Shadow Prince, page 25
part #2 of Demon Hunter Series
Soon the presence of Virgil in place of Deckard Hadrian began to set her as ill at ease as it did Vual. Cyrus Bode was Hadrian's rival, and Virgil worked directly for the immortal of the Chos Valley.
As descendants of Deckard Hadrian, the Kuldettans might not be direct foes of Cyrus Bone and the Geteren Clan he ruled. Still, there was always the possibility they’d become enemies at any moment.
Cyrus, though Vual, always rests like a shadow over the northern lands. Bode’s military forces were capable of projecting the strength of the immortal master wherever he desired within the lands of mercy, but the closer to the Chos Valley, the more easily they achieved such things.
Vual and not seen nor heard of the immortal carrying out such brutal action in his lifetime, only remembering a little from his youth. Cyrus had been the one to command the gathering of so many nobles and knights from the cities to go to war with the Kism in the east. The radical opponents of Mother Mercy had demanded more assistance than the clan could provide alone, to do battle with them.
Though that time seemed long ago, Vual only felt more uneasy at the presence of the elder mage, Virgil. Most wizards knew his name. Virgil Silas Dane was one of most powerful and skilled wielders of sacra forms in the entirety of the land of mercy, not just the north.
Normally, if Virgil had not been Cyrus Bode’s servant, Vual might have been eager to prove himself as Filavaye had assured him he should earlier in the month. However, as the pinnacle of the final month, Tigalas, approached and snow began to fall again, the challenge that lay before them became clear. If the contest Virgil suggested went forward, and anyone with enough support could join the fray, Vual might have more competition in the approaching contest.
Would I be afraid if someone from the southern lands had arrived with a similar position? No, he thought. No, he would not be afraid. And thus, he decided, he would not fear Virgil Silas Dane.
Vual met with his mother in the parlor of the Kuldettan mansion. She was pale, sick, suffering from the same cold-borne illness that came each winter in recent years.
She sat, bundled in a great chair near the embers of a fire. The blankets covered her form almost completely up to the neck. She looked toward him as he entered.
"Son," she said. "Are you prepared to begin your training for the challenges?"
"Training?" Vual laughed. "Mother, the challenges won't begin until the new year."
“If you don't train now, you will not be prepared. I’ve asked your uncle to prepare lessons for you."
"You gave me a sacra scroll, and he told me my sacra form was ready.” Vual scowled at his mother. "I fail to see what any others could do against me with such power now at my command. I control a demon now."
"I'm not worried about your physical combat abilities, but you must realize the challenges will demand more than your honor, courage, and magic."
"I realize that.” Vual turned away from his mother. "My sword and my sacra form should be enough to tackle every challenge before me. Before I took the form of Nalneth, I couldn't tell his intelligence, his glorious overflowing power in both mind and body. But when I took his shape, all of that suffused me."
"Not all take to their sacra form as easily as you, my son."
"Is it true that Virgil has more than one inner demon?" asked Vual.
"My spies tell me the stories are true," said Filavaye. "He's mastered three."
"How can one man master three sacra forms?" Vual said. "Even I ache in the mind to think of such a crowded spirit, and Nalneth rarely speaks to me.”
"Dane found a way.” Filavaye shook her head. "But you will need to impress more than him if you are to become prince."
“Of course, mother. What do you know of the other judges?"
"All will be drawn from nobility, except for Virgil himself."
"The fact that Dane is positioning himself to be the ultimate judge of the city’s ruler makes me suspicious, mother," said Vual. "Doesn't it bother you?"
"If I thought it mattered, I would confront him myself."
"Mother.” Vual nodded. "I would advise you remain indoors for the time being, at least until the sickness passes."
"Thank you for the respectful suggestion. I’ll do what I must, however.” Filavaye motioned Vual closer with her chin. “Of the three classical challenges. One of them is wit, one of them is war, and one of them is ruling. I don't know exactly what each one of consist of, but the training for war is the one we have the greatest advantage in. But that is the second challenge of Jadik. The first challenge is wit. Son, you must think faster.”
"Is this some sort of joke?" Vual laughed. “I’ve looked into the skill of writing, but I'll never be like Ruar or Catricha Maltos. I don't have that kind of cunning."
"And Nalneth won't supply it for you?" said Filavaye. "He is an incredibly intelligent demon, as was said of him when he walked the land as a free being."
"When Nalneth walked the land of his own accord, I had yet to be born. If I'm not mistaken, so had you."
"You're not mistaken. But Nalneth has more to tell you then just how to calculate the strength needed to shatter a boulder or how activate his wings of fire or his flaming blades. No, Nalneth is a more powerful sacra form than even you know."
"Should I rely on Nalneth for every test as well?" said Vual.
"Don’t lean on him like a crutch," said Filavaye. "Your sacra form cannot hold the throne. Still, listen to him. I assure you, if you fail to perform in one challenge it will be your wit that brings you down."
"I'll go practice making remarks, then, mother."
“I suggest, you find someone to spar with verbally."
"Spar verbally," said Vual. "I think I know the person."
"Are you planning to go to Fulster again?" Filavaye smiled slyly, chin buried in her blankets
"Mother, you wound me with your accuracy."
"Accuracy." Filavaye laughed. "You just want to meet with Osestra Nim-Fulster again."
"Why not?" Vual said. "She and I have always gotten along since we were young."
"You are still young," said Filavaye. "Go, then. Ride to Fulster, if you wish. The snow is falling, but it should still be light on the road."
"I'll take my personal guards," said Vual.
"See that you all are well-dressed for the journey.” Filavaye waved him away with an open hand.
VUAL AND HIS GUARDS rode to Fulster in the biting wind. Even as they moved south, the gale turned against them. They approached the stockade around Fulster and the howling of the wind intensified. The snow began to fall more heavily on the road and the forests west of them. The fields on the eastern side turned whiter with every passing moment.
He dismounted at the gates of Fulster, and then led his horse inside. The gate closed behind him and his bodyguards. They approached the town hall where Osestra stepped onto the top step to greet him. She looked stunning in her snow-colored scarf, her hair pulled back then left to fall over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled like fresh ice crystals. Her gown and winter mantle shimmered different shades of almost-blue, hinting at sea-green.
"You came in spite of the storm. I didn't think even you would brave weather like this, when the sentries told me you might be on your way."
"If the sentinels spotted us a mile away, even in this.” Vual took off his riding gloves and blew on his chilly fingers. “I need to thank them, because they had the gate open when we arrived."
"I'll send them your regards.” Osestra beamed. "Vual, you and your men should come inside. The guards can get out of the cold in the kitchen."
"Thank you." Vual and his men bowed their heads.
They entered through the patterned doors. Separating from the guards, Vual and Osestra took their seats beside the hearth at the center of the keeper’s hall. She poured a cup of tea for each of them. The rest of her family was occupied elsewhere, so Vual and Osestra sat in easy chairs near the fire.
"Are you worried, Vual? The arrival of those men from the Chos Valley can’t be good news, can it? They must be up to something.”
"I don't know.” Vual stared into the flames crackling in the fireplace. "To be honest, my mother agrees with your thought. She may be glad for Parson Dane’s presence, but his knights make her uneasy. His attitude toward the city only adds to the trouble."
"Attitude?" Osestra reached for his hand. "What is his attitude?"
"He's dismissive.” Vual took her hand in his, palm to palm. "He treats Alliance like we’re some colony, not very nearly the center of old Jadiketz, second only to the city called Empire."
"I suppose when one comes from the Chos Valley.” Osestra intertwined her fingers with his. "Anywhere else seems provincial."
"Perhaps.” Vual sighed. “Regardless, I don't like his dismissal of our culture in the land of mercy. After all, Chos Valley, despite being the heart of the old Empire, is practically a wasteland compared to Alliance."
"Will you participate in his challenge?" asked Osestra. "You could become prince if you do."
"I intend to try.” Vual frowned. "But I don't have to appreciate the man who gives me the opportunity."
"I suppose not.” Osestra smiled slightly. "Once you become prince, perhaps then, as you said before..."
"Perhaps we can marry?" whispered Vual. "I suppose you're right."
"You suppose?” Osestra blinked in surprise, looked indignant for a moment, then turned to look into the fire.
"I know it. I know it and I'm glad."
"Have you spoken to your mother?"
"Not about that, yet," said Vual. "She is occupied by other matters at the moment, but the time is drawing near when I will do as we planned."
"I'm glad." Osestra smiled at him. "Vual.”
She wrapped her slender hands around the cup of hot tea she held and then raised the porcelain to her lips.
Vual looked at the tea she’d poured for him. His reflection looked warped and brown in the surface of the liquid. "Do you really want that?” he asked. “Not many in the city appreciate me. Despite your brothers, and all, how you can remain so enthusiastic?"
"I can remain however I wish," said Osestra. "I'm free, as are you. That is the power afforded to us by our position in the hierarchy of mercy."
"The hierarchy of mercy," murmured Vual, “is not enough to put me at ease. Osestra, I will find a way even if I cannot become prince. But I don't know if that will be the true issue or not. After all, I have skills with the blade and with essences. My wit is the only thing I find lacking."
"You don't lack wit," said Osestra. "You just need to use it more often." She laughed.
Her tea shook slightly with the motion of her body.
Vual chuckled. He set his cup on the small table between them.
"Perhaps you could help me?"
"Of course." Osestra gazed into his eyes. "I'm happy to assist you, my friend and my lord.”
ILRONA’S CHAMBERS IN the House of Mercy lacked the concept of orientation. In the cool air of the dark room, objects and beings floated adrift, weightless. The disruption of ordinary material laws put even Deckard Hadrian ill at ease.
He disliked the place, but his questions demanded answers. Why had Mother Mercy sent him to Alliance? Did she, did either of them, know the nature of the shadow being Zidon vanquished all those ages past during the conquest?
The lack of a pull in any direction left Deckard floating without sense of up or down while he waited for Ilrona to appear. After a few hours, she emerged from one of the fluid gates that occupied the edges of perception in the room. Those portals led countless places, but Deckard could not tell where each one ended, knowledge only Ilrona held.
She liked her secrets.
Ilrona drifted toward him, as effortless and forceless as everything else in her chambers. The dark banes singing on one side terminated their dissonance where they met the glowing brightness of her other half.
She always seemed larger here, as she bent to address the few petitioners who accessed her rooms.
“How long have you been here, immortal?” asked the demon lady from the bright side of her mouth. “I didn’t expect your presence.”
She brought her bright side close to him, no eyes but clearly able to perceive him as surely as if she’d been covered in them.
Deckard closed his eyes, shutting out the glare of her brightness. “I’m sure you’d be lonely without me.”
The chittering staccato of her light essences served as laughter. Ilrona’s glow diminished, telling Deckard she’d drawn back, even behind his eyelids. He opened one eye to look.
She folded her arms, light and darkness interlocking. “Why are you here, demon hunter?”
He bowed his head best as he could in a place where the very concept of up and down was an absent memory. “Lady of light and dark, I request your advice on my mission.”
“Questions? Ask them.” Ilrona’s voice echoed in the chamber.
“Why did Cyrus send Virgil to take Alliance? Does Mother Mercy accept his actions as legitimate?”
“You human sons of mercy ought to seek better terms, demon hunter. After all, only you two remain upon the world, after what you did to—”
“After Tetzirat’s fall, yes.” Deckard scowled. “That is beside my aim. Cyrus is shaking the order of all the land by trying to claim Alliance through a proxy.”
“Take it up with him yourself, as I cannot.” Ilrona’s voice was cold, deadened and without affect. “Do you have anything else to say?”
“Do you know anything about the Shadow of Jasguara?”
“You speak the old name of Alliance. Zidon bested the shadow for me there, almost a thousand years ago. Have you a reason for asking?”
“I suspect the shadow has returned to the city.”
“How could he?” Ilrona with a smirk in her voice. “When you look upon him now?” She held out her dark arm, fluidly stretching the limb what would be an unnatural length for a human. “I took the essences Zidon claimed from him for my own.”
Deckard’s brow furrowed. “You’ve been collecting dark essences, of course.”
“Perhaps I should be more curious about events in Alliance, demon hunter. Your unease tells me more. Have you encountered any of these dark essences?”
Deckard thought of Catricha, recalling the sound of her strong essences. She possessed a shadow sprite, and a cursed bane by his estimation. Wherever those essences had come from Deckard had no plans to turn them over to Mother Mercy’s handmaiden. Separating strong essences permanently could kill a mortal owner.
“No,” said Deckard. “But the reports of Prince Saviron’s murder spoke of a shadow appearing as the culprit. Could it be a demon or a mage?”
“Either is possible, but I have no more answers for you now, demon hunter. Leave my chambers.”
“As you will, Ilrona.”
“I will be watching, demon hunter.”
Deckard nodded. “I’m certain of that.” He closed his eyes as the sensation of directions began to return. When he felt solid ground beneath him, he looked around.
Deckcard stood in one of the central plazas of Alliance, a few streets south of the tombs, within a worn-down shrine to Mother Mercy. The sun climbed high and cold overhead, and the clouds were few in the pale sky.
Ilrona’s quiet insistence remained implied. She’d sent him back to the city where he’d prefer not to be for the moment. Virgil sat as steward now. The time for courage was here again, ever it be cursed.
He flexed his fingers, sickening nausea afflicting him momentarily as he readjusted to the reality of vertical movement and positioning. Deckard left the shrine and marched toward the palace. As he moved he regained control of his stomach. He chose to walk, remembering times past he’d attempted to take to the air while disoriented. Deckard went to confront Virgil Silas Dane, the greatest mage in the service of the immortal Cyrus Bode.
Deckard stepped into the throne room of the palace and gazed at the tapestry Virgil had set up behind the princely seat.
Thunder clouds and blue-tinged lightning warred over a scene of battle. Deckard knew the story well. Jadik, depicted in the center of the tapestry in his silver armor, fought the forces of Aush as he advanced north, out of the desert of Rosado.
The conquest must have been bloody, and the tapestry’s art did little to diminish the horror. Deckard turned his gaze from the tapestry to the man pacing before the throne.
Virgil wore black, the uniform of his priestly station. Strands of Virgil’s white hair drifted in the breeze from the open door behind Deckard. Age took its toll on all mortals, no matter how magically powerful. Nevertheless, a firmness remained around the priest’s eyes.
“How long has it been since you and I spoke?” Virgil asked, turning his piercing blue Palavian eyes on Deckard.
“Last winter, though there wasn’t much to say.”
“It’s been nearly a whole year, Hadrian. Thanks for the sacra scroll you brought to Empire. My master continues to keep it safe.”
“Cyrus is the only one with the power to hold that scroll securely for as long as required.” Deckard paced closer to the throne.
“You feign my end in praising him.” Virgil shook his head. “But I’m not dead yet.”
“How long since you first chased me across the valley, Dane?”
“Fifty years, Hadrian. I was just a child then, with only one sacra form to my heart. Have you any clues as to the whereabouts of the dowager regent?”
“No,” Deckard muttered. “Her fate remains mysterious.”
“Someone knows.” Virgil shrugged. “Though little hope remains.”
“More hope exists than if we’d found her slain in her chambers.” Deckard clenched a fist, sprite strings at his fingertips.
“Why have you returned to Alliance?”
“I was sent back by Ilrona. She has concerns in this city.”
“You speak the name of Mother Mercy’s handmaiden with such familiarity, yet still, you’ve bent no resources to your will. Hadrian, you’re quite the disappointment of late. Do you know anything I haven’t already learned?”
