DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (245 page)

All the peasants lined the main road through the small village, cheering wildly for “King Aydrian!” and waving towels at the young man as he paced his mount, the legendary Symphony—the horse his father had ridden to the Barbacan to defeat the demon dactyl—slowly through the town. He nodded to the people every so often, but mostly he watched the road before him, aloof and above them all. That was what they would expect of their king, De’Unnero and Kalas had explained to him. That was what the frightened rabble truly needed from their king. Aydrian was the foundation of their identity. He was not one of them, and was not anything that any of them thought they could become, but was, rather, their deity in the flesh. As king, he was the symbol of their nationality, and the man upon whom they relied to protect them, to provide for their basic needs, and to guide them to a better place, secularly and spiritually.

And so Aydrian kept his eyes mostly straight ahead, offering occasional glances and nods, and trying to appear as regal and dominating as possible.

“The parson?” he heard Sadye whisper at his side, talking behind him to Marcalo De’Unnero.

Following their gazes, the young king noted a man in the distance, behind the lines of waving peasants. He stood leaning on the white wooden door of the town’s small Abellican chapel. He was not cheering. He was not smiling.

Aydrian glanced at De’Unnero. “He may need convincing,” he quietly remarked.

“He may need burying,” De’Unnero replied, and he veered his horse away from the royal entourage. He motioned for the crowd to part, then trotted his mount across the open ground to the chapel and the lone man.

Aydrian paid the scene no heed, confident that Marcalo De’Unnero would handle the situation as he saw fit. Aydrian had long ago decided that De’Unnero would set the tone concerning the conversion of the Abellican Church to his own conservative vision. However De’Unnero conducted the conquered Church was irrelevant to the young king, so long as that Church remained a loyal ally to him in his pursuit of the wider conquests. Secretly, Aydrian hoped that De’Unnero would take the Abellican Church mercilessly and would bring it to a posture that evoked fear in the common man. Let the Church do the dirty work in keeping the common folk in line, leaving the way open for him to become a truly beloved king. Let De’Unnero become the tyrant that Aydrian clearly recognized was lurking in his heart; Aydrian would only shine all the brighter beside him.

His entourage remained behind as Aydrian paced Symphony to the center of
the town square. Magnificent upon the magnificent stallion, the young king surveyed this newest group of his flock for some time, letting them bask in the sight of him while he took some measure of their enthusiasm. What he sensed most of all, as in all the other towns, was fear. The common folk of Honce-the-Bear were afraid of change. Common folk took comfort in routines. How well Aydrian had learned this when first he had run away from the wicked elves, settling in with villagers in a nondescript and wretched little place named Festertool in Wester-Honce. In their routine, ultimately boring, lives, those folk had taken solace in the emptiness. That was the way of commoners, Aydrian understood keenly, and all that he had to do to win their love was offer them security within their little corners of the kingdom—and to look resplendent upon his great horse.

“Good people of Pomfreth,” he began, speaking loudly, his voice resonant. He kept his line of vision just above the heads of the gathering, as he had learned, and he swept one arm out in a grand gesture. “You have heard of the passing of good King Danube, and no doubt the news has saddened you as it has saddened all of the court of Ursal.”

“The king is dead!” cried one man from the back of the gathering, a man that Duke Kalas had planted in the town ahead of the army’s approach, as he had done in every town.

“Long live the king!” came the appropriate responding cry in many voices, repeated over and over in a mounting cheer for King Aydrian.

Aydrian sat quiet and let the momentum gather, then play out to renewed silence.

“I march now, with the army of Ursal behind me, to comfort you and assure you all that there is no struggle within the kingdom,” he explained. “King Danube is dead, and I, as the son of Jilseponie, have rightfully and legally, by the late king’s own words, assumed the throne of Honce-the-Bear. You see with me Duke Kalas and the Allhearts, and many of the nobles of the court of Ursal.

“Let the word spread throughout the land that a new and just king has ascended. Let the word spread from this town throughout the land that this King Aydrian is a friend to the folk of Honce-the-Bear, and that I will serve you as your king with the same love and affection of my worthy predecessor, King Danube!”

It was all he had to say. The folk erupted into great cheering, calling out the name of King Aydrian. All signs of nervousness and fear were flown now, in light of his assurances. He had told them exactly what they had desperately hoped to hear.

And now he could move on, confident that he had secured his kingdom just a little bit more.

The town’s grandest house—which wasn’t much of anything, really—was gladly turned over to Aydrian soon after, and he entered with Sadye by his side, both glancing toward the small chapel, into which Marcalo De’Unnero had disappeared with the parson.

“With each town taken, your relief grows more evident on your face,” Sadye
remarked, as soon as they were alone.

“Each town is farther removed from Ursal, and so more likely to offer resistance to the change.”

“Resistance?” the woman asked doubtfully. “Against the army you carry in tow? Duke Kalas would burn Pomfreth to the ground so quickly that your march through would hardly be slowed. Aye, more quickly than the little speech you are required to give at every stop.”

Aydrian’s fast-souring expression stopped her abruptly. Sadye put a hand on one hip and leaned a bit, studying the young king.

“Or is that it?” she asked. “You fear having to kill people.”

“Fear?” Aydrian echoed the same tone of doubt Sadye had just used. “No, I do not fear anything or anyone. Nor will I hesitate to trample anyone who gets in the way of this march I intend to make from one end of the world to the other. But I do wish to keep the slaughter at a minimum, you see. I take no pleasure in killing—that joy is reserved for those like your lover.”

Sadye stiffened a bit at that remark, though neither she nor Aydrian were quite certain of which part of the comment had stung her—the statement that De’Unnero took pleasure in killing or the mere observation from Aydrian that De’Unnero was her lover.

“I do what I must do,” Aydrian explained. “I walk a road of greater purpose and design than these peasants could understand—greater even than any of the nobles and generals can understand.”

“Greater than Marcalo can understand?” Sadye asked.

“His purpose is narrower,” Aydrian replied. “His purpose is determined by the weight he carries from his bitterness toward the Abellican Church. It takes less to satisfy him. The prize of St.-Mere-Abelle, of executing those who moved away from the vision he embraced for the Church, will suffice. So yes, greater than Marcalo can understand.”

“Greater than Sadye can understand?” the woman asked, without missing a beat.

Aydrian’s blue eyes, so much like those of his mother, bored into her, and a wry smile grew on his handsome and strong face.

Sadye shrugged, prompting an answer.

“No,” Aydrian said with a shake of his head. “Sadye understands. She wants no less for herself. That is what drew you to Marcalo’s arms, is it not? The search for something greater, something more exciting and more gratifying?”

Unsure of the young man’s direction, Sadye put on a frown and assumed a more defensive posture, turning one shoulder toward Aydrian.

“What will Sadye do when Marcalo’s vision pulls him to St.-Mere-Abelle, I wonder?” Aydrian teased. “Sovereign Sister Sadye?” He laughed as he finished, but Sadye did not find the preposterous title so very amusing at that moment.

“Where will Sadye look, I wonder?” Aydrian went on undaunted, and he walked around her, reaching out one hand to play with her hair as he moved behind her.

He pulled away quickly at the sound of someone approaching, and he was glad that he did when the door opened and Marcalo De’Unnero strode in.

“The town fell under our embrace easily,” said the monk. “Though I do not trust the parson. He claimed allegiance, but if our enemies find their way to him …”

He stopped and looked hard at Aydrian, then at Sadye. “What is it?” he asked.

Sadye blew out a big sigh and managed a laugh. “Our young Aydrian became quite defensive when I observed that he was relieved to learn that there would be no fighting this day,” she explained, and she hopped over to De’Unnero’s side and wrapped her arm playfully about his waist.

De’Unnero gave a snort. “As we all should be relieved,” he said seriously, “with every town that gladly throws its allegiance to Aydrian. We will find battle soon enough—probably at the gates of Palmaris, if not before. The more of the kingdom that comes over willingly, the greater our claim of legitimacy against Prince Midalis.”

“And against Fio Bou-raiy,” Aydrian put in, eliciting a wicked smile from De’Unnero.

“I do believe that our friend Sadye is bored,” Aydrian remarked offhandedly. “She spoils for a fight. Take care, Sadye,” he warned. “Boredom is the impetus to greater heights, ’tis true, but it can prove the enemy to those who do not truly understand the heights to which they aspire.”

The irony of that statement in light of their private conversation, especially with De’Unnero nodding his agreement at her side, was not lost on Sadye. But she wouldn’t give Aydrian the satisfaction of seeing it on her face, and so she just laughed absently and moved off, towing De’Unnero with her.

Aydrian watched her go, every step.

Ever was he the ambitious lad. Ever was he ready to conquer every challenge.

Chapter 7
 

“I
WANT YOU TO GO WITH ME
,” J
ILSEPONIE SAID TO
R
OGER
L
OCKLESS
,
A DIMINUTIVE
man, stunted by a childhood illness that had nearly taken his life. But while Roger was short in stature, he was long on character. In the war with the demon’s minions, Roger had stood firm as a beacon of hope, a lone hero to forlorn people. And he had stood strong beside Jilseponie and Elbryan through the ordeal of Markwart. Roger had grown under Elbryan’s tutelage and proven to be the best friend Jilseponie—Pony—could ever know.

“Go?” Roger asked hesitantly, and he glanced to the side of the table, where his wife Dainsey was looking on silently. Like Roger, the woman appeared somewhat frail, with spindly limbs. She had nearly succumbed to the rosy plague, was on her last breaths when Jilseponie had brought her to the mummified arm of Avelyn Desbris. Dainsey had been the first to taste of the Miracle of Aida, but though she had beaten the plague, she had never fully recovered her previous robust health. Now her hair was gray and thin, and her eyes were sunken back in her skeletal head.

“To Dundalis first,” Jilseponie explained. “I must find Bradwarden. And then to Andur’Blough Inninness—though that journey I expect to make alone.”

“You will go and question the elves?” Roger asked skeptically.

“How can I not?”

“How can you?” Roger countered. “Do you believe them to be your friends?” He shook his head and insisted, “They are not your friends. Surely this development proves that beyond all—”

“Dasslerond must answer for this!” Jilseponie demanded, and the flash of power and anger in her blue eyes set Roger back a bit. Again, though, the diminutive man looked over at Dainsey, who was nodding at him approvingly, and gathered his strength.

“Lady Dasslerond is not your friend, Pony,” Roger said quietly.

Jilseponie started to answer, but was given pause by his suddenly somber tone, by the obvious implication that he knew something here that she did not.

“When you were in Ursal, sitting as queen, Dasslerond’s people came to me,” Roger quietly explained.

“You knew of Aydrian?” The flash of anger was there again, suddenly and explosively, and Jilseponie even leaped up from her seat.

“No, of course not,” Roger replied, and he placed his hands on her shoulders in a calming motion. “Lady Dasslerond’s people came to me in Ursal, asking that I watch you carefully. Dasslerond fears you, and always has, for you possess something that you should not—in her eyes, at least.”

Jilseponie eased back into her chair. “
Bi’nelle dasada
,” she reasoned, her voice calm once more. “Lady Dasslerond fears—has ever feared—that I will teach the elven sword dance to the soldiers of Honce-the-Bear.”

“Her people are not numerous,” Roger remarked. “They fear for their very existence.”

“And that gives her the right to steal a child from the womb?” Jilseponie cried, her voice rising in indignation once more.

“ ’Course it doesn’t, and no one’s saying such a thing,” Dainsey interjected.

“I know how you feel—” Roger started to say.