DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (262 page)

Pony knew that there was more to it than that; she understood implicitly that Dasslerond was trying to prevent her from finding the elven valley—perhaps out of fear that she would subsequently lead an army there to exact revenge. She had to make a decision, and quickly. Was her argument with the Touel’alfar in general or with Lady Dasslerond alone?

The sight of Belli’mar Juraviel standing beside the Lady of Caer’alfar, his expression clearly one of sympathy, helped her find her right course in the clash of emotions, and without offering a response to Dasslerond, the woman flew away with all speed across the miles, all the way back to her quiet and dark room in Dundalis and her waiting physical form. She dove back through the soul stone and into her body, expecting to find Dasslerond standing before her, and perhaps with a sword drawn!

And Dasslerond was there—sort of. For beside the image of the Lady of Caer’alfar remained the mountainous scene all those miles away, almost as if the two places had been suddenly linked, a distortion of distance itself!

There was Juraviel as well, and he lifted his hand to Pony, and without even thinking, she reached up and took it.

And then she was soaring again, but not spirit-walking! Somehow—through Dasslerond’s magical gemstone, she realized!—she was physically moving across the miles.

In the blink of an eye, she was beside Dasslerond and Juraviel, standing on a windblown mountain pass outside Andur’Blough Inninness. Only then did Pony realize that she had been deceived.

Only then did Pony understand that Dasslerond had known her intent and had caught her first. She had no gemstones save the soul stone, and didn’t even have her sword!

And she faced Dasslerond, the true power of the Touel’alfar.

Chapter 16
 

R
OGER KNEW BETTER THAN TO CLOSE UP UNDER THE COWL OF HIS TRAVELING
cloak as he walked the streets of Palmaris that windy late-autumn night. The best disguise was often no disguise, he knew, and so he walked about the gate area of Palmaris openly and seemingly completely at ease. He was certainly not at ease.

How could he be? He was in a city he had called home for many years, a place where he had served among the ruling hierarchy, substituting for Jilseponie herself when she had gone south to become Danube’s queen. But Palmaris was not his home any longer. Far from it. The city was in turmoil, the citizens confused and upset. Aydrian was here, in command of the city as the hated De’Unnero was in command of St. Precious. And all supposedly with the support of Bishop Braumin Herde, which was the most confusing factor of all. Roger Lockless understood that he would not be welcomed here—which was why he had slipped in by hanging on to the undercarriage of the wagon of an unsuspecting farmer.

He reminded himself constantly that he only had to get through this single night, and not even for much of the night, if Bradwarden’s plan worked.

He made his way past the guardhouses and barracks that lined the wall, all manned by Ursal soldiers now with the bulk of the Palmaris garrison long fled to Vanguard. In a way, that was an advantage for Roger, since none of these men recognized him, as the Palmaris soldiers surely would have.

Along this wall, too, were the city’s long stables, huge barns with small stalls with room for hundreds of horses. Roger knew the area well, and knew where the garrison commanders had kept the finest of their stock. Near that western end of the stabling area, Roger hoisted a bucket and moved about with familiarity and ease, acting very much as if he was supposed to be there. He held his breath as he entered the barn area, though, hoping against hope that Symphony was stabled nearby.

If not, then he knew where the horse would be: in the finer, and undoubtedly well-guarded, stables at Chasewind Manor. The mere thought of going there unsettled him. The servants and groundskeepers would know him, after all, and no doubt the place was thick with Ursal men.

“It’s about time ye got here!” an incredibly thin man with a shiny bald head and a dark and straggly beard assailed him as he entered with the bucket. “The damned mares’ve been screaming for their feed all the night!”

“I … I don’t believe this is for them,” Roger stammered, thinking fast on his feet. “I was told to deliver the meal to King Aydrian’s own horse, and that one’s not a mare, by all accounts.”

“King Aydrian’s horse?” the barn keeper replied, and his tone and incredulous expression confirmed Roger’s worst fears.

“The big black,” he said, hoping against hope.

“Ye got yerself a long way to carry the bucket!” The barn keeper snickered. “Or better yet, ye give me the bucket for the mares and get yerself another one at Chasewind Manor. They got plenty up there.”

The man held out his hand for the bucket, and Roger readily turned it over.

“Ye best be running!” The barn keeper scolded. “I’d not be the one to keep King Aydrian’s horse braying and kicking at the stall!”

Roger just nodded and walked out, devising a plan as he went, envisioning the layout of Chasewind Manor’s grounds and stables—which of course were in the back of the house, in clear view of every sitting room! Worse still, that stable area was always well lit.

But Roger had to go there, and he had to hurry, for Bradwarden’s song would soon fill the Palmaris night.

He had little trouble navigating the city to the more exclusive western region, and though there were more soldiers patrolling the streets in that area, there were more hedgerows for stealthy Roger to hide behind. Soon enough, the small man was standing along the wall of Chasewind Manor, not far from the main gate. He tried to act casual, surveying the area and sorting out the routines of the skilled soldiers guarding the grounds—Allheart Knights this time and not just ordinary Kingsmen.

Then, unexpectedly, Roger Lockless got his first view of Jilseponie’s son. He knew that it was Aydrian riding in the open coach that rushed out of Chasewind Manor’s gate. He only saw the man for an instant, but the young king looked at him directly and there could be no mistaking that resemblance. He possessed Pony’s thick lips and thick hair, and Elbryan’s eyes and jaw. In that moment of looking at him, Roger almost thought that he was looking upon his dead friend Elbryan once more!

To Roger’s profound relief—after he had digested the truth of the encounter—the young king did not recognize him at all, and the coach wheeled away. Of even greater fortune, the guards seemed to relax almost immediately upon Aydrian’s departure.

The shaken Roger grew even more unsettled a moment later, when a beautiful melody drifted across the Palmaris night. So unobtrusive was that song, so attuned to the night itself, that those around Roger didn’t even seem to notice it.

But Roger surely did, and if Bradwarden was correct in his planning, then another in the city would not miss the significance of that song.

Spurred by a sudden realization of urgency, Roger moved swiftly along the wall, away from the gate. He knew the layout of the area well and, using strategic places of concealment, the small and nimble man made his way around the back of the compound. With a quick glance about, and a long and deep breath to steady his nerves, Roger slipped up and over the wall, dropping into the shadows of a widespread
elm on the other side. Glad that there were few guards visible in the area, and hoping that no one was looking out from any of the many darkened sitting rooms at the back of Chasewind Manor, Roger hastily made his way toward the stables, where he could already hear a commotion brewing.

“Rouse King Aydrian!” he heard one man cry from inside the opulent barn. Every word was accompanied by an agitated whinny or the hard thump of a strong hoof smashing against wooden planks.

Without hesitation, fearful that Symphony might hurt himself in his anger, Roger sprinted right into the barn.

He found a trio of Allhearts standing before the great stallion’s stall, one holding a whip and looking very much like he intended to charge into the stall and discipline the increasingly agitated stallion.

“He will kill you if you enter!” Roger cried reflexively, and he believed every word. Bradwarden was calling to the stallion with his haunting piping. Bradwarden, who had watched over Symphony and all the wild horses of the Timberlands for so many years, was musically bidding the great stallion to come home.

And there could be no doubt about the fact that Symphony wanted to go!

The three soldiers turned surprised expressions over at Roger. “Who are you?” one demanded.

“A man who knows this horse well, and who has known him since before the days when King Aydrian found him!” Roger answered. He rushed up to the stall and gently called to the magnificent stallion, and it was obvious, though Symphony retained his agitation, that there was some recognition there.

“We have to let him out, to run in the paddock,” Roger explained, and if he had told the soldiers to fall dead upon their swords, they could not have worn more skeptical expressions. “It is the strength of Symphony,” Roger tried to explain. “The stallion needs to run or he bursts with energy. Quickly! Help me to guide him out into the paddock. Let him run off the excess energy and he will rest more easily.”

Not a soldier moved.

“He is a wild stallion, bred and grown in the open hills of the Timberlands,” Roger desperately explained. “He can tolerate only short amounts of time in such an enclosure! Be quick, I beg you, or your king’s horse will break a leg!”

“Who are you?” one of the soldiers demanded again.

“I was a stable hand in Caer Tinella when this magnificent creature carried King Aydrian’s own father, Elbryan the Nightbird,” Roger lied. He lowered his eyes perfectly, playing as if he was embarrassed to admit, “And I served Queen Jilseponie when she was baroness here in Palmaris, in the early days of her rule here soon after the plague. Few know of this, and I beg of you not to speak of it, but this same magnificent creature was also the favored mount of Jilseponie.”

That brought a trio of stunned expressions, which was exactly what Roger was counting upon to give him enough credibility to dupe the fools.

“Please, I beg of you, if not for the sake of the horse, then to protect yourselves from the wrath of King Aydrian, help me to guide mighty Symphony out into the
paddock,” Roger pleaded.

“You cannot hope to control the beast!” one of the soldiers argued. “If we open the door, he will run you down!”

“No he won’t,” said Roger, and he looked up at the horse. “You’ll not harm me, will you, Symphony?” he asked softly and the great stallion stopped its whinnying and kicking for a moment to consider Roger, as if he had understood every word. Roger didn’t wait for an answer, but used the opportunity offered by the moment of calm to move to the door and quickly unbolt and open it. Before the guard could react, Symphony moved right up to Roger and nuzzled him, seeming to calm down immediately.

Roger looked to one of the soldiers, who tossed him a halter. He started to put it on the horse, but paused to stroke the horse’s face—and to strategically allow Symphony to edge a bit farther out of the stall.

Roger moved as if to put the halter on again, and leaned in to whisper soothingly into the horse’s ear. He didn’t ask the horse for calm, though, but rather, urged Symphony to run!

And then Roger fell away, crying out as if he had been injured, and Symphony bolted past him and past the three startled soldiers. Head down, the stallion galloped out of the barn, and snorting and bucking, charged about the compound.

“Catch him! Oh, catch him!” Roger wailed, knowing full well that none of them would get near the great horse. His ploy worked to keep the soldiers off of him, though, and they ran out after the horse, calling out for help.

“Run on, Symphony,” Roger whispered. “Follow the centaur’s call, back to one who deserves you.” He paused a moment, listening intently and taking some hope as the commotion moved away from the stables, toward the front gate.

And then the small man wisely made his own escape, heading out the stable’s side door and into the shadows of another great tree. Or at least, that’s where he had hoped to go.

“Master Lockless?” came a call right behind him, and though he didn’t immediately recognize the voice, Roger knew that it was a question of surprise alone and not of identity. He stiffened and stopped and slowly turned about, to find a stunned old Illthin Dingle, one of Chasewind Manor’s gardeners, looking back at him.

“Master Lockless!” the old man said again, more emphatically. “But I thought ye’d gone out to the north with Jilseponie.”

Roger moved a finger to pursed lips, hoping to quiet the man somewhat, and he glanced all about nervously. “So I did, good Master Dingle, and now I am back to see this king who is her son.”

Illthin cocked his gray-stubbled, grizzled face. He wore his hair long and tied in a gray ponytail, giving the old man a carefree appearance that fairly well matched his often unpredictable personality. “Ye got to do better than that, Master Lockless,” Illthin said with a knowing grin.

Roger looked all around, then settled himself into place. “True enough,” he admitted.
“I returned for Symphony, and Symphony alone.”