The Blood Knight

Prologue In the Chamber of the Waurm

Smiling, Robert Dare offered Muriele a rose.

“Keep it,” she suggested. “Perhaps it will improve your smell.”

Robert sighed, stroking the small black beard that sharpened his naturally fine features. Then he retracted both hand and flower, allowing them to rest on his breast, fixing his dark gaze on Muriele.

He looked far older than the twenty winters he had spent in the world, and for the barest instant she felt a distant sympathy for this man who had murdered her husband and daughters, for what he had become.

Whatever that was, however, it wasn’t human, and her sympathy was dragged off by a tide of revulsion.

“As charming as ever, my dear,” Robert said evenly.

His gaze shifted slightly to the other woman who stood with them in the room as if he were a cat trying to keep track of two mice. “And how does the beautiful Lady Berrye fare today?”

Alis Berrye—Muriele’s maid and protector—favored Robert with a cordial smile. “I am very well, Your Highness.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Robert said. He stepped near and lifted his right hand to stroke Alis’ russet locks. The girl didn’t flinch, except perhaps around the eyes. Indeed, she held very still. Muriele imagined she might react thus to an adder poised to strike.

“In fact, you have quite the bloom on your cheeks,” he went on. “It’s no wonder my dear deceased brother was so taken with you. So young—so full of health and vigor, so smooth and firm. No, age hasn’t begun even to breathe on you yet, Alis.”

That bait was meant for Muriele, but she would not rise to it. Yes, Alis had been one of her husband’s mistresses—the youngest, as far as she knew—but since his death she had proved herself a useful and loyal friend. A strange thing, but there it was.

The girl lowered her azure eyes demurely but did not answer.

“Robert,” Muriele said, interrupting the silence, “I am your prisoner and therefore at your mercy, but I hope I’ve made it plain that I am not afraid of you. You are a kinslaughterer, an usurper, and something far worse for which I have no name. I deem you will not be surprised when I say I do not enjoy your company.

“So if you could please get on with whatever degradation you have planned for me, I would much appreciate it.”

Robert’s smile froze on his face. Then he shrugged and dropped the flower to the floor.

“The rose is not from me, anyhow,” he explained. “Have it as you will. Please take a seat.”

His diffident wave indicated several chairs surrounding a thick oaken table. The furniture rested on carved talons, in keeping with the monstrous theme of the room, a little-used chamber hidden deep in the windowless interior of the castle known as the Waurmsal.

Two large tapestries hung on the walls. One depicted a knight wearing antique chain mail and a conical helm, wielding an improbably broad and lengthy sword against a waurm with scales picked in gold, silver, and bronze threads. Rs snakelike body coiled around the borders of the weaving, flowing toward the center where the knight stood, and there lifted deadly claws and gaped a mouth filled with iron teeth dripping venom. So well crafted was the textile that at any moment it seemed as if the great serpent would slither out of it and onto the floor.

The second tapestry seemed much older. Rs colors were faded, and in places the fiber appeared worn through. R was woven in a simpler, less realistic style and portrayed a man standing beside a dead waurm. The figure was so austerely imagined that she could not be certain it portrayed the same knight, whether he wore armor or merely a jerkin of odd design. The weapon he held was much more modest, more a knife than a sword. He had one hand lifted to his mouth.

“You’ve been in here before?” Robert asked as she reluctantly took a seat.

“Once,” she said. “Long ago. William received a lord from Skhadiza here.”

“When I discovered this chamber—I suppose I was about nine—I found it all dusty,” he said, “scarcely fit to sit in—and yet so charming.”

“Utterly,” Muriele said drily, regarding a grotesque reliquary that stood against one wall. It was mostly wooden, carved somewhat in the form of a man with arms held outstretched. In each clawed hand he held a gold-plated human skull. Instead of a Mannish face, he had a snake’s head with ram’s horns, and his legs were very short, ending in birdlike claws. His belly was a glass-doored cabinet behind which she could make out a narrow, slightly curved cone of ivory about the length of her arm.

“That wasn’t here before,” she said.

“No,” Robert agreed. “I bought that from a Sefry merchant a few years ago. That, my dear, is the tooth of a waurm.”

He said it like a little boy who had found something interesting and expected to be rewarded with special attention.

When none came, he rolled his eyes and rang a little bell. A maidservant appeared, bearing a tray. She was a young woman with dark hair and a single pox mark on her face. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them, and her lips were pressed together so tightly as to be pallid.

She set goblets of wine before each of them, left, and then returned with a platter of sweets: candied pears, butter biscuits, brandied cakes, sweet cheese fritters in honey and—Muriele’s favorite—maiden moons, saccharine turnovers filled with almond paste.

“Please, please,” Robert said, taking a drink of his wine and gesturing broadly at the treats.

Muriele regarded her wine for a moment, then took a sip. Robert had no particular reason to poison her at the moment, and if ever he did, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Everything she ate and drank in her prison tower came ultimately through him.

The drink was surprising, not wine at all but something with a honey taste.

“There,” Robert said, setting his goblet on the table. “Lady Berrye, is it to your liking?”

“It’s very sweet,” she allowed.

“A gift,” Robert said. “It is an extraordinarily fine mead from Haurnrohsen—a present from Berimund of Hansa.”

“Berimund is very generous lately,” Muriele remarked.

“And he has a high regard for you,” Robert said.

“Obviously,” she replied, unwilling to curb her sarcasm.

Robert drank again, then took the cup in both hands, turning it slowly between his palms. “I noticed you enjoying the tapestries,” he said, peering down into his mead. “Do you know the man depicted here?”

“I do not.”

“Hairugast Waurmslauht, the first of the house of Reiksbaurg. Some called him the blodrauhtin, or Blood Knight, because they say that after slaying the monster, he drank the waurm’s blood and mingled it with his own. He thus partook of its strengths, as did his every descendant. And for that reason the Reiksbaurgs have remained strong.”

“They weren’t so strong when your grandfather drove them out of Crotheny,” Muriele noted.

Robert wagged a finger at her. “But they were strong when they took the throne away from your Lierish ancestors.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Again he shrugged. “Hansa is mightier now than it was then. R’s all a great dance, Muriele, a red duchess pavane. The emperor of Crotheny was Lierish, then Hansan; now he’s of Virgenyan descent. But wherever his blood comes from, he is the emperor of Crotheny. The throne remains.”

“What are you suggesting, Robert?”

He leaned onto his elbows and regarded her with an almost comically serious expression.

“We stand on the brink of chaos, Muriele. Monsters from our darkest Black Marys roam freely across our countryside, terrorizing our villages. Nations gird for war, and our throne, seeming weak, presents a target few can ignore. The Church sees heresy everywhere and hangs whole villages—which seems hardly productive to me, but they are, after all, among our few allies.”

“Nevertheless, you are not going to give the throne over to Marcomir of Hansa,” Muriele asserted confidently. “You’ve worked too hard to steal it for yourself.”

“Yes, that would be silly, wouldn’t it?” he agreed. “No. But I shall do what kings often do to secure their power. I shall marry.

“And so, dear sister-in-law, shall you,” he added.

“I’ve made myself quite clear,” Muriele replied. “Murder me if you want, but I will not marry you.”

He shrugged and shrugged again, as if trying to shake something off his back. “No, indeed,” he said wryly. “I can see that you won’t do that. The knife you thrust into my heart was a distinct clue that you didn’t take kindly to my proposal.”

“How fortunate for you it no longer beats, your heart.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Must you always quibble about such things?” he said. “Who is alive, who is dead? You think you are better off merely because you have a beating heart. How pretentious of you.

“And—if I must say it—how ungenerous.”

“You are entirely mad,” Muriele opined.

Robert grinned and opened his eyes again.

“That, at least, is a familiar complaint. But please allow me to return to my original point, won’t you. In fact, I wasn’t renewing my own proposition—one stabbing from you is quite enough for me. No, you shall marry Berimund Fram Reiksbaurg, the heir to the throne of Hansa. And I shall marry his sister Alfswan. Between us, we will secure my throne.”

Muriele laughed bitterly.

“I think not, Robert,” she said. “I’ve rejected Berimund’s offer once already.”

“Not really,” Robert pointed out. “Actually, your son Charles rejected that proposal because, after all, he was king at the time and the prerogative fell solely to him. Of course, Charles is a half-wit, and you were entirely in control of his actions.

“But he isn’t king any longer,” Robert continued. “I am. And as per my prerogative, I have given your hand to Berimund. The wedding will take place in a month’s time.”

The air seemed denser suddenly—almost like water. Muriele fought the urge to lift her head above the floodline.

Robert could do this thing. He would do it, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about that.

“It will never happen,” she finally managed, hoping she still sounded defiant.

“Well, we shall see,” Robert responded cheerfully. Then he turned. “Lady Berrye, is something the matter?”

Muriele followed Robert’s gaze and noticed that Alis did look suddenly pale. Her eyes—no, her pupils—seemed very large.

“It’s nothing,” Alis averred.

“I forgot to ask,” Robert said, turning his wrist to include them both. “Have you had a chance to reflect upon the musical performance we were subjected to last wihnaht? The lustspell presented by our dear Cavaor Ackenzal?”

Muriele forced a smile.

“How that must nag at you—to have yourself revealed for what you are, in front of the entire kingdom, and be helpless to stop it. I daresay Leovigild Ackenzal is a genius.”

“I see,” Robert mused. “Then you are of the opinion that the villain of the piece was supposed to represent me?”

“You know he did, and so does everyone who saw it. How did Ackenzal manage it? I wonder. Certainly you and the praifec must have kept close watch on him, monitored his script, his score, his rehearsals—and yet still he showed you for fools.”

“Well,” Robert said, “I think the praifec was even more troubled by the performance than I was. In fact, he felt it necessary to question Fralet Ackenzal very closely. Very closely indeed, along with many of the performers.”

“That was foolish,” Alis said softly, rubbing her forehead.

“Did you say something, Lady Berrye?”

“Yes, Highness. I said the praifec was foolish to torture the composer—and you were foolish to let him. You must know that you need the support of the landwaerden to hold this city against attack. Leovigild Ackenzal was their darling, all the more so after the performance of his wonderful music.”

“Hmm,” Robert mused. “Lady Berrye, that is a most considered opinion. Such political acumen from someone whom I’ve long believed to be a simple whore.”

“One can be very simple, indeed,” Alis said, “and still understand things you do not.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true,” Robert admitted. “In any event, there are ways to regain the trust of the landwaerden, should that be needed. But with Hansa and the holy Church on my side, I don’t think the landwaerden will present much of a problem. I need only keep them quiet for another month or so, yes?”

“The Church?” Muriele asked.

“Indeed. The praifec has written to the Fratrex Prismo in z’Irbina, and the fratrex has kindly agreed to send a few troops to help us keep the peace and to prosecute the resacaratum until this throne is secure.”

“First Hansa, now the Church. You would give our country to every enemy we have if it would buy you time on the throne. You truly are despicable.”

“I didn’t realize that you considered the Church our enemy,” Robert said blandly. “Praifec Hespero might find fault with that. In fact, he might discover the need to question you.”

There was the sudden sound of shattering glass.

“Lady Berrye,” Robert said, “you’ve dropped your goblet.”

Alis turned unfocused eyes in his direction.

“Saints damn you,” she rasped. She tried to stand, but her legs seemed too weak to support her.

Sudden terror stroked through Muriele like a sword. She reached out for Alis. “What have you done to her, Robert?”

Robert fondled his beard.

“I gave her to you as your maid because I thought it would annoy you. But to the contrary, you two actually seem to have cultivated a friendship. It also seems that our dear Alis seduced information from one of your guards and has perhaps done so on other occasions.

“I believe I not only misunderstood Lady Berrye but underestimated her. And so I wonder what other things she might be capable of accomplishing. Doubtless you told her of the secret passages that riddle this castle, if she did not already know of them. Perhaps she has some scheme to spirit you away from me.”

He smiled more broadly.

“If so, then she will take her plot with her to Eslen-of-Shadows.”

Muriele knelt at Alis’ side now, taking her hand. The girl’s skin already had a bluish cast, and her arms had begun to convulse. Her fingers were like ice.

“Alis!” Muriele gasped.

“Gallowswort,” Alis managed, her voice so faint, Muriele had to lean close. “Knew…” She shook, and black spittle came from her mouth. She murmured a few words Muriele did not understand, and Muriele felt a slight heat on her skin. The hairs stood up on her arm.

“Keep safe,” Alis hissed. “Soinmié. Soinmié, Fienden.”

Her breath became more ragged until she seemed to be hiccupping rather than breathing. Then, with a sudden, soundless scream, that stopped, too.

Muriele peered up at Robert, her hatred so strong that she couldn’t think of any words that would not belittle it.

“I think I’ll put her in the Dare crypt,” Robert mused. “Should William’s soul ever find its way there, he will be pleased.”

He rose then. “The seamstress will come around tomorrow to fit you for your wedding gown,” he said pleasantly. “It has been a pleasure visiting with you, Muriele. Good afternoon.”

He left her there with Alis, whose flesh was already cold.