DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (147 page)

Who was this young man who had come to win the tournament?

Who was this young man who had defeated him with power beyond his comprehension?

Who was this man, this giver of life, reaching out to him now to pull him back from the walk of the dead?

A moment later, Duke Kalas began to cough and sputter, very much alive.

The crowd went into an approving frenzy.

Aydrian rose, to find that a squire had retrieved his mount and brought it near. With a final look into Kalas’ eyes, a final sharing of the truth of the strength that was Aydrian, he mounted and walked the horse to face the royal pavilion.

“I know not what to say, Tai’maqwilloq!” King Danube proclaimed when the throng at last quieted and the young champion had presented himself before the pavilion—though he had still not removed his fabulous helm. “The pennant of victory is yours!” With cheers ringing from every angle, King Danube tossed his flag, the same one Kalas had retrieved to claim victory in the general melee, to Aydrian.

Who stiffened in his seat and let the prize fall to the dirt.

“I rode not for King Danube,” the young warrior declared loudly and resolutely. “I would take as my prize the pennant of Queen Jilseponie.”

He could see that he had her totally flustered, totally unprepared to answer his request. She stared at him for what seemed like hours, shaking her head in disbelief and confusion. Then she reached back and claimed the queen’s pennant, which hung from the back post of her seat, and tossed it out to him.

Aydrian gave a half bow. Raising the pennant high, he kicked Symphony—and he knew that Jilseponie knew that it was indeed Symphony—into a victory lap of the field, then thundered away down one of the ramps, through the throng, and away.

Leaving behind a fuming Danube, a completely perplexed Duke Kalas, and an
equally amazed Queen Jilseponie.

Chapter 32
 

A
YDRIAN LEFT HIS ATTENDANTS BEHIND AND RODE OUT OF
U
RSAL AND ACROSS
the fields surrounding the city, going past the estate where he was staying and returning only much later, under cover of night.

He was anxious and nervous, almost giddy with relief and pride at his performance, but he had no idea how De’Unnero would react to the manner in which he had felled Duke Kalas.

It was late into the night before De’Unnero and Sadye returned, but despite his tremendous exertion that day, Aydrian hadn’t begun to find any sleep. He was there, pacing just inside the door, when the pair walked in.

De’Unnero held Sadye back, then walked up to the young warrior, standing barely an inch away, eye to eye.

“You improvised,” the former monk said quietly.

“Duke Kalas changed the rules,” Aydrian replied.

“Your lance was weakened, his own strengthened,” De’Unnero agreed. “I thought you were defeated.”

Aydrian managed a smile. “As did I,” he answered, “for a moment. It went beyond the lances, for there was a moment when Symphony was not my mount, was answering to another call, that of the Queen.”

“Your mother?” De’Unnero asked sarcastically, a wry grin widening on his face. “Working against you?”

“Or simply calling to the horse,” Aydrian reasoned unconvincingly, for, indeed, De’Unnero’s innuendo shook him.

“You handled yourself and the unexpected situation beautifully,” De’Unnero went on. “Better than I would have expected from one your age, despite your training and your experience. The defeat of Duke Kalas was one that the peasants, the nobles, the churchmen, and particularly Duke Kalas, will not soon forget.”

He reached up with both hands and patted Aydrian on the shoulders, nodding and grinning.

“I wonder about the wisdom of restoring Duke Kalas’ life, though,” Sadye remarked a moment later, from back by the door. “That one might prove to be a thorn.”

But De’Unnero was shaking his head before she ever finished. “He loves his King, ’tis true,” he answered, “but he hates the Queen profoundly, even more so as Lady Constance Pemblebury continues to deteriorate. She was not even at the tournament either day.”

“The absence was notable,” Sadye agreed. “And there was a melancholy about her children, I noted; one that I believe stemmed as much from concern for their
mother as from their own inability to join the games.”

De’Unnero didn’t disagree with her assessment. “If we do not overtly go against the King, Duke Kalas will prove to be no obstacle.”

“Our very presence goes against the King,” Aydrian remarked.

“But no one knows that,” said De’Unnero. “Against the Queen, yes. That will soon enough be revealed. Indeed, in my guise as Bruce of Oredale, I have already made that position quite plain to the beloved Duke—in a manner, though, that speaks in the King’s best interests. I do believe that many in attendance at the games understand that Tai’maqwilloq is no friend to Danube, but Tai’maqwilloq will not be seen for a long while among the folk of Ursal.”

Aydrian looked at him curiously.

“Put your armor away and rub a bit of dirt onto your handsome cheeks, young attendant,” the former monk explained, “for you will not leave this house as Tai’maqwilloq but only as just another hopeless and helpless peasant.”

“Or perhaps as a monk from St. Bondabruce,” Sadye remarked. “That guise would be easily enough achieved.”

Neither of the options was particularly pleasing to Aydrian, who had heard the cheers of the crowd and wanted desperately to be done with this, to claim the kingdom as the first step on his road to complete glory. His look was sour then, as much the pout of a child as the arrogance of the champion.

De’Unnero and Sadye laughed at him, but in such a way as to invite him to join in.

“Patience,” said De’Unnero. “The seed is planted and well fed. It will grow. Now, to bed with you, with all of us. I must be away before the dawn to Abbot Olin’s emissaries, who witnessed the tournament with great relief and pleasure, I believe.”

“And then?” Sadye asked.

“Why, back to the court of King Danube, of course,” said De’Unnero. “My target now is the stunned Duke of Wester-Honce, once dead, once raised, and that by the man who killed him. It will be interesting to see how this sudden and unexpected course of events sits with the man. Quite interesting indeed.”

Aydrian let the conversation drop at that, for he well understood the importance of converting Duke Kalas to their cause. When the moment of the coup came, an alliance with Duke Targon Bree Kalas would guarantee their securing Ursal and the backing of upper echelons of the King’s army. No matter how they went about it, they all understood that this coup would not be bloodless, even if King Danube were to cooperate and die soon of natural causes. But with Kalas beside them, the bloodshed would not likely begin until Aydrian and the others had built an insurmountable advantage.

The only thing that bothered Aydrian at that point was his understanding that his major part in the seeding was now done. He’d likely spend the next few weeks hidden away in the estate—if he was lucky. If not, it could drag out to months, to years.

No, not years, Aydrian decided. His patience would not last much longer, and
when it broke, he would bring about his ascension by any means necessary.

Nor would he truly be confined within the estate, he silently decided, and his hand slipped down over the breastplate of his armor, over the soul stone.

T
he next day, De’Unnero did not seek out Duke Kalas, as he had intended, for when he arrived at court, dressed as Bruce of Oredale, he discovered that the Duke had sent out agents throughout the castle and throughout Ursal, seeking to learn more of the mysterious Tai’maqwilloq.

De’Unnero went back to his work among the other nobles, spreading rumors against the Queen—no difficult task—figuring that Duke Kalas would come to him soon enough.

Out in the garden, he ran into an unexpected potential ally, sitting quietly by herself off to the side.

“Bruce of Oredale at your service, Lady Pemblebury,” he said, moving to join her.

Constance Pemblebury looked up at him, and only then did De’Unnero truly appreciate the devastation that had come to this woman since the Queen’s return. Her blond hair seemed much less lustrous, thinner and grayer, her skin was chalky and dry, and heavy bluish bags lined her eyes. Those eyes were the most telling of all. There was no inner sparkle. No life.

De’Unnero had seen that dead look before, usually in the eyes of people right before they succumbed to a deadly illness. There was a hopelessness there and a helplessness.

“Do I know you?” Constance replied, her hand trembling as she reached for a glass of wine.

“Nay, though surely I have heard of you, Lady Pemblebury, the great lady of Ursal!” De’Unnero said, trying to breathe some fire into her by using so flattering a title.

Constance laughed at him. “The old cow who did her duty, then was pushed aside, you mean,” she answered, and she looked away.

There was nothing coy in her answer, no indication that she was fishing for more compliments.

De’Unnero reconsidered his course. If Constance Pemblebury was to be his ally, it would have to be unintentional, two separate entities striving for the same goal, he decided.

“You did not attend the tournament, I believe,” he said, thinking to lead her in a roundabout manner to discern if she had any inside information on Duke Kalas’ latest efforts.

Constance didn’t answer, didn’t even look back at him, and he wondered if she had even heard him.

He waited a bit longer, repeated the question, and then, when no answer seemed forthcoming, he merely said, “G’day, my lady,” and rose from his seat and walked away, all the while wondering how he could use Constance’s breakdown
as a weapon to further ensnare Duke Kalas, well-known to be her dearest friend.

He spent the rest of the day wandering about the many garden gatherings, this private end to the days of feasting for the select few who comprised Danube’s court, this quiet and more cultivated event without the troublesome rabble. De’Unnero politely excused himself from any conversation that seemed meaningless in light of his focus, and earnestly joined in any talk of the previous day’s events, especially those that hinted that this Tai’maqwilloq warrior was somehow linked to the Queen, was likely her young lover.

Ah, but Marcalo De’Unnero was truly enjoying this day of gossiping and sniping. He was surprised, though, and more than a little disappointed, when, even after the King and Queen were announced and took their places among the guests, Duke Kalas did not make an appearance.

The leader of the Allhearts was likely still recovering from his first-ever tournament defeat, De’Unnero figured.

He left court that evening convinced that the tournament had gone a long way toward further undermining Jilseponie. While that pleased him, he wanted to push it even further, for like Aydrian, his patience was beginning now to fray.

He was walking out of the castle gates when he heard a call behind him.

“Bruce of Oredale!” came a booming voice. “Stand fast!”

De’Unnero stopped and slowly turned, to see a large soldier, an Allheart knight, walking swiftly to join him.

“You are Bruce of Oredale?” the knight asked.

De’Unnero nodded.

“Pray come with me,” said the Allheart. “Duke Targon Bree Kalas desires to speak with you.”

De’Unnero nodded again and quite happily followed. He found Kalas in a small study tucked away in the corner of the first floor of the great castle. Dark wooden bookcases on either side of the stone fireplace gave the place a regal look. Though it was warm, Kalas had a small fire burning, a single log, the glow backlighting him, making him look even more intense, sitting there, hardly blinking, his strong hands folded before him, his face resting against them. On the desk between his elbows rested an open book, which De’Unnero recognized as a history of a long-ago battle. The former monk looked from the book to the Duke, his respect for the man increasing. Apparently, the man was more than a warrior, was a tactician as well, and was smart enough to study the histories for insights.

Kalas waved the Allheart knight away and bade the man to shut the door.

“I suspected that you might wish to speak with me,” De’Unnero said, taking a seat in a comfortable chair across the small rug from the man.

“Tai’maqwilloq,” the Duke quietly replied.

“Nighthawk,” answered De’Unnero. Kalas looked up at him curiously and intensely, for the familiarity of that name could not be missed. “That is the translation,” De’Unnero explained.

“Nighthawk?” the Duke asked skeptically.

De’Unnero changed the subject, wanting to broach Aydrian’s true identity carefully, if at all. “Skilled with the sword and with sacred gemstone magic, it would seem,” he remarked.

“One can only imagine where he learned his use of the gemstones,” said Kalas, his eyes narrowing, De’Unnero’s clear implication being that the Queen might have taught the young warrior.

De’Unnero chuckled, thinking that the Duke was winding himself into a knot, and one that kept pointing accusingly toward Jilseponie. “He learned from people you cannot begin to imagine,” he said cryptically.