She sat quietly, her arms crossed before her, her face still showing the lines of the tears that had marked the first days out of Ursal. She wasn't crying any longer, though.
She was just numb.
She could hardly comprehend the truth of Aydrian, could hardly believe that her child was not dead, but had been stolen from her by the elves and raised all these years apart from her. How could he have become the tyrant that she had seen in Ursal? How could a child born of her and Elbryan have become the monster that was Aydrian? And he was a monster. Jilseponie knew that profoundly. He had torn Constance from the grave and, Jilseponie believed, had used her to murder Danube. He had stolen the throne of Ursal. And all of that under the guidance of Marcalo De'Unnero! Marcalo De'Unnero! To Jilseponie, there was no purer incarnation of evil than he, unless it was the demon dactyl Bestesbulzibar itself! How could Aydrian have taken up with the man who had murdered his own father? It made no sense to Jilseponie, and in truth, the woman had not the strength to try to sort out the confusing morass.
Aydrian was alive.
Nothing else mattered, truly. No other questions could find their way to a reasoned conclusion within Jilseponie in light of that terrible and wonderful truth.
Aydrian was alive.
And he was the king, the unlawful king. And he was in league with De'Unnero and of like heart with the hated man.
That was all that mattered.
The coach lurched to a stop, and only then did Jilseponie realize that the road beneath them had turned from dirt to cobblestone, and that the fields beside them had changed to crowded streets, farmhouses to shops and taverns. The door opened and her driver, an older man with sympathetic eyes, offered her his hand.
"We're here, milady Jilseponie," he said tenderly.
Palmaris. A city Jilseponie had known as her home for much of her life.
Here she had found refuge after the catastrophe that had destroyed Dundalis to the north. Here she had found her second family, the Chilichunks. Here she had married, though it had ended abruptly and disastrously. Here she had ruled as baroness. Here her friends presided over St. Precious. And here, Elbryan had been killed, as he and she had defeated the demon within Father Abbot Markwart. Moving as if in a dream, Jilseponie drifted out of the coach and onto the street. She was dressed modestly - not in any of the raiments suitable for the queen of Honce-the- Bear, surely - and so her appearance caused no stir among the folk moving about the crowded city avenue.
Jilseponie slowly looked around, absorbing the sights of the city she knew so well. Across the wide square stood St. Precious, the largest structure in the city, a soaring cathedral that could hold thousands within its stone walls, and that housed the hundred brothers under the leadership of Bishop Braumin Herde.
The thought of her friend had Jilseponie walking toward that cathedral, slowly at first, but then breaking into a run to the front door.
"Seems a one needin' her soul mended, eh?" a passerby remarked to the old driver, who stood by the coach, watching her disappear into the abbey.
"More than you'd ever understand," the driver replied absently, and with a sigh, he climbed back to his seat and turned his coach about, for the south road and Ursal. He had been explicitly instructed not to approach Bishop Braumin or any of the other leaders of the city, and while the old driver thought it strange that no formal emissary had come north from Ursal to this important second city, he knew enough of the history here to gather the motivation behind the silence.
King Aydrian, and more specifically, Marcalo De'Unnero, wanted to make the announcement personally.
"Few if any will oppose you openly," Aydrian said to Duke Kalas, as the pair, along with Marcalo De'Unnero, Abbot Olin, and some other commanders, stood about the large table in what Aydrian had turned into the planning room. A large map of Honce-the-Bear was spread before them, with the areas currently under Aydrian's secure control, notably the southern stretch from Ursal to Entel, shaded in red - just as he had seen at Oracle.
"None will stand before my Allhearts," Duke Kalas said.
Marcalo De'Unnero smirked at him, quietly mocking his proud posture. "Not openly, perhaps," the monk corrected. "The key to our victory will be to look honestly into the hearts