DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (238 page)

“Prince Midalis may go against him, but he will not win,” Jilseponie said, her voice becoming little more than a whisper.

“Many will rally to him!” Viscenti declared, and he shook his fist in the air. “The throne of Honce-the-Bear is not one simply to be stolen, nor is the Abellican Church a willing victim of such treachery! Abbot Olin will be thrown out in disgrace! And Marcalo De’Unnero—we should have burned that fool at the stake
years ago. I can hardly believe that he is even still alive! Like the demon dactyl, he is! Unending evil!”

“Surely Aydrian’s claim to the throne is tenuous, at best,” Bishop Braumin reasoned, all the while patting the master’s hands to try to calm the volatile Viscenti, who had not been well of late and had been warned by the healers to try to remain calm—something that was surely against the man’s instincts!

“His claim is enough so that the general populace will accept him,” said Jilseponie. “It is enough so that the nobles who were not in Danube’s favor at the end have the excuse to embrace him. Aydrian came to Ursal with an army at the ready, and once the throne was taken, he only added to that army with Danube’s own soldiers.” She looked at Bishop Braumin with sincere sympathy, and slowly shook her head. “He has Ursal, and will sweep through Palmaris, long before Prince Midalis can organize and offer any aid to you, should you choose to oppose Aydrian. Of that much I am sure. And allies will not be easily found, especially here in the southwestern reaches of Honce-the-Bear, so dominated by Ursal and the corrupt dukes. The common folk will welcome Aydrian because to do otherwise would mean doing battle against him, and that, they have not the power to do.”

“The Church will not succumb to the threats of a usurper and his treacherous cronies!” Bishop Braumin declared. “Palmaris will offer resistance to this King Aydrian, and St. Precious will never open her doors to him, or for Marcalo De’Unnero and the traitor, Abbot Olin.”

“You would pit your city against the legions of Ursal?” Jilseponie quietly asked, and her words stole more than a little of Braumin’s bluster. Palmaris was no minor city, and its garrison was strong and deep and well seasoned. But they would be no match for the Allheart Knights and the thousands of soldiers of Ursal.

“For the city, I … I do not know,” Braumin admitted, but the helpless shake of his head didn’t last for long and the fires quickly returned to his dark eyes. “But on my life, I vow that neither Aydrian nor the cursed De’Unnero will enter this abbey, unless they are dragged through the gates in chains!”

“Do not make such a vow!” Jilseponie scolded. “You do not understand the power that will come against you!”

“You would have me welcome them?”

“I would beg you to flee!” said Jilseponie. “To St.-Mere-Abelle, and from there to Vanguard, if that is necessary. If you stay …” Her voice failed her then, and she began to pant, trying to catch her breath. She would have fallen to the ground had not Braumin rushed forward and caught her in his grasp, holding her tightly once more.

A
ydrian waved them all away and continued to stand at the map table as the noblemen filed out, talking amongst themselves. De’Unnero grabbed that open door and stepped beside it, as if he meant to close it behind the others while he remained in the room.

“Go to St. Honce with Abbot Olin,” Aydrian said to him. “Help him to prepare
the formal documents declaring the change in the Abellican Church.”

“And what is that change to be?” De’Unnero asked, and he looked back to the hall to make sure that Olin was far away by then. “Are we to proclaim Olin as Father Abbot?”

“For now, our friend Olin will serve as the official Abellican emissary to Behren,” Aydrian replied. “That is all we need to tell your brothers. Soon, Olin will be named Father Abbot of the Abellican Church
in Behren
.”

Not surprised, De’Unnero nonetheless chuckled. “You make it sound so easy.”

“That part will be easier than placing Marcalo De’Unnero as Father Abbot of the Abellican Church in Honce-the-Bear,” came Aydrian’s response, one that had De’Unnero’s dark eyes glowing. “While most of the country south of the Gulf of Corona will fall to me without bloodshed, we both understand that your Abellican brothers will not so easily accept you as their leader.”

“They are not my brothers, so killing them will bring me little pause,” De’Unnero replied.

“Then go and begin the process of your ascent,” Aydrian told him. “Invite all who would come to join you in the march of King Aydrian, as the kingdom is solidified, as the church is renewed. Do not overtly threaten any who refuse, but—”

De’Unnero stopped him with an upraised hand. “I understand how I must proceed, now that it is clear that Abbot Olin and I are to walk diverging roads.”

“The more you convince with promises, the easier it will be to destroy those who refuse,” Aydrian said.

De’Unnero smiled wryly and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Aydrian turned back to the table, to the large map of the world. He ran his hand from Ursal to Palmaris, then from Entel across the Mantis Arm, following the coast all the way to St.-Mere-Abelle, the most coveted prize of all, and the one he knew would prove the most difficult to attain.

“You see?” he asked.

Across the way, a drapery moved, and Sadye walked out into the open.

“Tell me,” Aydrian asked her, “what did you perceive of Duke Monmouth of Yorkey?”

“He fears you,” the woman replied, walking to stand beside Aydrian at the table. “And he hates you. Though neither emotion is as strong in him as in Duke Kalas.”

“And yet the fear within Kalas is so profound that it dooms him as my ally,” Aydrian remarked. “What of Bretherford?”

Sadye looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his young and strong and undeniably handsome features for a long while. “I do not know.”

“The southland must be secured before I do battle with Prince Midalis,” Aydrian explained to her. “That will be a process more of measuring the loyalty of the noblemen who service each region than of conquering the commoners.”

“King Danube was loved by the common folk, as was your mother.”

“The common folk care not at all who is their king,” Aydrian told her, and he looked away from the map, locking stares with her, and smiled. “If they are eating
well, they love their king. If they are starving, they despise him. It is not so difficult a thing to understand.”

“And you will feed them well,” Sadye said.

Aydrian looked back at the map, running his hand from those areas already shaded red to those areas, all the rest of the world, he intended to overtake. “I will win with kindness and I will win with cruelty,” he said calmly, matter-of-factly.

The fact that they were standing almost directly above the dungeon staircase, beneath which rotted the body of Torrence Pemblebury, only strengthened that statement.

“Long live King Aydrian,” Sadye said quietly, and she gently touched his arm.

Aydrian didn’t look at her, knowing that his indifference at that moment only strengthened his growing hold over her, only heightened her growing hunger for him.

“W
hat are you going to do?”

The question was simple and straightforward enough, but it echoed confusingly around the thoughts of Bishop Braumin Herde.

What are you going to do?

About the abbey? About the city? He was the appointed bishop, which meant that both were under his guidance. He knew in his heart that he could not welcome any change to the Abellican Church that included Marcalo De’Unnero. The man was a murderer. The man had brought nothing but chaos and misery with him whenever he had come through Palmaris. He had once been bishop here, and had executed one merchant horribly and publicly. As henchman to Father Abbot Markwart, he had imprisoned Elbryan and Jilseponie, Viscenti and Braumin, among others.

Braumin understood that he now had to keep these two tumultuous, shattering events in Ursal separate. On the secular level, Aydrian was now king of Honce-the-Bear, and whether that was a legitimate claim or not, the fact that he apparently had the armies of Ursal to back him up made it a claim that none could oppose without dire risk. On the spiritual level, the mere thought that Abbot Olin was in league with De’Unnero discredited the man wholly within the Abellican Church, the Church that had been moving steadily toward the vision of dear Avelyn Desbris, De’Unnero’s avowed enemy.

Slowly, Bishop Braumin turned to face the questioner, Brother Viscenti, his dear friend who had been through so much beside him, all the way back across the decades to their mutual discovery of the truth of Avelyn under the tutelage of dead Master Jojonah in the catacombs of St.-Mere-Abelle.

“St. Precious will not open her doors for them,” the bishop declared. “Never that. Let De’Unnero and his newfound henchmen knock those doors down, if they will. Have them burn me at the stake, if they will. But I’ll not surrender my principles to that man. I’ll not encourage his misguided view of the world.”

“Almost every brother here will stand firm with you,” Viscenti replied.

Braumin Herde wasn’t sure if that was welcome support or not, because he understood clearly what that might mean to his beloved companions. He almost said something to deny Viscenti’s words, but he bit the retort back, reminding himself that he, as a younger man, had been more than ready to die for his beliefs. He had stood beside Elbryan and Avelyn when that surely put him in line for the gallows. Could he ask those beneath him now to surrender their own principles and beliefs for the sake of their corporeal bodies?

“St. Precious will lock them out and keep them out!” Viscenti boldly declared.

“And if they overrun us, then our deaths will not be futile,” Braumin assured him. “The Abellican Church must make a principled stand against De’Unnero, whatever the cost, because to do otherwise would be to abandon everything we hold dear.”

“But what of the city?” Viscenti asked. “Can we demand as much from the common man? Should we bar the gate and man the walls and allow the folk of Palmaris to be slaughtered by this new king?”

That was the rub. How Braumin Herde wished at that moment that King Danube had never appointed him bishop of Palmaris!

“I think you should deny him entrance, or at least, deny his army entrance,” the surprising Viscenti remarked. “If this man who claims to be king wishes to parley, then allow him that, but in such a meeting, make it perfectly clear that Marcalo De’Unnero, curse his name, is not welcome here. Perhaps we can drive a wedge between them. Perhaps we can persuade Aydrian to speak more openly with his mother.”

“You ask me to take quite a risk,” said Braumin. “And if King Aydrian refuses to parley? If he demands the opening of the gate? Do we face war with Ursal, brother?”

Brother Viscenti leaned back and pondered the possibilities for a long while. “I would expect that the people of Palmaris, given the truth of their choices, would fight Aydrian to a man and a woman,” he replied. “These are the folk who witnessed the Miracle of Avelyn. These are the Behrenese welcomed as part of Palmaris when no one else would have them—forget not, for they certainly have not forgotten, that De’Unnero and his Brothers Repentant persecuted them most horribly in the days of the plague! These are the folk who saw the folly of Markwart and De’Unnero, who saw the beauty of Elbryan and Jilseponie, and of Bishop Braumin Herde. If you would so readily die for your principles, my friend, should not they be given the same opportunity?”

Bishop Braumin chuckled at the strange irony of that implication, that it was his duty to allow his flock to be slaughtered.

He strode across the room and hugged his dear friend, patting him hard on the back. Yes, Braumin Herde was quite grateful to Brother Viscenti at that moment, for the man had indeed helped him sort through the swirl that was in his mind.

“Jilseponie has gone to Roger,” Viscenti remarked. “Watch the fire of Roger Lockless when he learns of the events in Ursal. He will rally Palmaris, if you will
not!”

Braumin pushed Viscenti back to arm’s length. “Or both of us, or the three of us, will rally all the region as never before!” he said with a determined smile.

Just beneath that determined smile, that shared pat on the back, though, lay the realization that the coming darkness might be the greatest threat ever to face the city of Palmaris. For always before, when the hordes of the demon dactyl threatened or the foul stench of Father Abbot Markwart pervaded the air, Palmaris had had an ally in the greater city of Ursal.

This time, though …

Chapter 2
 

T
HE FEEL OF THE BREEZE ON THEIR FACES CAME AS WELCOME RELIEF TO THE TWO
elves who had spent weeks wandering the dark ways of the Path of Starless Night. This journey had taken much longer than their original trek under the mountains, when they had been heading to the south, for Belli’mar Juraviel and Cazzira of Tymwyvenne were determined properly to mark those paths leading through the Belt-and-Buckle, leading from Tymwyvenne to To-gai, the land they hoped now to be securely the province of Brynn Dharielle. For while Juraviel had left the ranger in the southland, he had not done so with a light heart, and he was determined to keep track of her progress in freeing the To-gai-ru from the conquering Behrenese.