye stupid elf! I should throttle ye with me own hands!”

“Enough!” Dasslerond demanded, and she waved her hands to calm her minions, all of them seeming more than ready to engage the centaur should he make any move toward their beloved lady. “It is not our place to explain ourselves to the lesser races.”

“Even if ye ignore all decency?” Bradwarden asked.

“I do what is necessary,” Lady Dasslerond countered. “What is necessary for the Touel’alfar and not for a meaningless little human woman.”

“The Queen of Honce-the-Bear,” Bradwarden reminded.

“Indeed,” Dasslerond replied. “And that is why I have sought you out, Bradwarden. Jilseponie knows of us.”

“Yerself and yer kin made of yerselves more than tales about the fire in the recent past,” the centaur replied.

“She knows of Andur’Blough Inninness and other secrets.”

“Are ye still frettin’ that she’ll give away yer sword-dancing?” Bradwarden asked incredulously. “She’s been a score o’ months and more on the throne. If she wanted to wage war—”

“We have only come out of prudence,” Dasslerond interrupted. “To learn what we may from Bradwarden, who knows Jilseponie well.”

The centaur mulled over the words for a bit, weighing them against the unlikely coincidence that Lady Dasslerond, who rarely ventured from her sheltered valley, should pick this time to come forth, so soon after the arrival, and departure, of the one who called himself Nighthawk. He saw the lie for what it was.

“Ye came out because ye sensed that the sword and the bow had been disturbed,” he accused, and he knew well that the elves could do things like that, had some strange connection to anything elvish or elvish-made. “Ye came out after yer escaped secret, and how could ye be keeping such a thing?” His voice boomed in indignation. “And keepin’ the truth from the mother, too! Ah, but ye’ve stepped across a line here! And what an awful secret ye’ve kept!”

“More awful than you imagine,” Lady Dasslerond quietly replied, her tone and her agreement giving the angry centaur pause. “The boy is wild and beyond all control. He is no ranger and does not deserve to hold the sword or the bow. Truly Belli’mar Juraviel would be pained to learn that the last bow his father ever crafted fell to the hands of Aydrian.”

Bradwarden could hardly believe her words.

“If the means befell me to destroy Aydrian, then I would, without remorse,” Dasslerond said coldly.

“He is the son of Nightbird and of Jilseponie, no small thing,” the centaur remarked.

Dasslerond shook her head. “Of both and of neither, I say,” she insisted. “He is the seed of something darker.” She looked up plaintively at the centaur. “We envisioned Aydrian as the savior of Andur’Blough Inninness. We thought his bloodline and his immersion into training would bring to us the one capable of erasing the demon stain from our land. Alas, now I fear that our savior has deserted us to become a greater stain upon the wider world.”

The gravity of her tone stole all protests from Bradwarden’s mouth, for he knew Dasslerond well and understood that she did not speak lightly or idly of such things, that she, who had faced Bestesbulzibar, did not easily admit her fears.

“Ye should’ve telled Jilseponie,” he said.

Dasslerond half shrugged, half nodded, not conceding but not disputing the reasoning. “The point is moot,” she said. “For he is out and about. Perhaps Jilseponie will learn of him in time—I doubt that one such as Aydrian will have no influence on the world—or perhaps the fates will be kinder and the boy will be killed.”

“Harsh words,” said Bradwarden.

Dasslerond again offered a noncommittal look, and the coldness of her indifference showed Bradwarden the sincerity of her hatred for Aydrian and sent a shudder along the centaur’s normally unshakable spine. “We had hoped to find him out here,” she said.

“He is long gone.”

“Perhaps that is better, for our sakes,” the lady admitted, and again, Bradwarden was taken aback, understanding then that he could hardly comprehend the depth and the strength of this renegade ranger.

“From you, we ask only your prudence and your silence,” Dasslerond went on. “Should you find occasion to speak with Jilseponie again, I trust that you will remain silent concerning the taken child.”

“ ’Tis a lot ye’re askin’.”

“Would you then welcome a war between Honce-the-Bear and my people?” Lady Dasslerond asked bluntly. “For who can predict the reaction of Queen Jilseponie?”

Bradwarden believed that he knew Jilseponie better than to expect any such thing, but he had to admit that Dasslerond had a point. The centaur had pretty much remained out of the politics and intrigue of humans for many years, and now he was thinking that to be the better course for him. In the end, he agreed with Dasslerond and promised, in addition, to keep a careful watch over the region, and to put out a call to her if Aydrian, this young Nighthawk, ever returned.

When the centaur took his leave of the elven lady and her entourage later on, he wandered the forest trails. Many times did Bradwarden put his pipes to his lips
that night, thinking to play his haunting songs, but not once did he find the heart to blow as much as a single note.

The peace of the forest remained, it seemed, but the peace in Bradwarden’s heart had been shattered.

He traveled to the grave of Nightbird, and spent many hours remembering his old friend.

And hoping.

Chapter 24
 

“I
THINK IT BETTER TO SKIRT THE CITY
,” D
E
’U
NNERO SAID TO
S
ADYE AS THEY
crested a hill and came in sight of the mighty city of Ursal, the many sails beyond the docks and the great castle and abbey set on the hill facing the water.

“You fear that Aydrian will hear talk of his mother the queen,” Sadye reasoned, and both glanced back at Aydrian and Symphony, who were just crossing the gully behind them.

“I fear that he will hear things from the wrong perspective,” De’Unnero explained. “He is ready to learn the truth, I think, but not the adoring lies that would inevitably accompany that truth on the streets of Jilseponie’s city.” He looked back at Aydrian again. “Come here, lad,” he said. “Come and see the greatest city in all the world.”

Aydrian hardly had to urge Symphony forward, the great stallion picking up the pace as soon as he hit the upward slope. The awe on Aydrian’s face was visible when he, too, saw the view of Ursal, his eyes wide, his smile bright. Almost without thinking, he urged Symphony on, but De’Unnero caught the horse’s rein and held him back.

“Are we not going in?” a surprised Aydrian asked.

“Not now,” De’Unnero answered. “We have business to the east. Important business. It would not do well to reveal ourselves within Ursal at this time.”

Those last words caught Aydrian’s attention and he looked at the former monk curiously.

“You see the castle?” De’Unnero asked.

“How could I not?” Aydrian asked with a grin.

“Tell me again of your mother,” De’Unnero prompted, and Aydrian’s smile disappeared.

“I know nothing of her, not even her name,” the young ranger remarked sourly. “She died in childbirth.…”

“No, she did not,” said De’Unnero.

Aydrian’s face went stone cold.

“I confirmed it when we were in Dundalis,” De’Unnero lied, for he did not want Aydrian to figure out that he had been lying to him, by omission at least, since first they met. “It is as I suspected, confirmed by reliable sources. Your father, Nightbird, had but one lover, one wife, and she did not die when you were born, though surely the world would have been spared much misery if she had.”

Sadye winced at those harsh words.

“Do you see the castle, lad?” De’Unnero asked again. “There is your mother, Jilseponie, queen of Honce-the-Bear.”

“W-what?” the stunned young man stammered, and he swayed as if he might fall off his horse.

“Jilseponie, once the wife of Elbryan and now the wife of King Danube Brock Ursal,” De’Unnero explained. “ ’Twas she who gave birth to you on a battle-ravaged field outside Palmaris. There can be no doubt.”

“But Lady Dasslerond—”

“Lied to you,” De’Unnero finished. “Does that surprise you?”

Aydrian started to respond, then stopped, then started again, but just shook his head, his words trailing away into grunts and soft moans.

“You missed nothing through your ignorance, I assure you,” said De’Unnero.

Aydrian turned on him sharply; and Sadye, positioning her horse behind the young ranger, flashed De’Unnero a sour expression and shook her head slowly, trying to tell the eager former monk that he was pushing too hard, too fast.

“But enough,” De’Unnero said abruptly, throwing up his hands. “Look upon the castle, young warrior. Castle Ursal, the home of Jilseponie, your mother. Look upon it and hold faith that it will one day be yours.”

The ranger held fast his angry and hurt posture and expression, but there was no mistaking the flash, the gleam, that flickered behind his eyes at those tantalizing words.

“You will live to hear Jilseponie call you king,” De’Unnero promised. “And to have her explain to you her actions those years ago—when you are in a position of power, when she must tell you the truth.

“But you still have much to learn, about the world and about Jilseponie,” De’Unnero went on. “I will teach you. I will tell you everything about Queen Jilseponie.”

He motioned for the others to follow, then kicked his horse into a trot, taking a route south skirting the great city. True to his word, Marcalo De’Unnero did tell Aydrian about Jilseponie over the next days, as the trio made their way across the rolling southern expanse of Honce-the-Bear, fertile Yorkey County. But unlike his tales of Aydrian’s father—for De’Unnero held Elbryan in high regard and had spoken of the man as a respected rival—his views of Jilseponie were less than complimentary. No, De’Unnero spoke of the woman in the most cynical and jaded terms he could find, claiming that she used tricks instead of honor in personal battles, and even hinting to Aydrian that she likely had abandoned him at birth.