DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (91 page)

So eager, he seemed.

And Duke Bretherford could certainly respect that, though he, like so many other nobles of Danube’s court, had grave reservations about the advisability of bringing a peasant into their circle to serve as queen. But Danube’s posture was surely comical, though it pained Bretherford even to think such mockery of his beloved King.

He took a deep breath and steadied himself, suppressing his mirth, and strode over to stand at the rail beside his king. Beyond, to the north and west, the long dock of Palmaris was in plain sight.

“Will she be there this year?” Bretherford asked.

King Danube nodded. “I sent messengers ahead, the first to inform Jilseponie that I would be journeying to Palmaris this summer and would desire her companionship and then the second, a week later, to confirm that she would indeed remain in the city.”

“Confirm?” Bretherford dared to ask. “Or to command her to do so?”

King Danube snapped his gaze the Duke’s way, but he could not retain his scowl when he saw his short, bowlegged friend’s smile. “I would not command her so, for what would be the gain? Other than to lay my gaze upon her, I mean, for that is ever a pleasure. But, no, Jilseponie assured my second courier that she would be in residence this summer.”

“Do you take that as a good sign that—” Bretherford started to say, but he paused and cleared his throat, realizing that he might be overstepping his friendship with King Danube, that he was, in effect, asking the King about his intentions.

If King Danube took any offense, he did not show it. He looked back out at the distant docks and the gray, fog-enshrouded city beyond. “Jilseponie has known much tragedy,” he said, “has known great loss and great love. I have sensed something blossoming between us, but it will not come swiftly. No, her wounds were not yet healed when last I saw her.”

“But when they
are
healed?” Duke Bretherford asked.

King Danube thought it over for a moment, then shrugged. “Then I will have her answer, I suspect, whatever that answer may be.”

“A painful delay,” the Duke remarked.

“Not so,” said Danube. “In most things, I am not a patient man. But for Jilseponie, I will wait as long as she needs me to wait, even if that means that I will spend decades of summering in Palmaris, pacing my throne room in Ursal throughout the dark of winter, just waiting for the weather to calm that I might go to her once again.”

Duke Bretherford hardly knew how to respond to that declamation, for he understood without any doubt that King Danube was not lying, was not even exaggerating. The man had waited so long already—and despite a host of courtesans, particularly Constance Pemblebury, practically kneeling outside his bedchamber door, begging entrance. It did the Duke of the Mirianic’s heart good to see his King so devoted, so obviously in love. Somehow that fact elevated Bretherford’s estimation of this man he already admired. Somehow, seeing this true and deep and good emotion in the King of Honce-the-Bear, the greatest man in all the world—and in Bretherford’s estimation, the closest, along with the father abbot of the Abellican Church, to God—ennobled Bretherford and affirmed his belief in things greater than this physical world. Danube’s love for Jilseponie seemed to him a pure thing, a higher truth than the mere physical lust that so permeated the streets of Ursal.

Still, she
was
a peasant.…

“It will be a fine summer,” King Danube remarked, as much to himself as to Bretherford, or to anyone else, and surely the King’s smile was one of sincerity.

“G
reetings, Lady Pemblebury!” Abbot Shuden Ohwan cried with the exuberance of one obviously nervous when he saw Constance striding across the nave of the great chapel of St. Honce. The impish man had a tremendous lisp, one that made “greetings” sound more like “gweetings.” “All is in place for Prince Torrence’s acceptance of the Evergreen, I assure you, as I assured you last week. Nothing has changed for the ill, I pray! Oh no, not that, I pray, for it would be better to be done with the ceremony now, in the spring, before the inevitable host of weddings begin. Of course, your needs would supersede—”

“I have not come here to discuss the ceremony at all,” Constance interrupted, holding her hands up in a pleading gesture for the man to calm down. She knew that if she let Ohwan go on, she would likely spend the better part of an hour listening to his rambling. The man thought himself a great orator; Constance considered him the most complete idiot she had ever met. His rise to the position of abbot of St. Honce only confirmed for her that Duke Kalas’ disparaging attitude toward the Abellican Church was not without merit. True, St. Honce had been in a great fix those years before, when Abbot Hingas and several other masters had all died on the road to the distant and wild Barbacan, victims of a goblin raid on their journey to partake of the covenant of Avelyn. Old Ohwan was the highest ranking of the remaining masters. And, true, the man had been much more tolerable in his younger days—sometimes seeming even introspective—than after his ascension to the highest position. It seemed as if Ohwan had come to view his position as confirmation that everyone in the world wanted to hear his every thought spoken again and again.

Still, despite the circumstances that had brought him to the position, it seemed to Constance that the Church should have some way of removing him, especially since many of the younger brothers of St. Honce had blossomed into fine young masters.

Constance dismissed both these thoughts and her current disdain for Abbot Ohwan, reminding herself that it was in her best interests to keep this man, this easily manipulated fool, in a position of power. She looked at him as he stood there with his head tilted to one side, his tongue constantly licking his thin lips, his dull eyes staring at her; and she offered a warm smile, the source of which, in truth, was the fact that, at that moment, Abbot Ohwan looked very much to her like one of Duke Kalas’ less-than-brilliant hunting dogs.

“I expect that you will soon preside over a great wedding ceremony at St. Honce,” she said calmly.

“King Danube?” Abbot Ohwan dared to whisper, and Constance nodded.

“Oh, Lady Pemblebury!” the abbot cried and he fell over her, wrapping her in a great hug. “At last, he has come to see the value of the mother of his children.
At last, our great King will assume the proper role as father to his princely sons!”

“The ceremony will not include me,” Constance scolded, pushing Ohwan back to arm’s length, and then she started to add
You fool!
but managed to bite it back. “King Danube has sailed north to Palmaris.”

“Official business,” Ohwan replied. “Yes, of course, we were informed.”

“Lust, and nothing more, fills the sails of
River Palace
,” Constance explained. “He has gone north to be beside Jilseponie Wyndon, the Baroness of Palmaris.”

“The savior of—”

“Spare me your foolishness!” Constance sharply interrupted. “Jilseponie Wyndon has done great good in her life, I do not doubt. But you do not know her as I know her, Abbot Ohwan. If she does become the next queen of Honce-the-Bear, then you can expect great changes in the structure of Ursal, particularly within St. Honce.”

“She has no power in the Abellican Church,” Ohwan argued. “No title at all …”

“No title, but do not underestimate her power,” said Constance. “And do not doubt that she will use that power to reshape St. Honce as she has done St. Precious in Palmaris.”

“That is Abbot Braumin’s province,” said Ohwan.

“Braumin, who owes his position to his relationship with Jilseponie Wyndon and nothing more,” Constance pointed out, and there was some truth to her point. In the days of Father Abbot Markwart, Braumin Herde had been a minor brother at St.-Mere-Abelle, the great mother abbey of the Abellican Church. In the ensuing split of the Church, Braumin had thrown his hand in fully with Jilseponie and Elbryan and with the cause of Avelyn Desbris, this new martyr whose actions in defeating the demon dactyl—and that after he had been declared a heretic by Markwart—had sent tremendous ripples throughout the Church. Braumin’s side had prevailed in that conflict, and the young monk had been rewarded with a position of power far beyond any that he could possibly have otherwise achieved, had he toiled another decade and more at St.-Mere-Abelle.

“Do not misunderstand me,” Constance went on. “Jilseponie Wyndon will prove a fine queen for King Danube and will serve the people of Honce-the-Bear well.”

“That is very generous of you,” Abbot Ohwan remarked.

“But she is not of noble breeding and has no knowledge of what it means to be a queen, let alone what it means to be a queen mother.” There, she had said it, straight out; the blank look on Ohwan’s face, his jaw dropping open, his eyes unblinking, told her that he had caught her point completely.

“I have heard rumors that she was … damaged,” Constance remarked.

“In her battle with Father Abbot Markwart on the field north of Palmaris,” Ohwan replied, for that tale was common knowledge. “When she lost her child, yes. I have heard much the same rumor.”

“See what more you can learn, I pray,” Constance asked. “Is Jilseponie barren?”

“You fear for Merwick and Torrence,” the abbot said.

“I fear for Honce-the-Bear,” Constance corrected. “It is one thing to have a peasant Queen, who can easily be controlled by a skilled court and King. It is quite another to have that peasant Queen bringing children, heirs, into the picture. Their blood and breeding will never suffice to assume the role that destiny puts in their path. Do you not remember the terrors of King Archibald the Red?” she finished dramatically, referring to a tyrant who had ruled in Honce-the-Bear in the sixth century, born of a peasant Queen with a bitterness toward those of higher station. Taking the cue from his mother, Archibald had tried to invert the entire social structure of the kingdom, seizing land from noblemen to give to peasants and filling his court with uncouth farmers, all with disastrous consequences. The nobility had turned against Archibald, resulting in a five-year civil war that had left the kingdom broken and devastated.

Abbot Ohwan knew that history well, Constance could see from the horrified look on his face.

“It would be better for all if Merwick remained in the line of succession, do you not agree?” she asked bluntly.

“Indeed, my lady,” Abbot Ohwan said with a bow. “I will inquire of St.-Mere-Abelle and St. Precious to see what I might learn of Jilseponie’s condition.”

“The better for us all if her battle against Father Abbot Markwart left permanent scars,” Constance said with a coldness that made Ohwan shiver. The woman turned on her heel and strode out of the chapel, leaving a very shaken Abbot Ohwan behind.

Chapter 3
 

T
HE HEAVY AXE SWOOPED FROM ON HIGH
,
ARCING OUT AND DOWN IN FRONT OF
him, to hit the log at a perfect angle to split it in two, sending both pieces tumbling to the side of the stump. Without even bothering to pick them up, the strong man grabbed another log and set it in place, leaving it rocking atop the stump. The shaky movement hardly mattered, for the axe descended in one swift and fluid motion, and two more halves fell to the stump sides.

Another log followed, and then another, and then the woodcutter had to pause and sort out the timber piles, tossing the cut pieces twenty feet to a huge woodpile.

The morning air was chill—even more so to the man, for his chiseled body was lathered in sweat—but that hardly seemed to bother him. Indeed, if he even felt the chill, he didn’t show it, just went on chopping with more focus than seemed possible.

He was nearly fifty years old, though no one watching him would guess his age at even forty. His muscles were hard, his skin tight, and his eyes shone with the fire of youth. That was his blessing and his curse.

Another log, another two halves. And then another and another, on and on throughout the early morning, a rhythmic snapping noise that was nothing out of the ordinary for the dozen and three other hardy folk of Micklin’s Village, an obscure cluster of cottages on the western frontier of Honce-the-Bear. A group of rugged and uncouth men inhabited the village, spending eleven months of the year out in the Wilderlands, hunting for furs and then traveling back to civilization for one month to a great and bawdy party and market.

No, ever since this man Bertram Dale—though that was likely an alias, they all knew, much like those used by more than half the men in town, outlaws all—had come to Micklin’s Village, the rhythmic sound of wood chopping had become the rooster’s crow for the place. Every morning, in pelting rain, driving snow, winter’s cold, or summer’s heat, Bertram Dale had been out at his work. He had made himself useful in many ways in addition to cutting the wood for the whole village. He had also become Micklin’s Village’s cook, tailor, and, best of all, weapon smith, showing the huntsmen fabulous techniques for honing their weapons to a fine edge. Curiously, though, Bertram had never shown any interest in hunting, which was easily the most lucrative trade to be found in the region. As time had passed and he had made himself useful to the others, every one of them had offered to take him out and show him how to track and hunt the game of the area: the raccoons, the dangerous wolverines, the otters, the beavers, and the wolves.