Ascendance

THE WINTER WASlong and severe. The turn of 842 had come to Ursal amid a raging blizzard, the snows piling unusually high about the castle and St. Honce. Jilseponie was one of the few who regularly ventured out of the castle, aiding the poor and healing the sick with her soul stone, but the severity of this storm stopped even the determined Queen from her daily rounds, or slowed them considerably, at least.



Her husband was busy with Daween Kusaad, the ambassador from Behren. She found the man distinctly unpleasant, so rather than remain at Danube's side, trying constantly to hide her dislike of Daween, she had opted to wander about the immense castle, enjoying the intricate designs on the tapestries and the magnificent carvings on doors and walls, the delicate glass of the larger windows, and simply the views of the snow-enshrouded city.



On one such foray into the castle's east tower, Jilseponie heard the cracking sound of wood striking wood and recognized it immediately as a sparring match. It seemed strange to her that any would be fighting up here, but as soon as she made her way to the room and recognized the participants, she understood.



Merwick Pemblebury Ursal was fourteen now, a year older than his brother and several inches taller. But Torrence favored his father, King Danube, in build, and was the stockier of the two.



Jilseponie watched in amusement, and a bit of admiration, as the two continued their fight, apparently oblivious of her. She could see Merwick's mistakes clearly - he was fighting like a brawler, when his superior reach and speed could have been used to keep the more ferocious Torrence at bay.



She had seen many who fought in Torrence's style - it was the most customary one, using heavy weapons to bash and chop and bludgeon an opponent to the ground. It was the style best suited to the weapons made by the crude smithing skills of the day, of inferior metals that made a larger and thicker sword or other weapon more likely to survive a heavy strike.



It was the style that bi'nelle dasada was designed to defeat. And easily.



Jilseponie continued to watch the two boys at their match, and the fact that the frenzied pace had not lessened spoke well of their training and their determination, and, to Jilseponie, said something important about their characters.



It did not surprise her how much she liked these two, though she didn't often see them, for Constance worked hard to keep them away from her. But the truth was, she liked their mother, too, and always had. The customs of court called for women to be ornaments, rarely speaking their minds, and never in public; but Constance had ever been one of Danube's closest advisers, an outspoken and strong person, with a good heart. The fact that she had been Danube's lover in the years before he had come to love Jilseponie was of little concern to Jilseponie, for she trusted Danube's love for her and could no more begrudge him his past than he could her own.



Her relationship with Constance was surely strained, now, though. The fact that Constance could hardly hide her feelings when she saw Jilseponie told the Queen that Constance was still in love with Danube and that she also wanted to protect the inheritance of her children.



For that, too, Jilseponie could hardly fault Constance.



So they were not friends, by circumstance rather than personality, and Jilseponie did not envision how their relationship might mend. One thing she was fairly certain of, though, was that she was no threat to the inheritance of Merwick and Torrence. These were Danube's heirs, behind Prince Midalis of Vanguard. Watching from afar, as they grew, Jilseponie believed that they were training well for their lot in life.



Perhaps it was that, perhaps some unconscious desire to try, at least, to mend some of the open wounds between her and Constance, that made her walk into the room then.



"Greetings," she said with a smile, and both boys stopped their sparring and turned to face Jilseponie, surprise and trepidation evident on their young faces. Torrence took a step back from Jilseponie, but Merwick, perhaps bolstered by his brother's obvious fear, stepped forward and presented his wooden sword in a proper salute.



"Queen Jilseponie," he said and bowed low.



Jilseponie's first instinct was to smile and tell the boy to relax, that such formalities were not necessary, but she suppressed that instinct and instead offered what was called the regal nod, a stiff-shouldered posture with a slight tip of her chin.



Merwick snapped his sword down to his side.



"You fight well," Jilseponie remarked, and she looked over at Torrence. "Both of you."



"We practice often," said Merwick.



"Constantly," Torrence found the courage to chime in.



"As you should," Jilseponie said. She held out her hand, and Merwick gave his sword to her. "And not only because you may find need to defend yourselves or the kingdom some day, but because . . ." She paused, not sure of how to put this so that such young men, boys really, might truly understand. "When you are confident of your abilities with the blade," she explained, "truly confident - then you will find less desire to put those blades to use. And when you are secure in your ability to fight, you will find your spirit free to choose wisely on many issues and you will view others less as potential challenges and more for their true character."



She noted that both boys hung on her every word. She didn't doubt that Constance had gone a long way in poisoning their attitudes toward her, and yet her reputation, it seemed, somewhat overweighed even the words of their mother.



"May I offer some advice?" she asked.



"I thought that you just did, m'lady," Merwick said with a bit of a charming smile.



"I meant, about the weapon," Jilseponie replied with a laugh. "I know that you have the finest instructors - "



"Commander Antiddes, and sometimes even Duke Kalas, himself," Torrence interjected, but he lowered his gaze when Jilseponie glanced at him.



"Yes, of course," she remarked. "But I have some experience with the blade."



Merwick's snicker told her that he recognized her claim to be a bit of an understatement.



"It is just something I noticed," Jilseponie went on. "Do come at me in the same manner as you attacked your brother," she bade Torrence, and she moved away from him a step and brought the wooden sword up before her.



Mental alarms sounded clearly to her, along with a crisp recollection of Lady Dasslerond's uncompromising warning to her that she must not reveal the secrets of bi'nelle dasada. And so she wouldn't reveal it - not the style, not the precise and balanced movements, not the training techniques, but perhaps just a bit of the philosophy behind the fighting style. She set herself evenly, a seemingly defensive stance, but one from which she could quickly turn the attack, as Torrence prepared his strike.



She meant to defeat him quickly, a simple parry, catch and disengage, followed by a straightforward charging burst and sudden thrust. Even as Torrence began his charge, though, they all heard a crash at the side of the room and a gasp.



There stood Constance Pemblebury, a broken plate and spilled food on the floor at her feet.



"Mother!" said Merwick and Torrence together.



"I was only trying . . ." Jilseponie started to say, but Constance was hardly listening to any of them.



"What are you doing here?" the woman asked, her voice sounding more like a serpent's hiss. "How dare you?" she went on before Jilseponie could begin to answer. "You two - out!" she roared at her children, and they rushed to obey, Merwick pausing only long enough to retrieve his mock weapon from Jilseponie. He gave her a look as he did, a silent apology, and then he and his brother were gone, running out of the room, not daring to disobey their mother.



"You have no business here, and no right," Constance protested, as openly angry and bold with Jilseponie as she had ever been.



"I was merely - " the Queen started to respond.



"They are the heirs to the throne!" Constance roared at her. "They. Not you! The impropriety of your actions is staggering! One of my sons could have been gravely injured by you - do you not understand the war that might ensue, the charges of treason?"



"W-what?" Jilseponie stuttered, hardly believing her ears, and only then did she begin to understand the depth of Constance's hatred for her. She wasn't surprised to learn that Constance would not be pleased to see Jilseponie anywhere near her two beloved sons, but the level of outrage here, the look in Constance's eyes, went beyond the realm of reason.



"I shared his bed, you know, and there, before you, stood the living proof," Constance said, assuming a defiant and haughty posture.



Jilseponie stared at her incredulously.



"Oh, how my Danube purred over my charms," the woman went on crudely. As she continued detailing her lovemaking with Danube explicitly, Jilseponie's expression shifted from incredulity to pity.



For Constance's ploy was lost on Jilseponie, who also knew true love, and understood and accepted the realities of relationships. She thought to tell Constance then that she was no threat to her, that she was certain that she would bear Danube no heirs to weaken the claims of Merwick and Torrence, but she held silent, for she recognized that her words would do little to calm or comfort Constance. No, there was more behind Constance's anger than any fears for her children. Her love for Danube was so very evident on her face as she stood there.



Jilseponie felt bad about the revelation, about how strong Constance's feelings obviously remained for the king, but there was nothing she could do about it, for she could not dictate her husband's heart.



So she let Constance's anger play itself out, and then she quietly excused herself and left.



She didn't see Constance again, nor Merwick nor Torrence, for many months.



"You should go hunting with Duke Kalas," Jilseponie remarked to King Danube, soon after he had refused the Duke's latest invitation. Spring was in full bloom outside Castle Ursal, the air warm and bright, the difficult winter long forgotten. "You cannot ignore him, nor should you, for he is your closest friend."



King Danube looked at her, his expression soft and gentle. "How does he treat you, my love?" he asked.



"As a gentleman should," Jilseponie replied with a warm smile.



She was lying.



King Danube looked at her doubtfully.



Jilseponie merely smiled wider and more convincingly, coaxing a reciprocal grin from her husband. In truth, none of Danube's court treated her well at all anymore, Duke Kalas included. Never had any been friendly toward their new queen, this outsider who had so invaded their exclusive domain, but in the weeks since the sparring incident with Merwick and Torrence, things had gotten worse for her. Duke Kalas was always polite to her publicly, of course, and on those few occasions when he had come upon Jilseponie alone, he went out of his way to compliment her. But she had overheard him on more than one occasion, laughing with other nobles, and at her expense. It didn't really bother Jilseponie, though. She had come to understand, to truly recognize, that these sheltered people who fancied themselves better than everyone else were not worth any emotional pain.



"You must go," Jilseponie went on. "He is going out to the west with Duke Tetrafel and it would bolster Tetrafel greatly if you went along."



King Danube sat back and considered the words. Duke Tetrafel was a fragile man, and had been for more than a dozen years, since he had gone off to the west in search of a direct route through the Belt-and-Buckle to the subjugated kingdom of To-gai. What Tetrafel had found, by his account, was a strange tribe of creatures that sacrificed most of his party to the peat bogs, animating the corpses as grotesque zombies.



The Duke of the Wilderlands had never really been the same.



"I would prefer to stay with you," King Danube remarked, leaning back toward Jilseponie's throne and putting his hand gently on her leg.



She covered his hand with her own, and her smile altered to show a bit of regret.



"You are not feeling well?" the perceptive Danube asked.



Jilseponie looked him in the eye and sighed. She had been experiencing a great deal of pain of late, mostly in her abdomen. Severe cramps. She attributed them to the scarring she had incurred during her first battle with Markwart on the field outside of Palmaris, when he had killed her baby, and indeed, when she had searched inside herself with the soul stone, she did note some damage. She didn't quite know why these pains had gotten worse of late.



It wounded her to refuse her husband's advances, but she could not ignore the discomfort. She still didn't feel the same way about Danube as she had about Elbryan. Her relationship with the ranger had been full of lust and love, full of the wildness of youth and the danger of the times. With Danube, the relationship was more complacent, more tame, but she did not want to hurt him.



"I will go with Kalas and the others," Danube said, and his expression showed that he trusted his wife and understood that she wasn't simply making excuses so that she would not have to share his bed.



Jilseponie truly appreciated that trust, for it was not misplaced. She hoped that whatever this affliction might be, that it would pass soon and she could resume her marital relations with her husband; but she feared that it was something deeper, something perhaps permanent, and something -and this she feared most of all - that was growing worse.



"I will be back before our anniversary," Danube promised, and he leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek.



"And I will be waiting for you, my love," Jilseponie replied.



Danube rose and started away, then. He didn't see his wife wince as yet another cramp stabbed at her.



"Too much!" Abbot Ohwan said angrily. "You administer too much of the herbs to her."



"There is no such amount," Constance Pemblebury retorted just as angrily. "She cannot bear him a child! It is that simple."



"You are well versed in the administration of the herbs," Abbot Ohwan scolded; and it was true enough, of course, for Constance had lived most of her life as a courtesan, and all the ladies of Danube's court well knew how to use certain herbs to prevent unwanted pregnancy. "And you know, as well, that giving her too much may cause great harm, even death. You know this, Lady Constance. You see her wince as she walks, as she sits."



Constance's lips grew very thin and she turned away, muttering under her breath.



"I will be no player in this!" Abbot Ohwan shouted.



"You already are!" Constance retorted, turning back on him sharply.



The abbot maintained his composure - mostly because he was much more afraid of Queen Jilseponie, a sovereign sister in his abbey and a powerful voice within the Church as well as the State, than he was of Constance Pemblebury, whether she was to become the Queen Mother of Honce-the-Bear or not. "No more," he said quietly and calmly, shaking his head.



His obvious determination brought an immediate angry reaction from Constance. "You will!" she growled, seeming on the very edge of hysteria. "You will continue to supply me with the herbs that I need! She cannot become with child! She cannot!" She moved forward as she spoke, out of her seat, her hands reaching for Abbot Ohwan's collar.



He caught her by the wrists and held her back, but she began to sob suddenly and seemed to go limp. As soon as Ohwan then released his grip somewhat, Constance tore one hand free and slapped him, and hard. "You will!" she said.



Abbot Ohwan reacted quickly and hugged the woman tightly, pinning her arms between them and calling out her name repeatedly to calm her. Finally, Constance did settle down, and Ohwan tentatively released her.



"You will," she said to him calmly, in complete control, "or I will announce your complicity publicly. And not just about providing me with the herbs to use against the Queen, an act of treason by itself, but the role that you, and St. Honce, play now, and have always played in keeping the courtesans infertile. How might the people of Ursal view such a dark revelation about their beloved Church, and about their beloved noblemen?"



"You speak foolishness, woman," Abbot Ohwan scolded.



Constance put her head down and seemed to go limp again. "I am a desperate woman, Abbot Ohwan," she said. "I will do what I must to protect the rightful inheritance of my children."



If she had looked at Ohwan's face as she spoke, she might have concluded that he didn't share her assessment of the "rightful inheritance."



"You will cause her great harm," the abbot warned after he took a moment to collect his thoughts.



Now Constance did look up at him, her expression pleading. "Would you have the royal lineage go to that woman?"



It was a biting question, for in truth, Abbot Ohwan wasn't overfond of Jilseponie, though she had backed Master Fio Bou-raiy at the College, as had Ohwan. Still, he preferred the older Church, the Church of Markwart before the coming of the demon, before his world, like that of so many others, turned completely over. This new order that had come to the Abellicans, the young reformers like Braumin Herde and Abbot Haney of St. Belfour - and of course, like Queen Jilseponie herself - did not sit well with him at all, gave him the uneasiness that comes with the destruction of tradition, a sense of shifting sands.



"I will give you enough to keep her infertile," he agreed, and Constance beamed at him. "But no more than that!" he quickly added in the face of that smile. "I agree that it would be better for all if Queen Jilseponie does not become with child, but I'll play no role in her murder, Constance! The King will be gone for two weeks at least with your friend Kalas. No herbs will you slip into Jilseponie's food during that time, do you hear?"



Constance stared at him hard, but she did nod.



"None," he said definitively. "And when he returns, you must return to the normal, and safe, dosage. No more than that. Do you hear?"



Constance's lips grew very thin again, but she grudgingly nodded her agreement.



She left St. Honce then, her mind whirling with plans and plots and -mostly - with anger. For it was no longer simply a matter of keeping Jilseponie barren, as she claimed to Abbot Ohwan. No, Constance had come to enjoy seeing the woman wince in pain, had enjoyed hearing the reports that King Danube wasn't sharing her bed of late - wasn't even sleeping in the same room. She had allowed herself to entertain fantasies that her plan would drive Danube and Jilseponie apart, that the lustful King, after too long without the softness of a woman, would come back to her.



And if Jilseponie died in this process, then all the better.



"But no," she whispered to herself as she crossed the small courtyard that led to the castle. "I mustn't be impatient. No, I must follow Abbot Ohwan's rules. Yes, I will."



Nodding and grinning, Constance passed between the two lurking, expressionless guardsmen.



As she entered the castle behind them, they glanced at each other and grinned knowingly - for Constance Pemblebury's behavior of late had elicited more than a few smiles - each shaking his head as they resumed their stoic expressions.