"Saudi Jacintha, the ship of Captain Al'u'met, sailed out of Palmaris,"
Duke Bretherford informed his guests on River Palace, the royal ship of the Honce-the-Bear fleet. "We have reason to believe that one of the masters of St. Precious, likely Marlboro Viscenti, was aboard."
"Heading for St.-Mere-Abelle," Duke Kalas reasoned, looking to Aydrian.
The young king nodded and grinned. "My mother reached them. She set them all in a frenzy, I would guess."
"We can assume that word has reached Fio Bou-raiy, then," Marcalo De'Unnero put in. "St.-Mere-Abelle will lock down her gates."
"Good," Aydrian replied. "Put them in their hole. They will be easier to catch that way."
"Spoken like one who has not witnessed the power that is St.-Mere- Abelle," the former monk sharply warned, and all about the table, eyebrows arched at De'Unnero's surprisingly blunt rebuttal of the king.
But Aydrian merely grinned all the wider. "Still you doubt and fear," he said to the fiery De'Unnero. "When will you come to trust me?"
There were far too many tangential implications reaching out from that question for De'Unnero to begin to answer.
Across the table, Duke Bretherford cleared his throat.
Aydrian turned a wry grin the smallish man's way. "Speak freely here,"
the young king instructed, though he knew that Bretherford would do no such thing - knew that if Bretherford revealed his honest feelings about all of this, then Aydrian would probably be forced to kill him on the spot. Duke Bretherford had been a dear friend of King Danube's, and of the whole Ursal line. It was he who had first taken Prince Midalis to Vanguard, those decades before, when Midalis and Danube's father was the king of Honce-the-Bear.
Duke Bretherford glanced over at Kalas briefly, and Aydrian did well to hide his amusement at the exchange between the two. He held Kalas firmly, he knew, and Kalas had convinced many of the other dukes to swear fealty to this new king. As far as Kalas was concerned, Aydrian was the best choice for Honce-the-Bear, particularly in restoring the kingdom to what it had been before all the trouble with the demon dactyl. His nostalgic view of a blissful kingdom those decades ago had been generally well received by some of the dukes.
Others, like Bretherford - arguably the second most powerful duke in the kingdom, for he most controlled the great Ursal fleet - had come to Aydrian's court with considerably less enthusiasm.
"You do seem willing to allow your enemies to gather their strength,"
Bretherford remarked. "You say that this is because you are confident of victory, but is such a strategy not inevitably to cost more men their lives and to make this conflict, if a war it must be, even more bloody?"
Aydrian was acutely aware of the others in the room sucking in their collective breath at that remark - certainly an inappropriate remark for any nobleman to make of his king. This was a test, Aydrian knew, to take his measure not only to Duke Bretherford, but to some of the other noblemen as well. He took his time, pondering the question and his answer as the seconds slipped by - and that was not anything that the impulsive and cocky Aydrian Boudabras was known to do! "My mother will prove to be more a hindrance to our enemies than a useful ally," he began, and he looked all around as he spoke, even at De'Un- nero. "As for the Abellican monks... well, better that they know of the events in Ursal. No doubt they have heard a skewed version of the truth, but better that to measure their loyalty to the throne. Let them stand on one side or the other now, and be done with it." The young king didn't miss the slight grin that escaped De'Unnero at his words, nor the satisfaction splayed on the face of Duke Kalas, who hated the Church above all else and who would surely welcome an assault against St.-Mere- Abelle, whatever its reputation.
"A skewed version?" Duke Bretherford dared to ask, and De'Unnero started to argue, and Kalas started to berate the man.
But Aydrian called for calm. "This is all yet unfolding," he told them.
"We have much to learn of these folk before we label them as friend or enemy. For now, let us continue our glorious march to Palmaris. The disposition of that city will go far in telling us what we might expect as the word of my ascension spreads throughout the kingdom."
He dismissed them all, then, explaining that he was tired, and he went to his private quarters and lay down on his bed. And there, his physical form rested, but his mind wandered.
Aided by the powerful soul stone, Aydrian slipped out of his corporeal form and glided unseen across the deck of River Palace, to the taffrail, where Kalas and Bretherford were conversing.
"Are you so quick to dismiss Prince Midalis?" the smaller Bretherford asked. "To forsake the line of Ursal, that has served Honce-the-Bear for so many years?"
"I have seen the truth of our young king," Kalas calmly replied. "With all of my heart, I believe that he is the proper ruler of Honce-the- Bear."
"Despite your feelings about his parents?"
Duke Kalas shrugged. "Jilseponie has her strengths, and great weaknesses.
The strengths are what she passed along to Aydrian. And were you not ever more a friend to Jilseponie than I?"
"I pitied the woman," Bretherford replied. "My loyalties were ever with King Danube, as I thought were yours."
Aydrian watched with great interest as Duke Kalas straightened and squared his shoulders.
"I blame Jilseponie for the downfall of King Danube," he said.
"And you embrace her son?"
"There is irony in that," Kalas admitted. "But no inconsistency. The blood of Jilseponie gives Aydrian claim to the throne, but - "
"Above Prince Midalis?" Duke Bretherford interrupted.
Kalas stared at him hard. "You should take care your words, my friend.
Aydrian is king of Honce-the-Bear, and he holds the power of Ursal behind him. I pray that Prince Midalis comes to understand and accept this."
"And Prince Torrence, as well?" Bretherford asked, and it was obvious that the man wasn't really buying deeply into any of this.
Aydrian caught Kalas' slight wince at the mention of Torrence Pemblebury, but he was certain that Duke Bretherford did not notice.
"We will see," Kalas replied. "Aydrian is king. He has the Allhearts and the garrison of Ursal behind him, as well as the army that followed him and understood the truth of his ascension before he even rose to the position. He will secure the kingdom, through negotiation or through war, and he will reshape the Abellican Church - "
"That hope is what binds you to him, I'd guess," Bretherford interrupted.
He turned out over the taffrail and spat into the water. "Are you hoping for a war to bring about a change in the Church to fit the visions of the crazy Marcalo De'Unnero?" he asked incredulously. "Or is it just the thought of a war within the Abellican Church that has you thrilled? Is that it, my old friend? Maybe King Aydrian will weaken the monks and push their Church to the fringes of the kingdom. Is that what you're wanting?"
Kalas leaned on the rail and did not bother to respond.
Aydrian was smiling when he returned to his waiting body.
The one-armed Father Abbot of the Abellican Church sat perfectly straight in his chair. His gray hair, as always, was neatly trimmed and perfectly styled; not a strand seemed out of place on him - physically. But none around Fio Bou-raiy, not the visiting Abbot Glendenhook of St. Gwendolyn, not Ma-chuso or any of the other masters at St.-Mere-Abelle, and not Viscenti, who had brought the news from St. Precious, had ever seen the man so obviously shaken.
They were in the newly remodeled audience hall of the great abbey, on the eastern edge of the complex, overlooking the All Saints Bay. This large room, a hundred feet square, had been three separate halls, one on top of the other. But Father Abbot Bou-raiy, with visions of expanding the Church during the time when one of its sovereign sisters had sat the secular throne as queen, had desired something grander for the abbey, a place where he could entertain noblemen and perhaps even King Danube himself. So the ceilings and floors had been removed, leaving one huge hall that soared to nearly sixty feet, with a balcony running the length of the wall opposite Bou-raiy's grand throne, and all the way down the left-hand wall as well. The floor, a black-and-white patchwork of large marble tiles, was actually below ground level and was accessed by a single anteroom, the great double doors opening from the west, to the left of Bou-raiy's throne, and directly across from the most imposing design in the entire place: a huge and circular stained-glass window, set in the eastern wall above the wide staircase that ascended the thirty feet to the balcony. Filled with glass of rose and purple, blue and amber, the design on the window depicted the mummified arm of Avelyn Desbris, rising from the flattened top of ruined Mount Aida. A one-armed priest - obviously Bou-raiy - his brown robe tied off at one shoulder, knelt before the sacred place, bending low to kiss the bloody hand.
When he had first entered the room, Viscenti's eyes had widened indeed at the spectacle of the great window. A mixture of awe and revulsion had crept through him, for it was well-known throughout the Order that Bou- raiy had argued vehemently with the then-Father Abbot Agronguerre against traveling to Mount Aida and partaking of the Covenant of Avelyn.
Viscenti shrugged away his negativity, reminding himself that he had no time for such inconsequential worries at present. It was good, he realized, that Father Abbot Bou-raiy had now so obviously embraced the deeds of the hopefully soon-to-be Saint Avelyn. The Abellican Church would need such a boost, given the news from Ursal! Father Abbot Bou-raiy had listened, without the slightest interruption, to the words of Master Viscenti, the tidings of the great upheaval of secular Honce-the-Bear, but also of the impending upheaval, perhaps even greater, that was sure to befall the Abellican Church.
A long silence held the audience room in this, the greatest of cathedrals.
"There can be no doubt of the identity of the coconspirators?" Fio Bou- raiy finally asked. "It was Abbot Olin and truly Marcalo De'Unnero, the same monk who served under Father Abbot Markwart, the same monk who was consumed by the tiger's paw gemstone and driven out of Palmaris by Jilse- ponie, the same monk who led the errant Brothers Repentant in the time of the plague? It was De'Unnero?"
"By the words of Jilseponie, who knew this man better than anyone, it was the same Marcalo De'Unnero," Viscenti confirmed, and he twitched repeatedly, any control he held over his nervous tic washed away by merely speaking the cursed name aloud.
"What does this mean?" asked burly Abbot Glendenhook, standing in what had long been his customary position, both figuratively and literally, at Fio Bou-raiy's side. With news of the grim tidings sweeping the land, Abbot Glendenhook had rushed back to the mother abbey to confer with his trusted friend, the Father Abbot.
"It means the end of the world as we know it," another master glumly remarked.
Fio Bou-raiy snapped his ever-imposing stare over the man, denying the claim visually before he had ever spoken a word. "It means that our time of peace and growth has ended, temporarily," he corrected, his voice stern and steady once more. "It means that we of the true Abellican Order may find ourselves besieged with informants and perhaps traitors, and possibly even by an army from the throne that we always before considered our ally. Surely none among the leadership of St.-Mere-Abelle are unused to adversity, Master Donegal. We have been weaned on the Demon War, on a time of great upheaval within our order, and on a plague. Are you so quick to surrender? "
"My pardon, Father Abbot," Master Jorgen Donegal said, offering a submissive bow. "If Abbot Olin is in league with the new king of Honce- the-Bear, I doubt that he will be friendly toward the current leadership at St.-Mere-Abelle."
"Abbot Olin is Abellican first," Fio Bou-raiy declared. "He understands his position and his responsibility to this church."
"With Marcalo De'Unnero at his side?" Marlboro Viscenti found himself asking before he could find the wisdom to bite back the words, for that simple question deflated any momentum that Father Abbot Bou-raiy might have been gaining here. Bou-raiy hated De'Unnero profoundly, a feeling that was surely mutual. If Abbot Olin was indeed in league with the infamous former monk, then he was surely no friend to St.-Mere-Abelle, nor to the current incarnation of the Abellican Church! "Ursal will demand change within the Church," Abbot Glendenhook observed.
"They already have, according to Jilseponie," said Master Viscenti. "By her account, Abbot Ohwan was reinstated at St. Honce, but only as a plank for Marcalo De'Unnero to walk to the post of abbot."
"The crown has no power to determine abbots!" said Glendenhook.
"Then it has begun already," Fio Bou-raiy put in, and the same despair that had been evident in Master Donegal's voice was showing around the edges here, too. "If this is all true, then we must assume that Abbot Olin and his henchmen are restructuring the Abellican Church to fit their needs."
"Bishop Braumin Herde believes that Ursal will demand that Olin assume the position of Father Abbot," Master Viscenti said bluntly, and though everyone in the room fully expected that, given the line of reasoning, hearing it aloud brought more than a few gasps of astonishment and despair.
Fio Bou-raiy held steady, though, and looked at Master Viscenti hard.
"And where does Bishop Braumin stand on this issue?" he demanded.
Marlboro Viscenti stood up very straight, his slight frame seeming to grow very tall and formidable. "Bishop Braumin supported the election of Father Abbot Bou-raiy," the master from St. Precious reminded. "But even if he had not, Bishop Braumin is a true Abellican, and he would not support any usurpers trying to steal away our Church."
Only after speaking the words aloud did Viscenti realize the irony of them, for hadn't Braumin and all the others come to power through those very means? When Markwart had gone astray, Braumin and Viscenti had led the charge beside Jilseponie and Elbryan to take the Abellican Church from them.
"The Church is not astray," Viscenti quickly added. "We have learned so very much over the last two decades, culminating in the Miracle of Aida.
We follow the way of St. Abelle, and soon-to-be Saint Avelyn. We follow the orders of St.-Mere-Abelle and Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy with all confidence that those orders are in accordance with the precepts upon which we build our faith. Bishop Braumin will not forsake St.-Mere-Abelle nor Father Abbot Bou-raiy in this, at the price of his own life! If Marcalo De'Unnero desires to enter St. Precious, it will either be as conqueror or in chains. There is no negotiating that point!"
The stirring words seemed to bolster Fio Bou-raiy and all the others in the room.
"You say that De'Unnero and Duke Kalas are marching north from Ursal toward Palmaris," the Father Abbot prompted.
"The last report I heard, before Captain Al'u'met sailed me out of the Masur Delaval, was that they had advanced halfway up the river to Palmaris," Viscenti explained. "They are absorbing all the countryside as they proclaim the new King Aydrian. There have been some skirmishes, but nothing of any note, for the people have no rallying call denouncing this treacherous usurper. It is likely that Prince Midalis in Vanguard has not even learned yet of the death of his brother and his nephew Merwick, nor that his other nephew, the only other person in the royal line, is missing. Captain Al'u'met sails even now for Vanguard, but it will be weeks, months perhaps, before Midalis can muster any reasonable response.
Until then, King Aydrian, with the legions of Ursal and Entel behind him, stands unopposed among the unwitting populace."
Fio Bou-raiy folded his fingers before him in a pensive pose and spent a long time digesting the words. "Then we must inform the people," he decided. "Then we must hold out against this treachery and rally the resistance against phony King Aydrian until Prince Midalis arrives."
"Thousands will die," Master Donegal remarked.
It wasn't really Viscenti's place to speak, for the remark had been directed to Fio Bou-raiy, but he among all the others held the weight of his previous actions and not just his convictions to answer, "Some things are worth dying for, brother."
Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy sat up straighter and gave an appreciative nod to Viscenti. "You must return with all speed to St. Precious," he instructed the nervous master. "Tell Bishop Braumin that he must lock down Palmaris against this army. If Aydrian declares himself as king, then the army he commands is not the army of Honce-the-Bear, is not the army of the Ursal line, and must not be given admittance to a city loyal to that line."
Strong words, Master Viscenti knew, especially coming from the man who had the most to lose, and who was secure in what was arguably the most fortified bastion in all the world. But Viscenti didn't disagree with the reasoning. Some things were indeed worth dying for, and worth asking others to die for.
"Dispatch official emissaries to every abbey outside of Ursal, even to St. Rontlemore," Fio Bou-raiy instructed Master Donegal, referring to the second abbey of Olin's hometown of Entel, a place that had long been under the shadow of the more prestigious St. Bondabruce and powerful Abbot Olin. "Let none forget the truth of Marcalo De'Unnero, and let none misinterpret the actions of Abbot Olin here as anything other than treachery and blasphemy."
"Do we know for certain that Abbot Olin will not approach us civilly and with explanation?" Abbot Glendenhook dared to ask.
"He has overstepped his boundaries here, and there is little he could say to convince me not to excommunicate him," Fio Bou-raiy declared flatly, and that brought more astonished and nervous gasps, and more than a few concurring grunts.
Master Viscenti was among those concurring, and he dipped a low bow and begged his leave.
"Our wagons are at your disposal to return you to the Masur Delaval," Fio Bou-raiy told him, and Viscenti left at once, determined to stand beside Bishop Braumin when the darkness fell, a darkness that he couldn't help but believe would be the end of the world as he knew it.
Duke Bretherford sat on the edge of his cot in his private room on River Palace, leaning forward and rubbing his hands repeatedly over his grizzled face. He heard the stirring on the deck outside of his room and saw the light around the edges of his dark curtains and supposed that it must be morning.
Another night had passed him by with only fitful short periods of sleep.
It had been that way since he had returned to Ursal, rushing in upon hearing the news of Danube's untimely death.
His whole world had changed, so quickly, and Bretherford couldn't sort through it. He spent hours tossing and turning, trying to find a place of acceptance, as had Kalas and so many of the other Ursal noblemen, but he had found no answers. He wished that he had been there on that fateful day, to witness the events. Perhaps then he might be more willing to embrace this young king and the promises the other nobles were whispering. Perhaps then he might be able to place Prince Midalis in a different light. Perhaps then... Bretherford looked over at the small table set beside his bed, at the nearly empty bottle and the glass beside it.
He brought that glass in close, swirling it around, getting lost in the golden tan liquid.
Then he swallowed the whiskey in one gulp and moved to pour another, but a knock on his door stopped him short.
"What'd'ye want?" the tired man called.
How he changed his tone and his demeanor when the door pushed open and King Aydrian walked in! "My King," Bretherford blurted before he could even consider the words.
He scrambled about and ran a hand through his thin hair. "I am not ready to receive - "
"Be at ease, my good duke," said Aydrian, and he stepped in and closed the door behind him. "I desire no protocol here. I have come to ask a favor."
Bretherford stared at him dumbfounded. The king of Honce-the-Bear asking a favor? "This has all come so quickly," Aydrian remarked, and he saw himself to a chair across from Bretherford's bed, and waved for Bretherford to remain seated when the man finally composed himself enough to try to stand and salute.
"You know that Abbot Olin has departed for Entel?" Aydrian asked.
"I suspect that he is well on his way, yes."
"Do you know where he will go from there?"
"Jacintha," said Bretherford, and Aydrian nodded.
"This is a dangerous mission," said the young king. "The Behrenese are not to be taken lightly. They present potentially formidable opposition, though I know that Honce-the-Bear will never again see as clear an opportunity as we have right now to strengthen our ties to our southern neighbor."
To conquer her, you mean, Bretherford thought, but he kept his face expressionless.
"Abbot Olin has a great fleet at his command, but he must coordinate its movements with the movements of a land army, as well," Aydrian explained.
"It will be a daunting task, I fear, and with my attention now so obviously needed along the Masur Delaval, Abbot Olin will find little support from Ursal."
Duke Bretherford couldn't help but narrow his eyes with suspicion.
"Of course, the fleet at Abbot Olin's command is not - how shall I say this delicately? - conventional."
"Pirates and vagabonds," Bretherford dared to say. "The same dogs I have chased along the southern stretches of our coastline for years."
"Better to harness the dogs, eh?" Aydrian asked.
Bretherford was hardly convinced of that, and so he didn't reply.
"Better if I could spare the Ursal fleet, I agree," Aydrian remarked.
"But Palmaris may not be so welcoming, and then there is the not-so- little matter of St.-Mere-Abelle, and Pireth Tulme, Pireth Dancard, and Pireth Vanguard after that."
"It is ambitious," Bretherford remarked, hoping that the sarcasm in his voice would not be so evident as to have Aydrian execute him.
"It is necessary," Aydrian corrected. "As is our pursuit of the heart of Behren, at this time. And it is attainable - all of it! But I fear that I may have distributed the able leaders at my command errantly here - of course, I had little knowledge of the dukes and commanders before decisions had to be made."
"You wish me to sail to Entel?" Bretherford asked skeptically.
"I cannot spare the ships it would require for you to safely make such a journey," Aydrian explained. "I wish you to ride to Entel."
"To what end?" Bretherford asked, and he rose from the bed, holding his arms out wide. "If the fleet remains on the Masur Delaval, then what am I to do..."
"Abbot Olin has warships of his own," Aydrian explained. "I need you there, my good duke. I need you to go and join with Abbot Olin, to take command of his seagoing operations. The delicacy of this situation cannot be overstated, and as such, I need the most experienced commanders I can find supporting Abbot Olin."
Duke Bretherford could hardly spit out a response. King Aydrian was saying it so cleverly, but what he was really doing here was placing Bretherford out of the main picture and off to the side.
"My King," the duke finally replied, "you speak of Abbot Olin's fleet, but in truth they are but a ragtag group of opportunists."
"And so your work in controlling them to Abbot Olin's needs will be no easy task," Aydrian was quick to reply. "But I have all faith in you, Duke Bretherford. Duke Kalas assures me that there is no more able man in all the kingdom at handling the movements of a fleet. The lives of ten thousand of Honce-the-Bear's soldiers will rest squarely on your shoulders, to say nothing of the overall designs concerning Behren. If Abbot Olin's mission proves unsuccessful, then we can expect those Behrenese pirates to use the turmoil within Honce-the-Bear to strike the coast from Entel all the way up the Mantis Arm."
It made perfect sense, of course, and that was the beauty of the plan, Bretherford knew. Bretherford realized that this was not about Olin, for if Aydrian was truly afraid of the potential consequences concerning Jacintha and Behren, he would have merely held the greedy abbot in check and waited until Honce-the-Bear was fully secured before turning his sights to the south. No, this was about getting Bretherford out of the way and far from Prince Midalis, the duke knew. Aydrian had Kalas securely in his court, and that meant the Allhearts, and they meant the Ursal garrison and the majority of the Kingsmen, and perhaps even the Coastpoint Guards of the southern mainland. But the fleet, like the waters they sailed, were more fluid in all of this, and Aydrian understood that the duke of the Mirianic could bring a powerful allying force to Prince Midalis as easily as Duke Kalas had brought the ground forces to Aydrian! And so however Aydrian might parse his reasoning, the truth of it was that Bretherford was being shuffled out of the way, and away from the main body of Honce-the-Bear's great navy.
The duke was somewhat surprised as the truth unfolded in his thoughts.
Why hadn't Aydrian just dismissed him, perhaps even had him murdered? Why this pretense of more important duties? As he came to understand, Bretherford's estimate of young Aydrian as a tactician heightened considerably. The duke was on the fence concerning the disposition of the kingdom, and Aydrian saw that clearly. And so the young king was putting him into a position where his skills would serve Aydrian well. Aydrian feared him, Bretherford knew - feared that he would take the fleet and hand it over to Midalis. But no such fears would accompany the duke of the Mirianic to Entel, especially when the great bulk of his command would be left behind.
"Your estimate of my understanding of the Behrenese might be exaggerated," Bretherford started to say, trying to wriggle out of this.
"You are the man who will escort Abbot Olin by sea to Jacintha," Aydrian said firmly. "You will coordinate the movements of his naval assets along the Behrenese coast and provide him with the plans for transporting soldiers from Entel to Jacintha, or to whatever other coastal city Abbot Olin chooses."
"You propose to place a duke under the command of an abbot?"
"I have just done so," Aydrian corrected, his tone firm. He had come in pretending to ask a favor, but now he was obviously issuing an order.
"You serve the throne, do you not?"
His pause and expression told Bretherford that Aydrian was not going to let that seemingly rhetorical question pass by without a direct answer.
"I have served Honce-the-Bear for all of my life."
Aydrian grinned. "And you continue to serve the throne of Honce-the- Bear?"
Bretherford didn't blink as he stared at the young king.
"The throne now claimed by Aydrian Boudabras?" Aydrian clarified, so that there could be no irony, no double meaning, in the demanded answer.
"I serve the throne of Ursal," said Bretherford.
"The voice of that throne in Jacintha will soon be Abbot Olin," Aydrian told him. "Abbot Olin travels to Behren at my request and as my emissary.
The fact that he is an Abellican abbot is of no consequence. He serves me at this time, and you will answer to him."
Bretherford wanted to respond to that, wanted to remark something along the lines that Duke Kalas might not be so thrilled to hear of these unexpected developments, but Aydrian's expression told him clearly that there was no room for debate here. The young king hadn't come in to ask anything. He had come in to push Bretherford out of the way.
The duke supposed that he should be grateful that Aydrian had seen this way out, and had not merely ordered him thrown into a dungeon, or quietly beheaded.
But still...