The Briar King

1 An Excursion

Neil Meqvren cast his gaze around the hillside, searching for murder. He clucked under his breath to Hurricane, urging him to catch up with the queen and Lady Erren, riding sidesaddle just ahead of him on the raised track of road.

“Majesty,” he said, for the third time, “this is not a good idea.”

“Agreed,” Erren said.

“I’m aware of your opinions,” the queen replied, waving off their protests. “Indeed, I have heard them at least two times too many.”

“We came to Cal Azroth for its protection,” Erren noted.

“So we did,” the queen replied.

“But if we are not in Cal Azroth, what protection can it afford?” She motioned toward the keep, which was still visible behind them. It wasn’t large, but it did have three defensive walls, a garrison, and a good position on the hill, further surrounded by broad canals. Ten men had once held Cal Azroth against two thousand.

“I am not convinced we are any safer in the fortress than out here,” the queen replied. “It is protected against an army, I’ll give you that. But do you think anyone will send an army to kill my daughters or me? I do not. More and more I come to share Sir Neil’s opinion.”

“What opinion is that, if I may ask?” Erren asked mildly, giving Neil a glance so sharp it could have cut steel.

“That William was maneuvered into sending us here by someone—Robert or Lady Gramme perhaps—who wants us away from the court for a time.”

Erren’s eyes narrowed. “Not that I don’t suspect that myself,” she said, “but I would like to know why Sir Neil did not mention this opinion to me.”

I am just the sword, remember? Neil thought. “I was certain my lady had a more informed opinion than mine.”

“You were right in that, if nothing else,” Erren replied. “But did it occur to you that if someone maneuvered Her Majesty and her children here, the goal might be more than to merely remove their influence from court? The intent to do them harm, as well?”

Before Neil could answer, the queen laughed. “If that’s the case, then the last place we ought to be is in the fortress, where our hypothetical conspirators expect us to be gathered, like lambs awaiting the butcher’s hammer.”

“Unless they count on you doing something stupid, like riding out to Glenchest.”

The queen rolled her eyes. “Erren, we’ve been prisoned in Cal Azroth for near two months. Elyoner’s home is less than half a day’s ride, and we have twelve armored knights and thirty footmen with us.”

“Yes, we’re eminently noticeable,” Erren commented.

“Lady Erren, Sir Neil, surrender!” Fastia advised, riding up from behind. “Once mother has made up her mind, it is set, as at least you ought to know, Erren. We’re going to see Aunt Elyoner, and that’s that.”

“Besides,” Elseny chimed in, “I’m tired of that old castle. There’s nothing to do there.” She sighed. “I so miss the court. Prince Cheiso, Aunt Lesbeth’s fiancé, was to have arrived by now, and I wanted to meet him.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough,” the queen soothed.

Neil heard all of that with only one ear; the other he kept pricked for danger. The road they followed passed through mostly open country—pear and apple orchards, fields of wheat and millet. And yet even such terrain offered ample opportunity for ambush. A single well-placed arrow from someone hidden in the branches of a tree, and all was lost.

As Erren said, they made quite a procession. The queen, Erren, Fastia, Elseny, and himself rode in a close clump. Audra and Mere—the maids of Fastia and Elseny respectively— rode a few yards behind, chattering like magpies. Prince Charles trailed farther behind, singing a children’s song as Hound Hat capered along beside him on foot. Today the jester’s red cap was so large it covered him nearly to the knees, and though Neil was sure that the Sefry could by some artifice see, exactly how he couldn’t say, for the hat had no holes in it.

Around the royal party, mounted Craftsmen and the Royal Footguard formed a loose hollow square, ready to tighten at any moment.

That didn’t give Neil much comfort. For all he knew, any or all of those men might turn against him. Still, if that were the case, the queen was right: they could as easily do murder in a keep as in clear light.

“Why so glum, Sir Knight?”

Startled, Neil swung about in the saddle. Concentrating on the middle and far distance, he hadn’t noticed Fastia dropping back to pace him.

“I’m not glum, Archgreffess. Just watchful.”

“You look more than watchful; you look as nervous as a rabbit caught in a fox hunt. Do you really expect danger out here? We’re in Loiyes, after all, not Hansa.”

“And we were in Eslen when your mother was attacked.”

“True. Still, it’s as I said a moment ago—Mother won’t be dissuaded, so you might as well make the best of it.” She smiled, and it was so unexpected on her normally tightly composed face that he couldn’t help but follow suit.

“That’s better,” she said, still smiling.

“I—” He suddenly worried that he had a bug in his teeth or something. “Is something funny, Archgreffess?”

“Turn and look behind you.”

Neil did as he was told. There was Prince Charles and Hound Hat, the maids …

When his gaze touched Audra and Mere they both turned as red as ripe cherries and then burst into giggling. Mortified, Neil turned around quickly.

“They’ve been back there talking about you all morning,” Fastia said. “They really can’t seem to get enough of watching you.”

Neil felt his own face burning and guessed it a good match for the girls. “I didn’t—I mean I haven’t …”

“So much as spoken to them? I know. If you spoke to them, I expect they would fall off of their horses.”

“But why?”

“Sir Neil! Please. You’re a handsome man, and you must know it. There were girls in Liery, weren’t there?”

“Ah—well, there was one.” He was uncomfortable with such talk, especially around the prim Fastia.

“One? In all of the islands?”

“I meant only one who I, ah …”

“You had only one sweetheart?”

“She was never my sweetheart,” Neil said. “She was betrothed, soon after we met.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“She was betrothed when you were twelve? And so after that, no young woman has ever pursued you?”

“Some did, I suppose. But my heart was given. I promised her, you see, that as long as she lived I would love no other.”

“A promise given when you were twelve. And she never released you from your vow?”

“She died in childbirth, Princess, a year ago.”

Fastia’s eyes widened and went oddly soft. He had never seen them so soft. “Saint Anne bless her,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Neil merely nodded.

“But—and forgive me if this sounds cruel—you are released from your vow now.”

“That’s true. But I’ve taken another—to protect your mother.”

“Ah.” Fastia nodded. “You will find, I think, that few men keep vows as you do.” A note of bitterness crept into her voice. “Marriage vows in particular.”

Neil could think of nothing tactful to say to that, and so remained silent.

Fastia brightened, after a moment. “What a bore I can be,” she said. “Anne is right about me.”

“I do not find you boring,” Neil replied. “Of everyone I have met in this court, you have been the kindest and most helpful to me.”

Fastia’s cheeks pinkened. “How kind of you, sir. Your company these past months has been appreciated.”

Neil suddenly feared he had crossed some threshold he should never have approached, and so he needled his gaze around the landscape again. Along the side of the road, stalks of spindly flowers like tiny spiral stairs caught his attention with their vivid orange blossoms.

“Do you know the name of that flower?” he asked, for want of anything better to say. “I have never seen it in Liery.”

“Those are Jeremy towers,” Fastia said. “You know, I once could name every kind of flower on this road.”

“Would you entertain me by doing so, Princess? It would help me stay vigilant. I know it is impolite to look away while conversing, but …”

“I understand completely. I would be happy to entertain you thus, Sir Neil.”

When they stopped to water the horses, Fastia braided necklaces of pharigolds—one for each girl and Charles, and one for Neil. He felt rather silly wearing it, but could think of no polite way of refusing it, either.

While the party reassembled itself, Neil rode to the top of the nearest hill, to get a better view.

The land was rolling and lovely, copsed with trees but mostly pasture dotted with brown-and-white cows. About a league away, he could make out the slender towers of a castle— presumably Glenchest, their destination.

Hoofbeats signaled the arrival of Sir James Cathmayl and Sir Vargus Farre.

“Well, if it isn’t the captain of the queen’s guard,” Cathmayl said. “How do our chances look, Captain? Do you think you can take her?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re a fine tactician, I’ll tell you that. You’ve got the ice princess smiling, up top, which is a good first step to that smile down below.”

“Sir James, I most honestly hope you are not implying what you seem to be.”

“Let imps lie where they may,” Sir James said.

“Crudeness aside,” Vargus interposed, “you do seem to have a way with her.”

“She’s still a girl, under that dress,” James said. “That fool Ossel barely touches her, they say. But I’ve never seen her show an itch till now.”

Neil regarded Sir James seriously. “Princess Fastia, if that’s who you mean, is a perfect and gentle lady,” he said. “Any kindness she shows me is from politeness, I assure you.”

“Well, let’s hope she very politely licks your—”

“Sir, stop there, I warn you!” Neil shouted.

James did, and let a wicked grin spread across his face. Then he chuckled and rode off.

“Sir Neil,” Vargus said, “you are far too easy a target for James to hit. He means no malice, but he loves to see your blood up.”

“He should not talk that way about the archgreffess. It offends honor.”

Vargus shook his head. “You were brought up by Sir Fail. I know for a fact that he taught you that honor has its place. But so does levity, and even a little crudeness.” He swept his hand at the party down the hill. “We’re ready to lay down our lives for any of them, anytime, and Sir James is not the slightest exception. Why begrudge us a little harmless fun? More to the point, the guard isn’t going to like you, if you keep this stiff, standoffish mien. And you need the men to like you, Sir Neil. You are to assemble a staff for the queen’s new bodyguard, yes, and captain it?”

“I am.”

“Better to have men who like you.”

“Most will not like me anyway, however I act. I am not of gentle birth, and many find that offensive.”

“And many do not. There are ties that can bind warriors much more surely than any title or rank. But you have to be willing to make some of the rope.”

Neil pursed his lips. “I was well liked in Liery, as you say. I fought alongside lords and called them brother. But this is not Liery.”

“You earned your place there,” Vargus told him. “Now earn it here.”

“That’s difficult, with no battles to fight.”

“There are many kinds of battle, Sir Neil, especially at court.”

“I know little of that sort of warcraft,” Neil admitted.

“You’re young. You can learn.”

Neil nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Sir Vargus,” he said sincerely. “I shall keep that in mind.”

Glenchest, as it turned out, was not so much a castle as a walled amusement. Its towers were tapering, beautiful, and utterly impractical for defense. Its wall, while high enough to keep goats and peasants out, would do little more than make an army pause. The gate was a joke, an elaborate grill of wrought iron made to resemble singing birds and blooming vines, through which could be seen a vast park of trees, hedges, fountains, and pools. Besides the towers Neil could see the roof of the villa, bright copper, shaped very much like an upside-down boat.

The castle stood upon a low mount, and the town below was clean, trim, and very small, clearly grown up recently to service Glenchest. Its inhabitants watched the queen’s party curiously as they approached.

When they drew nearer, four young girls broke from the rest, dancing excitedly up to the party. Neil’s hand strayed to his sword.

“Sir Neil, stay your hand,” Fastia whispered. “Village girls pose no danger.”

For their part, the girls seemed oblivious to Neil’s guarded attitude. They came right to Hurricane’s withers, eyes bright and upturned. They giggled, much in the same manner as the maids had earlier.

“Sir Knight,” the eldest-looking said, a brown-haired lass who might have been thirteen. “Couldn’t you give us a favor?”

Neil stared at them, confused. “Favor?” he replied.

“For my wishing chest,” the girl said demurely, casting her eyes down.

“Go ahead, Sir Neil,” Vargus urged jovially. “Give the girl a little something.”

Neil balked, feeling his face flush, but remembered the older knight’s advice.

“I don’t—” He broke off, befuddled. Elseny laughed.

“Here,” Sir Vargus said. “I’m a knight, as well, ladies, though not so young and pretty as this one. Would a favor from me do?”

“Oh, for me!” one of the younger girls cried, changing her attentions in an instant to Vargus. The older knight smiled and produced a knife, cutting a lock of his curly hair.

“That’s for you, miss,” he said.

“Thank you, sir!” the girl said, and then ran off, holding up her prize.

“It’s the custom, hereabouts,” Fastia said. “They’ll wish on it and pray to Saint Erren for a love as noble as you.”

“Oh,” Neil said. He looked down at the three still eagerly waiting. “I suppose it’s no harm.” He produced his little belt knife, sawed through a bit of his own hair, and handed it down to the girl. She beamed up at him, bowed, and ran off. The others followed, demanding a part of her prize. Elseny applauded. Audra and Mere looked sullen.

“As I said,” Sir James drawled, “this one has a way with the ladies.”

Neil caught movement from the corner of his eye, and to his chagrin realized he’d been distracted enough to miss the arrival of a sizable party.

It was a gaudy group emerging from the gate. There were pages dressed in yellow hose and orange frocks, footmen in silver mail—it looked like real silver, which was ridiculous— knights in baroque, flowery armor and red and blue surcoats trimmed in gold lace. In the center of all this, on a palanquin covered with a silk awning and sprouting pennants of cloth of gold and argent, reclined a woman in a voluminous gown of gold and forest green brocade, touched here and there with scarlet flowers. It spilled down the sides of the palanquin like a waterfall, in all directions, and was surely impossible to walk in. The bodice was cut precariously low and pushed dangerously high, and it seemed to Neil that any motion at all might send her breasts forth to reveal what little of them was hidden.

The face above all of this was, at first glance, almost plain. It was gently oval, with a tiny sharp nose and small lips. But the woman’s eyes were cerulean and radiated an easy mischief, and her lips were painted red and bowed in a smile to match. All this somehow made her whimsically beautiful. Her hair was pale brown, caught up in a complex silver coronet.

“My aunt Elyoner, my father’s sister and the duchess of Loiyes,” Fastia whispered. She leaned away, and then back. “She is a widow and an enemy of virtue, my aunt. Watch yourself with her, especially if you are alone.”

Neil nodded, thinking the duchess did not resemble her brother the king in the least.

“Muriele, my love!” the duchess said, when they were near. “What a disaster that you should come now! I’m barely fit to receive visitors. I just came out to the country a few days ago and haven’t had time to properly put things in order. I hope you will forgive this drab reception! It was the best I could manage on such short notice, but I could not fail to welcome you!”

As she spoke, the pages scattered the road before them with lilies, while others offered goblets of wine and took the reins of the horses. The queen took one of the proffered cups.

“A gracious reception, as always,” she said. “It pleases to see you, Elyoner.”

The duchess coyly averted her eyes. “You are always so kind, Muriele. Please, all of you, come down off those sweaty things. I have chairs for most of you, and your guard will enjoy the walk.” She gestured at four palanquins, each with two seats. They were somewhat smaller than her own.

“Elseny, what a beauty you’ve become!” she continued, as the party dismounted. “And Fastia! You have color back in your cheeks. Have you finally taken my advice and found a lover?”

Fastia made a sound like a hiccup, and suddenly, for some reason, the duchess focused her eyes on Neil. “Aha!” she said. “An excellent choice.”

“I’ve done no such thing, Aunt Elyoner,” Fastia said, “as you ought to know.”

“Really? How sad. I take it, then, that this delicious young knight is free for sport?”

“He is Sir Neil MeqVren, captain of my Lier Guard,” Muriele said.

“How odd. I could have sworn he was guarding Fastia. But that hardly answers my question.”

With a guilty start, Neil realized that he was, indeed, nearer to Fastia than to her mother.

“Aunt Elyoner, you have no shame, truly,” Fastia said.

“Why, I never claimed to, dear. Now, come give us a kiss, and let’s get out of this dreadful sunlight!”

“Please accept my apologies, once again,” the duchess said that night at supper, gesturing at the table, an enormous affair the size of some galleries. “The cupboard was rather bare, and my best cook is too ill to be troubled.”

Neil was starting to notice a pattern with the duchess. The polished oaken surface was filled from end to end with partridges in butter gravy, quail pie with currants and almonds, ten kinds of cheese, mixed herbs, steaming platters of eel stew, capons in crust of salt, three roasted suckling pigs, and a gilded bull’s head. Wine had been flowing like water since they passed through the gates and fantastic gardens of Glen-chest, and Elyoner herself had taken quite a bit of it, though to no obvious effect. Servants hurried everywhere, keeping glasses full, and Neil had to be careful to keep up with what he drank.

“Your hospitality, as usual, is far more than adequate,” the queen assured her.

“Well, as long as I got you out of that dreary Cal Azroth. What a hole!”

“But a safe hole,” Erren muttered.

“Oh, yes. The attempt on Muriele’s life. I got that news only a little while ago. It must have been terrible, my dear.”

“I hardly had time to notice it before Sir Neil removed the danger,” the queen replied.

“Aha!” the duchess said, waving her cup at Neil. “This is the one? I knew this young man had a quality about him. I can spot that sort of thing right away.”

“Those are kind words, Duchess,” Neil said. “But I simply did what any man in the guard would have done. It’s only that I was nearer.”

“Oh, and modest, too,” the duchess said.

“He is that, and truly,” Fastia said, setting her goblet down and spilling a little wine in the process. “It’s no courtly pretension, with him. Heezh—” Fastia looked surprised, and glanced at her wineglass with a bit of chagrin. Misunderstanding, a page hastened to fill it. By her slurred speech and pink cheeks, that was hardly what the usually sober Fastia needed.

Neil was the only one who seemed to notice her discomfort, perhaps because he shared it.

“Well, Sir Neil,” the duchess said, with a sly smile, “we shall have to think of some reward for you. Our sister-in-law is very dear to us, and we thank you very much indeed for preserving her life.”

Neil nodded politely.

“Now, dear Muriele, tell me every little thing about the court. Well, no, not the boring things, you know, no politics or war or matters of that sort. Just the interesting things—which cocks are in which henhouses, you know. Page! Bring the brandy, will you?”

After dinner it was games in the garden—darts, tennis, hide-and-seek in the hedge maze. The duchess sent more and stronger spirits to Neil, which he sipped at and poured out when she wasn’t looking. The queen took part in the games, and even seemed to be enjoying herself. So did Fastia, though she swayed unsteadily as she consumed more wine and brandy.

The duchess had changed before dinner, and now wore a black gown embroidered in silver and of more manageable length, though still scandalously revealing. She presided over the play from a little throne her servants carried from place to place.

As the sun set, she beckoned Neil over. When he drew near, her servant produced a small golden key.

“This is for you,” she said, her gaze tracing his face languidly. “I do hope you’ll use it.”

“I don’t understand, Duchess.”

“It is the key to a certain chamber, in the tallest tower, there. In it I think you will find a reward you will quite enjoy.”

“My lady, I must stay near the queen.”

“Foo. I will protect her. I am the lady of this house, and I command it.”

“Lady, with greatest respect, and with all of my apologies, I cannot leave my queen’s side.”

“What? Will you sleep with her?”

“No, lady. But near.”

“She has Erren, when she sleeps.”

“I am very sorry,” Neil said again firmly. “But my first and only duty is to the queen.”

The duchess studied his face in fascination. “You are the virtuous one, aren’t you? I thought they threw all of your sort off of the cliffs long ago.” She bit one side of her lower lip, then straightened her smile. “How exciting. It only makes the chase more worthwhile. I am young, I’ve plenty of time.” She frowned a bit. “Agree with me, Sir Neil. Tell me I am young.”

“You are, my lady. And beautiful.”

“Not so beautiful as some, perhaps,” she replied. “But I will tell you this, Sir Neil: I am very, very learned. I have read books—forbidden books—and I do so hate to read. But it was worth it.” She stroked his cheek and parted his lips with her finger. “You would find my studies were not in vain, I assure you.”

Neil’s body was already convinced, and he had to swallow before answering. “Duty,” he managed.

She laughed, a trilling, beautiful sound. “Yes, we shall see about that,” she said. “You will take some breaking, but every horse can be ridden.” She dimpled. “Suppose I told you I could have something put in your drink, something that would drive you mad with desire?”

“Then I should have to stop drinking,” Neil said.

“Suppose I told you you already drank it?”

Neil’s mouth dropped. He did feel flushed, and certain parts of him were very much attentive. He could smell the flowery fragrance on the duchess, and his eyes were drawn more and more to the precipitous cleavage she exposed.

“May I be excused, lady?” Neil said.

“Of course, my dear,” she replied. She took his hand and stroked it, sending a jolt through his body. “A little jumpy, are you?” She released his hand. “I’ll see you later, Sir Neil. Hopefully all of you.”

Later that night, once he was certain the queen’s suite was secure, Neil retired to a small chamber outside of her receiving room, and there removed his armor, gambeson, and underclothes. He splashed cold water from the basin on his face and then sat on the bed, trying to control his breathing, which was still a bit irregular. He was almost certain now that the duchess had somehow bewitched him. It was as if lightning were flashing in his head, and each bright eruption illuminating an imagined feminine limb or curve. He knew that in the next room the queen was undressing, and it disgusted him that he could not keep that fact from his mind. He lay on the bed, summoning memories of battle and death, of anything to divert his thoughts from lust. Failing, he rose and exercised, padding silently in his small chamber, working through the motions of sword practice with his open hands, as he had first learned them.

Finally, sweating and knowing he needed sleep to be alert, he sat back on the bed and put his head in his hands.

He almost missed the slight creak of the door under the pounding of his pulse, but his body was limbered and ready, and in a swift instant he had his sword in hand and at guard.

“Sir Neil, it is me,” a woman’s voice whispered.

Slowly he lowered the sword, trying to make out the vague shadow in the doorway. He knew it must be the duchess, and his blood roared even more loudly in his ears.

She stepped a little farther in, so that the moonlight through the window touched her face, and he beheld with a start that it was Fastia.

2 Tracks

Aspar knelt by the still-smoking ashes of the campfire and growled in the back of his throat.

“What’s wrong?” Stephen asked.

The holter didn’t look at the boy but stood and surveyed the clearing again. “They didn’t try to hide their sign,” he grunted. “They didn’t even stop the embers smoking. They led us right here.”

“Maybe they don’t imagine we’re following them. It’s been nearly a month.”

Indeed, they’d left d’Ef in the hottest days of Sestemen, but they were now well into the month of Seftmen. The leaves were already touched with autumn color, even here in the lowlands, where pasture and farmland cut up the King’s Forest. Aspar simply hadn’t been able to keep the pace needed to catch the monks early on. He was stronger now, though he still didn’t feel quite himself.

“They know we’re after them,” he said. “Make no mistake.” He fitted an arrow to his bow, one of the four that remained. The others had broken in hunting.

“You think—” Stephen began, but in that moment Aspar smelled the ambush. Two men were racing from the trees behind them. Stripped to the waist, they were heavily tattooed on their shoulders and chests, and they bore broadswords. They were running faster than men ought to be able to run.

“That’s Desmond’s men!” Stephen shouted. “Or two of them.”

“Mount,” Aspar shouted, leaping onto Ogre and digging in his heels. The big horse jolted into motion. The men split, one headed toward Stephen and one keeping a course toward Aspar.

Aspar stood in his stirrups and turned, sighting down a shaft at the one attacking Stephen. Ogre wasn’t quite settled into a stride, but Aspar couldn’t wait. He released the dart.

The arrow flew true, or almost so, striking the monk in the kidney. He fell, giving Stephen time to get up on Angel, but came back to his feet with absurd speed.

Meanwhile, incredibly, the other monk was gaining on Ogre. Grimacing, Aspar fitted another arrow to his bow and shot it, but just as he did so Ogre leapt a downed log and his shot went high and wide.

Now he was down to two arrows.

He yanked on his reins, spun the horse around, and aimed him right at his pursuer, staring down the shaft at him. He saw the man’s face, set and determined, and as mad as one of the Raver’s berserks. He aimed for the heart.

At the last instant, the monk threw himself aside, so the arrow buried itself in sod. He cut viciously at Ogre’s legs as he tumbled past, but the horse avoided the blow by whiskers. They thundered by, back toward Stephen, whose wounded attacker was nearly on him. He was bleeding freely, but that seemed only to have slowed him a little. Fortunately, he was so intent on the boy that he didn’t notice Ogre until it was too late, until the beast’s forehooves had crushed his skull.

Aspar wheeled again, taking out his last arrow and leaping down from the beast.

“Ogre, qalyast!” he shouted.

Ogre immediately charged the monk, who set himself grimly to meet the horse. In that instant of relative stillness, Aspar shot him in the center of the chest.

The monk spun with the blow, avoiding Ogre as he did so, and ran past the horse toward Aspar. Cursing, Aspar turned and lifted the dead man’s sword. It wasn’t a weapon he knew a lot about—he wished he had his dirk and ax—but he held it at guard and waited. Behind him, he heard Stephen drop to the ground.

The monk was on him, then, cutting fast and hard toward Aspar’s head. Aspar gave ground, but not enough, and had to bring the heavy weapon up to parry. His shoulder jarred as if he’d just stopped thirty stone falling from a tower. Stephen came in from the right, swinging his farm tool, but the swordsman turned and neatly hacked through the wooden shaft. As-par swung clumsily, and the monk danced aside, feinted, and cut. Aspar leapt inside the swing, dropped his own weapon, grabbed the sword arm with his left hand, and punched the monk in the throat. He felt cartilage crush, but his opponent kneed him viciously in the chest, hurling him back and to the ground, empty of breath. The monk staggered forward, lifting his sword, just as Ogre hit him from behind. He fell, and Ogre kept stamping him until his hooves were red and the corpse wasn’t twitching.

“They could have killed us if they’d been a little smarter,” As-par said, when he got his wind back. “They were overconfident. Should have ignored us and gone straight for Ogre.”

“Contemptuous is more like it,” Stephen replied. “Those were two of the pettiest of Spendlove’s bunch—Topan and Aligern. Spendlove himself would never be so stupid.”

“Yah. I maunt he sent the men he could most afford to lose. Even if they’d got only one of us, it would have been a bargain. He should’ve given ’em bows.”

“Those who walk the faneway of Saint Mamres are forbidden to use bows,” Stephen remembered.

“Well. Thank Saint Mamres in your prayers, then.”

They stripped the corpses, and to Aspar’s satisfaction found a fighting dirk not unlike his own lost one. They also found a few silver tierns and enough dried meat and bread for a day, all welcome additions to Aspar and Stephen’s meager possessions.

“I reckon that leaves about six of them,” he mused, “and however many Fend brings. Let’s hope they keep sending them two at a time like this, so we can keep evening the odds.”

“I doubt Spendlove will make the same mistake twice,” Stephen said. “Next time, he’ll be sure.”

“Next time could be anytime. These two might have just been to lull us. We’re riding out of here, right now, and not the way they’ll expect. We know where they’re going, so we don’t need to trail them.”

Once they were mounted, Aspar chuckled.

“What?” Stephen asked.

“I notice you aren’t arguing we bury these, like you did those last.”

“A holter’s burial is good enough for them,” Stephen said.

“Werlic,” Aspar allowed, “at least you’ve learned something.”

3 Plots

“Well, sister Mule,” Serevkis said. “The greencrafting has become much more interesting, hasn’t it?”

Anne glanced up from her examination of the double boiler and the fermenting ewe’s milk it contained. She loved the scent of it, still warm from the sheep, and even more the anticipation of the magic that was soon to occur.

“Why do you still call me that?” she asked absently.

“Wouldn’t you rather be a mule than a little cow?”

Anne smiled. “There’s that,” she admitted. “Yes, green-craft is more interesting now. Everything is.”

“Even numbers?” Serevkis sounded skeptical.

“Yes. If they’d told me from the start that we were studying numbers so we could manage the moneys of our households, I might have paid more attention in the beginning.”

“But greencraft is the most interesting,” Serevkis insisted. “Who knew how many poisons lie right beneath our feet or in garden walls, and requiring only a little alchemy to make them potent.”

“It’s like a lot of things,” Anne said. “Even this cheese I’m making. To know we have the power to change things, to make one thing into another.”

“You and your cheese. Is it doing anything yet?”

“Not yet,” Anne said.

“But you’re right,” Serevkis went on. “To be able to make something harmless into something deadly—it’s wonderful.”

“You’re a wicked girl, Sister Serevkis,” Anne said.

“Who will you kill first, Sister Mule?”

“Hush!” Anne said. “If the mestra or one of the elders hears you talking like that …”

Serevkis yawned and stretched her long limbs. “They won’t,” she said. “The mestra and her favorites went off through the gates four bells ago, and the rest are teaching. No one ever comes to the creamery. Who will you murder in the night?”

“No one comes to mind, except a certain long-necked name-caller.”

“I’m serious.”

Anne met the girl’s casually evil gaze. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Oh, indeed. Several someones. There’s Dechio—he’d be first. For him it will be the pollen of the witherweed, cooked into a gum with nightshade. I’ll put it in the candles in his room.”

“That’s a slow, cruel death. What did this Dechio ever do to you?”

“He was my first lover.”

“And jilted you?”

“I was ten. He was twenty. He pretended to be my friend and made me drink wine until I couldn’t stand, and then he had his way with me.”

“He raped you?” Anne asked, incredulous.

“There’s the word,” Serevkis said. Her mouth twitched, after.

“And your father? He did not avenge this?”

Serevkis laughed, a bit bitterly. “What use to a father a daughter so early despoiled? No, it would have been better to leap to my death from the moat tower than tell my father what Dechio did that day, and continued to do until I grew too old to attract him.”

“I see.” Anne didn’t see, though. She couldn’t imagine. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Certainly.”

“Black widow spiders, fatted on corpse flies. Glue little threads to them and the other ends under the edge of the sitting-hole in his privy. When he dangles down …”

Serevkis clapped her hands. “Wonderful. It would rot like an old sausage, wouldn’t it? But it might not kill him.”

“True. But there are other ways to finish him off. After all, the candles might kill someone innocent—the girl who cleans his chambers, or another of his victims.”

“Or I could leave him to live with a rotted poker,” Serevkis said. “Clever, Sister Mule.”

“Thank you.” She glanced back at her boiler. “Look!” she exclaimed. “See! It curdles!”

Serevkis got up to see.

A solid white mass had formed in the pot, shrinking slightly as it did so, so that it pulled away from the edges of the container. It floated there like an island, surrounded by clear, yellowish liquid. Anne inserted a wooden skewer into the solid part, and when she withdrew it, the hole remained.

“The thick part is the curd,” Anne explained. “The rest is whey.”

“What worked this change?” Serevkis asked, suddenly interested. “What broke the milk in two?”

“Rennet, taken from a cow’s belly.”

“Appetizing. What else might it clot, I wonder? Blood? I suppose I see why you find this interesting.”

“Of course. It once was one thing—milk—and now it is two.”

“It still doesn’t look much like cheese.”

“True. There is more magic to be worked.”

“You know,” Serevkis mused, “when I was young, we had a servant from Herilanz. She had the pretense of religion, but in fact she was pagan. Once, she told me her god, Yemoz, created the world from milk.”

“Separating curd from whey, sea from land,” Anne mused. “It makes a sort of sense. After all, the saints did separate the world into its parts.”

“Saint Mule, the woman who brought curd and whey from milk,” Serevkis said, and laughed. “You are like a goddess now.”

“You may laugh,” Anne said, “but that’s the point. When we learn to create these things—your poison candles, my cheese—we partake of creation. In a little way, we do become like the saints.”

Serevkis pinched a skeptical frown. “You’ve been listening to Sister Secula too much,” she said.

Anne shrugged. “Cruel she may be, but she knows everything.”

“She put you in the cave!”

Anne smiled enigmatically. “It wasn’t so bad.”

Everyone had been surprised at Anne’s composure when they brought her up from the shrine of Mefitis, and Sister Secula had given her more than one suspicious look and remarked on her color. The matter hadn’t been pursued, though. Anne didn’t expand now to Sister Serevkis. She hadn’t even told Austra. She felt somehow that what happened in the cave and beyond were her secrets, and hers alone.

It certainly would not do for Austra to know that she’d sent a letter to Roderick; though it wasn’t a violation of the oath, Anne still suspected Austra would be anything but pleased.

Cazio had been good to the first part of his word. When she cast the letters down from the window her first evening back in the coven, he’d appeared near sundown, waved to her, and taken the correspondence with him. Time would tell if he was truly honest.

Meanwhile, she was content. Everything was suddenly interesting to her, and she’d begun to understand what Sister Secula meant when she called Anne’s presence at the Abode of Graces a privilege.

She still hated the mestra, but she’d begun to grudgingly admit that she was worth listening to.

“Now what?” Serevkis asked.

“Now we cut our new-made world into cubes,” Anne replied, “to let the whey still within it seep out.”

With a sharp ivory knife, she did just that, slicing it first lengthwise, then crossways, then at an angle toward the bottom of the crock. When she was done, and had stirred it once, a jumble of neat cubes floated in the yellowish whey.

“Now we cook it a little longer and put it in a mold and press. Six months from now, we eat it.”

“Creation takes a long time,” Serevkis said. “I’m hungry now.”

“That’s why saints are patient,” Anne told her. “But there’s plenty of food around—”

Austra, dashing into the creamery from the garden outside, interrupted her.

“Have you heard?” the blonde girl said excitedly.

“Hello, Sister Persondra,” Anne said, rolling the rs comically.

“I have heard,” Serevkis remarked. “I continue to.”

“The news, I mean,” Austra said. “The girls are all talking about it. We’re going out.”

“What do you mean?”

“To a grand triva in the country. The casnara there hosts an annual fete for the women in the coven, and it’s happening in three days’ time!”

“Really?” Anne said. “I can hardly see Sister Secula allowing that.”

“No, it’s true,” Serevkis confirmed. “The older girls have spoken of it. It’s said she throws a lovely ball, albeit one without men.”

“It still sounds fun,” Austra said, a bit defensively.

“If it’s not,” Serevkis replied, “we’ll make it so.”

“What sort of party can we have with everyone dressed in these habits?” Anne wondered.

“Well, you have your things, Sister Mule,” Serevkis said. “But I’ve heard the countess keeps gowns enough for all of us.”

“A borrowed gown?” Anne said distastefully.

“But not for us,” Austra exclaimed. “As Sister Serevkis says, thanks to your stubbornness, we at least may wear our own things.”

“You may,” Anne replied. “I brought only one dress, and I gave that to you.”

Austra’s mouth hung open for a moment. “But your other chest. It’s even heavier than mine.”

“That’s because my saddle is in it.”

“Your saddle?” Austra said.

“Yes. The one Aunt Fiene gave me, the one I rode Faster with.”

“You worked all night and earned the mestra’s displeasure for a saddle?” Serevkis asked.

Anne merely nodded. She didn’t feel like explaining.

But Austra, of course, would not let the matter rest.

“Why?” she demanded, that night in their room. “Why did you bring the saddle? So you could run away?”

“That was one reason,” Anne allowed.

“But you dragged it up the stairs, after you promised me you wouldn’t try to leave.”

“I know.”

Austra was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again it seemed almost as if her voice crept out of her reluctantly. “Anne, are you cross with me?”

Anne sat up in her sheets and looked at her friend’s face in the faint moonlight. “Why would you think that?” she asked.

“Because you—you’re different,” Austra answered. “You spend so much time with Serevkis, these days.”

“She’s my friend. We’re studying the same subjects.”

“It’s just—you never had any other friends in Eslen.”

“You’re still my favorite, Austra. I’m sorry if you feel neglected, but—”

“But I cannot discourse of the same things you and Serevkis do,” Austra said flatly. “You learn sorcery while I scrub pots. And she is gentle born. Naturally you prefer her company.”

“Austra, you silly diumma, I don’t prefer her company to yours. Now go to sleep.”

“I don’t even know what you just called me,” Austra murmured. “You see? I’m stupid.”

“It’s a sort of water spirit,” Anne told her. “And you aren’t stupid just because you don’t know a particular word. If you were allowed to study what I do, you would know it. Enough of this! Austra, I will always love you best.”

“I hope so,” the younger girl said.

“Just think how you’ll look at the ball. The only girl in her own gown.”

“I’m not going to wear it.”

“What? Why? It’s yours.”

“But you don’t have one. It wouldn’t be right.”

Anne laughed. “As a lot of people—you included—have been fond of telling me, we are not in Crotheny anymore. I am not a princess here, and you are not a maid.”

“No?” Austra said softly. “Then how is it you learn magic, and I beat rugs?”

For that, Anne didn’t have a comfortable answer.

The blade darted toward Cazio, faster than he had imagined it could, cutting his cheek slightly. The pain brought everything into sharp focus, and with a shout he stamped, sidestepped, then ducked quickly back in the direction he had come from, and committed himself to a shallow fleché.

It proved an unwise commitment. Z’Acatto parried in prismo, deflecting Cazio’s attack and stepping in close, his free hand clenching in the cloth of Cazio’s tunic. In a continuation of the parry, the swordsmaster lifted the hilt of the weapon above his head, so the blade slanted down to rest its bright sharp tongue in Cazio’s navel.

“What in Lord Fufio’s name is wrong with you?” the old man barked in his face. “Where is your brain? You can’t fence with just your hands and feet!”

Z’Acatto’s breath was rancid with the wine of the night before. Cazio wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Let go of me,” Cazio demanded.

“Is that what you’ll say to your next opponent when he has you in this position, or worse?”

“I would never allow that to happen in a real fight,” Cazio asserted.

“Every time you pick up that sword it’s a real fight,” z’Acatto roared. He let go and stalked off. “You’re hopeless! I give up!”

“You’ve been saying that for ten years,” Cazio reminded him.

“And it’s been true the entire time. You’re hopeless as a dessrator.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never been beaten, except by you.”

Z’Acatto whirled to face him, eyes bulging. “Now you’re going to tell me you know more about being a dessrator than I do?” He held his sword level to the ground, pointed at Cazio. “On your guard,” he snarled.

“Z’Acatto—” Cazio began, but the older man launched himself forward, and Cazio was forced to bring his blade up. He gave ground, parried, and launched a riposte with a step-lunge, but his master caught the blade in a bind and pressed, then released in a lightning-fast disengage.

Cazio backpedaled and parried again, riposting desperately. Almost contemptuously, z’Acatto danced nimbly aside and counterattacked. Cazio avoided the deadly thrust only by hurling himself backwards, tripping as he did so, but not quite falling. Z’Acatto followed, a look in his eyes Cazio had never seen before, one that sent a sudden chill of panic down his spine.

No. I will not fear, Cazio thought, setting himself.

For a moment the two men circled each other warily, weaving into and out of striking distance. Cazio struck first, this time, a feint that turned into a draw cut aimed at his master’s arm. Z’Acatto dropped his hand away from danger, then stabbed toward Cazio’s throat. With sudden understanding Cazio realized that during his feint the older swordsman had drawn his back foot up and was lunging in much deeper than Cazio ever imagined he could.

He turned, so the point took him in his left shoulder. It sank in and hit bone, and with a cry he extended his sword arm. Z’Acatto yanked his weapon out with a twist, and in an instant the two men were touching each other on the chest with the tips of their blades.

“Shall we perform the parry of two widows?” z’Acatto growled.

“Neither of us is married,” Cazio gasped, feeling blood soak his shirt. They continued to stand that way, and for a long terrible moment, Cazio thought he would have to thrust. He could almost feel the older man’s steel in his own heart.

But z’Accato finally dropped his blade.

“Bah,” he snarled, as it rang on the stone floor. In relief, Cazio sank into a chair, clutching his shoulder.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” he said, as soon as he had caught his breath.

“I thought so, too,” z’Acatto said, his eyes still flashing with anger. Then, softer, he murmured, “Boy, you’re a fine swordsman. You’re just not a dessrator. You don’t have what it takes, in here.” He tapped his chest over the heart.

“Then teach me.”

“I’ve tried. I can’t.” He lowered his head. “Let’s bind up that wound. I need a drink. So do you.”

A short time later, they sat beneath the verandah in the courtyard, one bottle of wine already gone and another half-empty. It was almost enough for Cazio to ignore the pain in his shoulder. Around them, Orchaevia’s servants were stringing up lanterns, banners, and chains of dried flowers.

Orchaevia herself bustled up, wearing a lime-green gown embroidered with golden roses.

“Well, you two are a sight,” the countess remarked. “How do you like that year? I never considered it one of the best from the region.”

“No,” z’Acatto grumbled. “That would be the vintage from the year the baron Irpinichio became meddisso of the Seven Cities.”

“Quite right,” the countess said. “And perhaps one day your tour of my various cellars obvious and obscure will lead you to it. Though I don’t think that likely.” She turned to Cazio. “You, on the other hand, I might be able to help.”

“Countess?”

“The young ladies from the coven will be here tomorrow night.”

“What’s this?” z’Acatto said. “The last thing the boy needs is to go solid over a band of nuns. He’s already distracted enough.”

“Yes, and what do you think has him so distracted?” Orchaevia asked.

“Ridiculous,” Cazio said, waving her words away as he might a fly.

“That’s it!” z’Acatto exploded. “I remember now. It’s just like when you were chasing after that little da Brettii girl. The same stupid expression. No wonder you can’t even hold your sword.”

“There is no girl,” Cazio insisted. This was too much. He was really starting to feel put upon.

“Of course not,” Orchaevia said. “And if there were, you wouldn’t see her at my party, for the mestra of the coven forbids her charges to see men. I’ve had to hire serving girls from Trevina and send my regular servants on holiday. But … it is possible that one of the young darlings might find herself alone, in the lavender garden, if I knew what she looked like.”

Cazio nodded and drank more wine. His head was starting to swim, and he relented. “There is no girl,” he said, “but as long as you’re going to throw one my way, make her one with pale skin and red hair. A northern girl. I’ve always fancied one of those.”

Orchaevia’s smile broadened until Cazio thought it would split her head. “I shall see what can be done,” she said.

Z’Acatto finished the bottle of wine in a single long draught. “No good will come of this,” he predicted with a sigh.

4 An Encounter

“Lady Fastia?” Neil gasped, in utter astonishment. She stood there in the moonlight, her long hair flowing unbound to her waist, shimmering like silk.

“I …” Fastia looked confused, then suddenly gaped and put her hand to her mouth. “Sir Neil, you’re quite unclothed.”

Realizing she was right, he grabbed a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around himself. He felt stupid for taking so long to react; what if Fastia had been an assassin, come to kill the queen?

What had she come for?

“Have you taken a wrong turn, lady? May I show you to your room?”

“No.” Fastia looked down at the floor. He noticed then that she wore a dressing gown of silk brocade over a flimsy shift of cotton. “No,” she said, “I came because … I … Elyoner gave me the key. And she— Sir Neil, I must be going mad.”

Neil knew what she meant. His heart was pounding a war-beat. Fastia’s face was perfect in the near dark, all jewels and precious ivory, a mystery of shadow that needed touching, needed more than touching. He felt a profound ache in his chest and an even more profound rush of blood throughout his body.

“The duchess, she gave us something, made a spell,” Neil said.

“Yes,” Fastia replied. “Yes.” Then she looked up boldly. “And I am also quite drunk, though I do not care.” Her brows scrunched. “Well, yes, I care, but I don’t.”

She moved toward him, then, or at least so it seemed, and he must have reciprocated, for in the next instant he was looking down into her face and her eyes were inches from his, her lips so near he could smell her breath. Much of him suddenly didn’t care what happened, either. Her arms were wrapped firmly about his back, and her head tilted.

He felt Elyoner’s spell overcoming him, and could think of no good reason not to surrender and kiss Fastia, feel those lips against his, and let the emotions coursing his blood have him.

But there was a reason. He knew it.

He pushed her gently back, and her eyes suddenly filled with hurt.

“You will not have me?” she asked.

“I … think I cannot,” Neil replied. Speaking the words felt like eating shattered glass. Seeing her expression was worse.

“I am a young woman,” Fastia told him softly. “I am a young woman married to an old man, an old man who does not care the least that I am a woman, much less young, though he finds his sport with those who are even younger. I am so unhappy, Sir Neil. The closest I have come to happiness has been in our conversations these last two months. I want more of it, now, while I don’t care, while Elyoner’s spell has me.”

Then she began to weep, which was unfair. It meant he had to reach for her again, to try to brush away her tears.

“Archgreffess—” he began.

“My name is Fastia. Just Fastia. At least call me Fastia.”

“Fastia, you are the daughter of my queen.”

“I know who I am,” she said, her voice suddenly angry. “Saints believe, I know who I am. Day in and day out I act my part and keep my place, like a vine trained to climb a trellis, like a dog taught to fetch slippers. I never forget myself, I never sin—” Her expression went suddenly ferocious, and she hurled herself at him. This time he was unable to resist. Her lips closed upon his. With her tears on them, they tasted like the sea. “Just this once,” she said into his lips, as they kissed. “Just this once.”

They fell fumbling to the bed, her dressing gown falling over him like wings as she kissed into his throat, and for a time there was no thought, only sensation and a crazy sort of happiness. But when much of her flesh was bare against his, and their lips had moved from neck and throat to other regions, his heart stopped him again—or at least the tiny bit he still owned.

“I cannot,” he said. “Fastia—”

She pulled away from him, sitting up. The moonlight was stronger now, and she looked like a saint hovering above him.

“I do wish it,” he said huskily. “But I cannot.”

Fastia stared down at him unreadably for several moments, and then she smiled wanly. “I know,” she said, patting his cheek. “I know. Neither can I.” She swung her leg over and gathered her clothes back about her. But she did not leave.

“May I lie with you a moment?” she asked. “By your side?”

“That you may,” he said. In truth he wished she would lie there all night.

She settled next to him and fastened her eyes on the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m terribly embarrassed. I’m really not like this. I’m never—”

“I’m the one to apologize,” he said. “The duchess warned me about her drug. I thought I was prepared to fight its effects. But that’s when I thought she was coming, and not you.”

Her face tilted toward him. “Is this true? You have feelings for me?”

“I did not know it until tonight. Or admit it.”

“Perhaps, then, it is just her spell.”

Neil smiled faintly. “Do you really believe there was a spell?” he asked. “I have my doubts.”

“So do I,” Fastia admitted. “Tomorrow we shall know, each alone. But we will be ourselves again, either way. I do not think we will speak of it.”

“Nor do I. But only know, if you were unmarried, and I of proper station—”

“Hush. If wishes were teardrops, the world would flood, Sir Neil.” Her eyes did glisten with teardrops, and they spoke no more.

In time, when her breathing became regular and quiet with sleep, Neil rose, gathered her in his arms, and started toward her chambers.

When he opened the door, he saw a figure standing in the hall.

“Lady Erren,” he said stiffly.

“Sir Neil,” she replied. “Do you need help delivering that package?”

“Think no ill of the archgreffess, Lady Erren,” Neil said. “She was not in possession of her senses. Any blame falls on me.”

Erren shrugged. “Come. Let us put her in her right bed.”

They took the sleeping Fastia down the hall and placed her there. Despite Erren, he paused to look at her dreaming face, so youthful in the light of the candle. Then the two of them quietly left.

Back in the hall, Erren examined him. “You did not do the deed,” she said. “You walked that way, but did not open the door.”

“How can you know that?” Neil asked, both astonished and somehow grateful that Erren knew the truth.

“I know,” she said. “It’s my art to know such things. Not that I would have disapproved of your bedding Fastia, Sir Neil, not as an act of itself. Saints know she needs that, needs someone like you. Maybe even needs you, specifically. I have watched this family’s philandering for most of my life, and I no longer have a moral opinion on it. But, Sir Neil, you are sworn to the queen, do you understand? You cannot be distracted by love. If you need a body to press, one can be found, and discreetly, and I will think none the worse. But you cannot be in love.” Her eyes narrowed. “Though it may be too late for that, saints pity you. But we will see. An enemy might have walked past you tonight. That mustn’t happen again.”

“I understand, Lady Erren.”

“And, Sir Neil?”

“Lady.”

“You are quite right. The only spell Elyoner used on you was suggestion, and the only physic was alcohol. In the future, remember the effects both can have, will you?”

“My lady, I will,” Neil replied, deeply ashamed.

The next day, Neil donned his armor and went down with the queen to breakfast. Elyoner was already there, a little bleary-eyed but smiling, wearing a dressing gown of gold lamé trimmed in black mink. She greeted him with a little smile, which quickly turned to an exasperated frown.

“Oh, pish, Sir Neil,” she sighed.

Neil felt naked beneath her gaze. How could she know? Did everyone know?

The queen didn’t. “What have you done to my knight, Elyoner?” Muriele demanded mildly. “What mischief have you been up to?”

“Not enough, by the looks of him,” Elyoner grumbled. Then she brightened. “Well, each day brings new hope.”

As she spoke, her servants brought platters of boiled eggs, soft white cheese and fried apples, clotted cream, scones, and persimmon marmalade. Elseny came tripping excitedly down the stairs dressed in a vivid blue gown, followed by her flaxen-haired maid Mere.

“What entertainments have you planned for us today, Aunt Elyoner?” she asked.

“Boating on the Evermere, I think,” the duchess replied, “and quoits in the orchard meadow.”

“Out of the question,” Erren said.

“Agreed,” Neil said.

“Mother!” Elseny protested. “It sounds delightful.”

Muriele sipped her tea and shook her head. “I think this time I shall defer to my keepers. I fear I have already strained them too much by bringing us here.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Neil said.

“Yes, praise the saints,” Erren grumbled.

“But my dear,” Elyoner said, frowning. “It’s all planned! I assure you, there is no danger, here on my lands.”

“Nevertheless,” Muriele replied, “I must think of my children.”

“As you were thinking of Anne?” Elyoner asked, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“Anne is my affair, Elyoner. I did what was needed.”

“You’ve sent a perfectly wonderful, spirited girl off to be broken into a nag,” Elyoner retorted, “like that old killjoy jade Erren, there.”

“I have protected her from herself,” Muriele replied. “And we shall no longer talk of this.”

As they spoke, Charles and Hound Hat had descended, the prince still in his nightclothes.

“Apples!” Charles exclaimed, sounding like a child. “Aunt Elyoner, my favorite!”

“That’s right, child, I always remember,” Elyoner said. “Have as many as you want. I fear it’s the only entertainment you’ll get today.” She sighed and fingered her chin. “I suppose I could have my players do something for us, if you don’t consider that too threatening, Sir Neil. Elseny, you might do a scene with them, if you wish.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be better than nothing,” Elseny pouted. “Though the boat ride would be more dear by far.”

Audra came down the stairs, alone.

“Where is the princess Fastia?” Elyoner asked the maid.

“She is feeling unwell, Duchess,” Audra replied. “She’s asked me to fetch something from the kitchen.”

“I see. Well, the cook will make whatever she wants. And do take something for yourself, child.”

“Thank you, Duchess,” Audra replied. “It all looks wonderful.”

Neil bit into a boiled egg, relieved that he didn’t have to face Fastia yet, ashamed for feeling that way. She probably hated him for taking what advantage he had. He ate glumly as the family chattered around him and the house awoke.

A footman entered and interrupted his worries.

“There’s a rider here, Duchess,” he announced. “From Eslen.”

“Indeed? What news does he bring?”

The footman bowed. “News of war, Duchess. Liery has declared war on Saltmark.”

“It’s beginning,” Erren muttered. “Muriele—”

“Quite right,” Muriele said. “Sir Neil, inform the guard. We are returning to the safety of Cal Azroth. We depart in one hour.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Elyoner said. “You are quite safe here, I tell you. It isn’t as if Crotheny is at war.”

“It took the rider at least five days to get here,” Muriele reasoned. “This news is old. If Liery is at war, Crotheny cannot be far behind, and if we enter, so does Hansa. It is probably done as we speak. Children, have your things packed.”

“But we just got here,” Elseny protested. “Cal Azroth is so unutterably dull.”

“Yes, it is,” Muriele acknowledged. “Pack your things.”

Despite himself, Neil felt only relief. War was less dangerous than Glenchest.

5 Meeting on the Headland

The sun rose smothered in fog, paling the headland of Aenah with the color and feel of frost, so that William pulled his cloak tighter, though the sea breeze still had summer in it. His gaze searched restlessly down the cliffs to the shatter of rocks there, and beyond to the unsteady lines of water and sky. Around him, fifteen knights sat their horses silently. Robert, his face creased in unaccustomed severity, had dismounted. He, too, gazed out at the sea.

“Where are they?” William growled.

Robert shrugged. “You know as well as I that the sea roads are uncertain,” he said. “Saint Lier cares little for the punctuality of mariners.”

“And even less for that of pirates. You are certain this is arranged? Lesbeth will be returned to us?”

“We’ve kept up our bargain,” Robert replied. “They will keep theirs. Austrobaurg knows he has extracted all he can from us by her captivity. That’s been made clear.”

“But why this clandestine meeting? Why insist that we two come along?”

Ananias Hargoln, captain of the lancers, spoke up. “My very thought, Sire. This seems most transparently a trap.” His blue-steel eyes traveled the line of the coast suspiciously.

“We’ve covered this ground before. My spies have secured the region,” Robert stated tersely. “Does Sir Ananias doubt his prime minister?”

Sir Ananias shook his graying head. “Not in the least, my prince. But I do doubt the duke of Austrobaurg. First he takes captive one of the royal family, and now he will exchange her only in the presence of the emperor himself on this saint’s forsaken heath of a headland. Though we agreed to allow only fifteen men apiece, the emperor has it right. This is king-slaying begging to happen.”

“Austrobaurg will have only fifteen men, as well,” Robert pointed out.

“So he promised. That does not make it so.”

Robert pointed to the winding cliffside path that led up from the sea. “We shall have ample time to notice if he brings more. No, Austrobaurg’s motives are far less clandestine. He wants to throw his piss in our face and laugh when we can do nothing in response.”

“Yes, that fits,” William muttered. “I remember him all too well. A puffed-up fellow, a braggart.” He leaned in close to Robert. “Let him enjoy his moment,” he whispered. “But when this is done, and Lesbeth safe in Eslen—then, Robert, we shall discuss Austrobaurg again.”

Robert arched his brows. “Indeed,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll make a politician of you after all, Wilm.”

“Assuming he comes at all,” William added.

But Robert was nodding at the waves and lifting a finger to point. “There,” he said.

William’s eyes weren’t what they once had been, but only a few moments later he made out what Robert had seen—the long silhouette of a galley cutting through the whitecaps toward the stony shingle below. Over the crash of surf, he began to make out the pulling chant that went with the long, even strokes of the oars.

“How many men do you make?” William asked Sir Ananias.

The knight leaned his lanky frame forward in the saddle and studied the approaching ship.

“Narry more than fifteen, Sire,” he said at last. “Same as promised.”

“Might there be more belowdecks?”

“That there might be, Sire. I advise you stay here on the clifftop whilst I make certain there’s no trickery. Let me keep you safe as I can.”

“Sound advice, brother,” Robert said.

“Very well. Meet them on the landing. Tell them you’ve come to insure that the terms of the meeting are kept—on both sides. Tell them they may send an emissary to verify our numbers, as well.”

He watched as Ananias wound down the narrow trail cut into the white face of the cliffs, shrinking in perspective until he and his mount might have been a silver beetle. He reached the shore just as the ship was beaching, and a figure in gold-chased armor stood in the prow. They spoke, and a few moments later, the knight boarded the galley. A horse was brought up from the hold, and soon a knight of Austrobaurg’s was ascending the headland. As he did so, more horses were brought from the ship to the shore.

The Austrobaurg knight introduced himself in stilted king’s tongue as Sir Wignhund Fram Hravenfera, and proceeded to search the headland for any troops William might have concealed there. It didn’t take much of a search; the headland was where the plain of Maog Vaost stooped to the sea. It was sheepland, clear of trees and gently sloping, with no concealing ridges or crevasses in any direction.

Ananias returned presently.

“They are as agreed,” Sir Ananias said. “Fifteen, no more and no less.”

“And Lesbeth? She is well?”

The knight’s long face pinched into a frown. “I did not see her, Sire.”

William turned to his brother. “What’s going on here, Robert?”

Robert shrugged. “I do not know. More posturing, no doubt.”

“I don’t like it, Sire,” Sir Ananias said. “I suggest a withdrawal. Let the prime minister ask the questions.”

“Indeed,” Robert said. “Let someone with a full set of stones do the talking with this ‘puffed-up’ fellow.”

“I am thinking only of the emperor and his safety, Prince Robert,” the knight said stiffly.

“No one is withdrawing,” William said. “I want to speak to Austrobaurg myself.”

He sat impatiently as the opposing company drew nearer. They were caparisoned in high Hanzish fashion, silver and gold bells jangling on the manes and saddles of their horses, horsehair or feathered plumes streaming from their helms. William had kept his company plain, to avoid recognition on the ride to the cape. But Austrobaurg was shouting to the world who he was, knowing only William and his knights would see.

Robert was right—it was a boast, salt rubbed in the wound by the duke of a small province who had made the emperor bend to his will.

The humiliation of it tasted like rotten meat and sat sour in William’s belly.

The duke of Austrobaurg was a thick, short man with a brushy mustache and eyes as green as a sea swell. His long black hair was streaked gray, and his expression was imperious as he drew rein a few yards away.

One of his knights raised a hand and spoke.

“The Duke Alfreix of Austrobaurg greets the empire of Crotheny and wishes well-meeting.”

Robert cleared his throat. “The emperor—”

William cut him off, speaking in Hanzish. “What is this, Austrobaurg? Where is my sister? Where is Lesbeth?”

To his astonishment, the duke appeared puzzled.

“Lord Emperor?” he said. “I have no knowledge of Her Highness. Why should you ask me of her?”

William tried to count to seven. He made it only to five.

“I have no patience for this nonsense,” he exploded. “You have what you wanted: twenty Sorrovian ships lie at the bottom of the sea. Now you will return my sister, or by Saint Fendve I will burn every one of your cities to the ground.”

The duke shifted his gaze to Robert. “What is His Majesty talking about?” he demanded. “We had an agreement.”

“You know very well what my royal brother speaks of,” Robert snarled.

“Your Highness,” Austrobaurg said, looking back to William, “I make nothing of this. I am here at your behest, to settle the matter between Saltmark and the Sorrows. This war benefits no one, as we agreed in our letters.”

“Robert?” William asked, turning to his brother.

Robert cackled and kicked his horse to full gallop. William watched him go, his mouth gaping.

And as he stood confused, and his knights began to shout and reach for arms, the earth vomited up death.

At first William thought it a strange flock of darkling birds, winging up from some subterranean nest, for the air was full of black flight and fearsome humming. Then the part of him that had once—so long ago—been a warrior sorted it out, as an arrow pierced Sir Ananias through the eye and pushed its blood-head through the back of his skull.

Twenty yards away, a trench had appeared as the archers hidden there pushed up its coverings of cut sod. They were clad in raven black, like the arrows they shot.

“Treachery!” Austrobaurg cried, desperately trying to wheel his mount and find cover behind his men. “Crothanic treachery!”

“No!” William cried, but the Austrobaurg knights were already engaged with his own, and swords were spilling blood. Only he seemed to notice that both sides were falling from the deadly aim of the archers.

“There’s our enemy!” he shouted, drawing his sword and waving it toward the trench. “The enemy of us both!” Robert has betrayed me. He tried to fight clear to charge the archers, gasping as a shaft glanced off his breastplate. He watched as Sir Tam Dare, his cousin, made for the murderers, and saw him fall, quilled like a hedgehog.

An Austrobaurg knight went down in the same fashion. The head flew from the shoulders of Sir Avieyen MaqFergoist, cut by the sword and arm of a knight wearing the crest of house Sigrohsn.

A horse screamed, his own, and William saw an arrow in its neck. It reared so as to take another in the belly, then crashed to earth, twisting as it went. William twisted himself, felt a brief, grinding snap of bone as the beast covered him. The horse writhed off, kicking. A hoof—maybe that of his own horse, maybe another—struck William in the head, and for a time he knew nothing.

He came back to the sea wind, and a view over the cliffs. He was propped sitting against a stone, feet facing the water, and his head hurt terribly. He tried to rise and found his legs wouldn’t work.

“Welcome back to us, brother.”

William turned his head, sending splinters of pain down his neck. Robert stood there beside him, looking—not at him—but out toward the horizon. The sun had clotted the mist into clouds, and the waves danced now in fitful sunlight.

“What has happened?” William asked. He wasn’t dead yet. Perhaps if he pretended continued ignorance, Robert would choose another course. “The ambush—”

“They are all quite dead, save me.”

“And me,” William corrected.

Robert clucked his tongue. “No, Wilm, you’re merely a ghost, a messenger to our ancestors.”

William looked at his brother’s face. It was quieter than he had ever seen it, almost serene.

“You’re going to kill me, brother?” he asked.

Robert scratched his neck absently. “You’re already dead, I told you. Your back broke when you fell from your horse. Have some dignity, Wilm.”

Hot tears started in William’s eyes, but he held them back. The very air seemed unreal, too yellow, like the colors in a dream.

He pushed down his fear and dread along with his tears. “Why, Robert? Why this slaughter? Why murder me?”

“Don’t worry,” Robert said. “You’ll have plenty of company on your journey west. Muriele dies today. And your daughters. Lesbeth is already there, awaiting you.”

“All of them? All of them?” William could move his hands, he found, though they shook as if palsied. “You filthy beast. You’re no Dare. You’re no brother of mine.”

A touch of anger at last entered Robert’s voice. “But you’d already decided that, hadn’t you, Wilm? If you thought me a brother, you would never have betrothed Lesbeth without asking me. I could never forgive you that.”

“You killed her. You killed her and cut off her finger so I would think— Why? And my children? My wife? All for a single slight?” He had his hand on the hilt of his echein doif, now, the little knife every warrior kept concealed in a special place.

The knife of last resort.

“And for the combined thrones of Hansa and Crotheny, and one day Lier, as well,” Robert said absently. “But the slight might have been enough. I have been too often neglected by this family. Too often betrayed.”

“You are mad. Crotheny will not have you, not for long. And Hansa—”

“Is almost mine already.” He smiled. “There is a secret I have. It will stay so, for now. There are ways of talking to the dead, and even though your spirit will wander far from the houses of our ancestors, I am not so foolish as to take that risk. But I will thank you for your help, brother.”

“Help?”

“I could not have sent our ships against the Sorrows. You did that. Did you know that the lords of Liery have discovered the identity of those ships? Had you lived another few days, you would have had an earful, I’ll tell you. You should thank me for sparing you the righteous pomposity of that old de Liery fool, Fail.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Can’t you just think for once, Wilm? The sea lords discovered that we’ve been aiding Saltmark against their allies. I let slip the hints that led them to know.”

“But I agreed to that only because I thought Lesbeth—”

“Hush and listen. They’ll never know that, of course. Everyone who believed the story of Lesbeth’s kidnap is dead. The hue and cry over your policy is already begun, and now you and Austrobaurg, dead, in the midst of trying to conclude a lasting peace. Very suspicious. Especially since you were slain with Lierish arrows.” His smile was ghastly.

“It’ll be war,” William groaned. “By the saints, it will be war with Liery.”

“Yes, especially when Muriele’s death is discovered. Her family will not take that lightly.”

“Why Muriele? Why my girls?”

“You killed the girls when you legitimized them to replace you. Muriele had to die, of course. She is beautiful, and I would not mind making her my queen, but she is too strong in temper.”

William understood suddenly. “Charles?”

“Exactly so. Your poor idiot son will be emperor, and I will be his prime minister. The girls—even Elseny—might have developed minds of their own. Too much of their mother in them. But Charles—never.”

“I see,” William murmured dully, willing Robert to draw nearer. “But if you plan to rule our country, why do you court war with Liery? It makes no sense. It will only weaken you.”

Robert laughed. “Exactly so. Hansa could never have triumphed over a strong Crotheny that maintained Liery as an ally, not even with a bumbler like you on the throne. Your generals, after all, have great sense, some of them. But now—at the very least, this will drive the sea lords from our side, if not provoke them to war. Either way this gives Hansa the advantage in the coming war.”

“The coming … You want Hansa to conquer Crotheny? Are you completely mad?”

“You see?” Robert whispered. “Even you can learn to reason, if only a little. Too late, I think. And now, dear brother, it’s time to bid you farewell.”

He walked to William’s feet and bent to grasp them.

“Wait. How did you kill Muriele?”

“I didn’t, obviously, since I’m here and she’s at Cal Azroth. Indeed, it isn’t even through my agency that she shall die. Others have seen to that.”

“Who?”

Robert looked coy. “No, no. I can’t tell. Just some people with whom I share common goals, for the time being. Only for the time being.” He licked his lips. “They desired Muriele dead for … superstitious reasons. I made use of their credulity. Now, if you’ll just bear up with a little of that famous Dare stoicism …”

William saw Robert grasp his ankles, but felt nothing. Robert tugged him a few inches toward the cliff’s edge.

“Tell me where the key is, by the by,” Robert said. “You aren’t wearing it.”

“What key?”

“William, please. Don’t be petty, now of all times. The emperor must possess the key to the cell of the Kept.”

A brief hope intruded on William. “I can show you where it is,” he said. “But I will not tell you.”

Robert stroked his beard thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I will find it. Likely it’s in the coffer in your room.”

He returned to his task.

Saint Fendve give me the strength, William prayed.

“Tell me one last thing, Robert,” he asked. “What did you do with Lesbeth’s corpse?”

“I buried it in the garden on the point.”

William’s feet were almost dangling over the cliff, now. Robert frowned, seeing that he couldn’t drag his brother straight off. “I see how to do it,” he muttered, more to himself than to William. “Less dignified, but that’s how it is.”

He pulled William’s dead legs, changing his position so that he was parallel to the edge. William heard the gulls below. If Robert threw his legs over now, the weight would take the rest of him.

“I didn’t mean where did you bury her, Robert,” William said. “I meant what did you do with the body before you buried it, besides cut off the finger? A clever man like you, surely there must be some fun to be had with a sister’s corpse, especially a sister you so unnaturally desired—”

He was cut off by a kick in the head, and the bloodred flash that blinded him.

“I never!” Robert shrieked, his calm shattered like brittle glass. “We never! My love for her was pure—”

“Pure rut-lust, you loathsome shit.”

The foot came again, but this time William caught it and drove the sharp of his echein doif into his brother’s calf. Robert shrieked at the unexpected pain and fell with his knee on William’s chest. With an inarticulate cry, William rose up and drove the knife at Robert’s heart.

It sunk in to the hilt.

Then Robert gave him a great shove, and he was in the air, without weight. He clawed for a handhold, almost found one … and then there were no more to be had.

The rocks caught him, but there was no pain. The spray of the sea, the salty blood of the world, spattered on his face.

Muriele, he thought. Muriele.

In the deeps he heard the draugs singing, mournful and greedy, coming for him.

At least he’d killed Robert.

His eyes closed, and the wind died, and then, like a figure in a shadow play, a shape appeared against a gray background. Tall, man-shaped and yet not, antlers like a stag’s spreading from its head. The figure gestured, and William saw Eslen a smoking ruin, held in its palm. He saw the heartlands of Crotheny blasted and withered in the other outstretched hand. In its eyes, as in a fire-lit mirror, he saw war. Far, far away, William heard the keen bray of a horn.

The stag-crowned figure began to grow, not at all like a man now, but like a forest, his horns multiplying to make the branches, his body stretching and tearing into dark boughs and thorny, creeping vines. And as he grew, the dark thing spoke a single name.

Anne.

The name broke his soul from his body, and that was the end of William II, emperor of Crotheny.

Robert’s mouth worked, trying to draw air. He stared at the hilt in his breast, feeling foolish.

“Good for you, Wilm,” he muttered. “Good for you, saints damn you.” It was a strange moment to feel pride for his brother, but there it was.

“My prince!”

Robert recognized the voice of the captain of his Night-striders, but it sounded far away.

Robert didn’t look back; he couldn’t tear his gaze from the hilt of the knife. From his perspective, it stood like a tower against the sea.

Far away, he thought he heard the wild sounding of a trumpet, and then the sky fell on him.

6 The eve of Fiussanal

Anne, Austra, and Serevkis strolled in the gardens of the countess Orchaevia. Laughter and music suffused the twilight, blossoms of fantastic color and shape perfumed the air, and the mood was, overall, undeniably gay.

It made Anne intensely uncomfortable, and she didn’t know why.

Part of it was surely the borrowed dress; it was a bit too tight and such a bright green it nearly hurt her eyes. But the most of her discomfort was lurking anonymously in the back of her mind until Austra put a light on it with a simple observation.

“This reminds me of Elseny’s birthday,” she said. “All these flowers.”

“That’s it,” Anne muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

But that was it. It was the festival of Saint Fessa—or as they called her here, Lady Fiussa. Fiussa was the patroness of flowers and vegetation, and in the early days of autumn, when Fiussa departed for her long sleep, it was customary to wish her well and pray for her to return the next spring. Thus, as at Elseny’s birthday, there were flowers everywhere, many dried in the spring to retain their color.

Austra noticed her discomfort, of course, and probed at it. “They make much of the Fiussanal here, don’t they?” she said cautiously. “Much more so than in Eslen.”

“Yes,” Anne answered distractedly, not caring to put her mouth on the bait. She hadn’t told Austra about her visions. She wasn’t sure she intended to. She’d never kept secrets from her best friend, but now that she’d started down that road it would be difficult to turn back.

Serevkis rescued her without meaning to.

“Indeed?” the Vitellian girl remarked. “How is Fiussanal celebrated in Crotheny?”

“We exchange lockets with pressed flowers,” Austra told her. “We build a feinglest in the sacred horz and drink the last of the new wine.”

“What’s a feinglest?” Serevkis asked.

“It’s a sort of wickerwork, filled with flowers,” Anne told her. “I think the custom came from Liery.”

“Ah.” Serevkis grinned. “We have that custom, I think, though we name it differently. Follow me. I think I saw the horz around here.” They walked past a rambling stand of olive trees cheery with box-shaped paper lanterns, along a wing of the triva to a small walled garden.

There, beside a gnarled, ancient oak, stood a woman made of flowers. Her eyes were red poppies, her skirt of goldenrod and orange-damsel, her fingers purple asters.

The sight of her sent an awful, sick jolt through Anne, recalling vividly the women in her visions, the black roses, the horned thing in the woods.

“Like that?” Serevkis asked. “Is that a feinglest?”

“No,” Anne said weakly. “I mean, yes, I guess it is, but in Crotheny we make cones, or tall baskets, or … never anything like that. Never anything that looks like a person.”

But she remembered that feinglest was Leirish for green woman. A hollow of anxiety deepened in her.

“Let’s leave this place,” she said. In the lantern light, it looked as if the green woman was widening her smile, as if at any moment she would take a step toward them.

“I think she’s pretty,” Austra opined.

“I’m leaving.” Anne turned and walked back toward the house and the sounds of celebration.

“Well, what’s wrong with her?” Serevkis muttered, more puzzled than angry.

Anne quickened her pace. She wanted away from the garden, out from under the night sky, the fields and trees. She wanted lantern light and people and wine. Especially wine.

As they stepped back into the huge courtyard of the mansion, the countess herself came toward them, smiling. She wore a gown embroidered to the point of tastelessness with gold and silver flowering vines.

“My dear,” she said to Anne. “That face! I hope you are enjoying yourself.”

“I am, casnara,” Anne lied. “Thank you so very much for your hospitality.”

“It’s nothing,” the woman said, beaming. “And for you, my dear, I think I may have a special surprise.”

Anne blinked. She had met the countess, of course, upon arrival when everyone else had, but couldn’t imagine how she had drawn the woman’s special attention.

“Here,” the countess said, taking her aside and whispering in her ear. “Enter my house through the largest door, and you will find a staircase on your left. Follow it up, then down the hall, where it will open into my lavender garden. There you will find a young man who very much desires your company.”

“I … a young man?”

The countess looked very pleased with herself. “By your face, you must be the one. I think you must know who I mean.”

“Thank you, Countess,” Anne said, trying to keep her expression neutral. But in her chest, her heart was doing strange things, and her mind was racing.

By now, Roderick would have received her letter. By now, he could be here. He might have heard of this fete, and impressed upon the countess his great love and need to see her, and of course this was the only time and place such a thing could happen. If he came to the coven, he would certainly be turned away. Perhaps he had already tried that, and no word had come to her.

“What was all that about?” Serevkis asked.

“Nothing,” Anne replied. “She’s asked Austra and me to do her a favor, that’s all.”

“I’ll go along,” Serevkis said.

“No!” Anne said, a bit too loudly. Several heads turned in her direction, including Sister Casita’s. “No,” she repeated more softly. “She asked that only Austra and I go.”

“How mysterious,” Serevkis said, a bit skeptically. “One would almost think something devious was going on.”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Anne insisted.

“Of what sort?” Serevkis asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” Anne said. “Come on, Austra.” She pulled her friend by the hand, toward the doorway the countess had indicated.

“What did the countess say to you?” Austra asked, after they had slipped through the portal and started up the stairs. “Wherever are we going?”

Anne turned and took Austra’s hands in her own. “I think Roderick is here,” she confided excitedly.

Austra’s eyes went saucer-shaped. “How could that be?” she asked.

“I sent him a letter, and directions.”

“What? How did you do that?”

“I’ll explain in time. But it must be him.”

They reached the end of the hall, which terminated in a wrought iron door. Beyond, leaves rustled softly in the breeze, and she could see the stars above a tiled wall. Anne felt herself nearly petrified with anticipation.

“He’s supposed to be in there,” Anne told her friend.

“Shall I wait here?” Austra asked. “To sound alarm if one of the sisters approaches?”

“No. Come in with me, until I am certain. I’ll let you know if I want you to leave.”

“Very well,” Austra said. She didn’t sound entirely happy.

Together the two girls stepped through the door. The garden was small, floored in red brick. Orange and lemon trees rose up from terra-cotta pots, and lavender grew in stone boxes making the air especially fragrant. A small fountain trickled water into a scalloped basin.

A man stood in the shadows. Anne could see his outline.

“Roderick?” she asked, almost breathless.

“I have no news from him, I’m afraid,” the man said. She knew the voice at once, and her heart fell.

“You!” she said.

Cazio stepped into the moonlight and smiled, sweeping his hat from his head. “I told you I was guesting in the country,” he said. “I must say, you look altogether different wearing clothes.”

“Anne,” Austra murmured, tugging at her sleeve. “Who is this? How do you know him?” She gave a sudden start. “And what does he mean about clothes?”

“I am Cazio Pachiomadio da Chiovattio,” Cazio said, bowing again. “And you must be the lady Fiene’s sister, so fair and graceful are you.”

“Fiene?” Austra said, confused.

“Cazio knows me by my real name, not my coven name,” Anne said, hoping Austra would catch on.

She did. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

“Would you enchant me with your own name, lady?”

“It is Margry,” Austra improvised.

Cazio reached out, took her hand, and raised it to his lips.

“Watch him,” Anne warned her friend. “He uses honey where most use words.”

“Better honey than lemon juice,” Cazio said. He turned his head a little. “Can it be that you are annoyed with me, Lady Fiene?”

“No,” Anne admitted, finding she wasn’t. “It’s just that I thought Roderick might have come.”

“And you are disappointed. Rightly so. All went well with the dispatch of the letter, but perhaps the weather has been bad in the north. Any number of things might delay even a man who is deeply in love.”

Anne thought she caught a subtle dig in that.

“Margry,” Anne said, “could you wait in the hall and give alarm if anyone comes? I promise to explain this all to you later.”

“As you wish,” Austra said, a bit of rancor lurking in her voice.

When Austra had left the garden, Anne turned back to Cazio. “What did you want, then?” she asked bluntly.

To her surprise, he hesitated, as if searching for words, something she had not known him to do before.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “The countess offered to arrange our meeting. I suppose I just wanted to know how you were doing.”

Anne felt a bit of her guard drop away.

“I am well enough. What happened to your arm? It’s bandaged.”

“A scratch from swordplay. It was nothing.”

“Swordplay? You were in a fight?”

His voice grew jauntier. “Not much of a fight. Five bandits. They didn’t last long.”

“Really?”

Again, he hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “I got it in practice with my swordmaster. He was angry at me.”

“For what reason?”

“He thinks I’m too distracted to fence. I think he’s right.”

Anne felt an odd little warmth in her belly. “What has distracted you?” she asked innocently.

“I think you know.” His eyes were luminous in the dark, and for an instant …

“I told you, Cazio,” she said.

“Told me what?” he asked mildly. “You haven’t even told me your real name. And you complain of my honesty.”

She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I deserved that.” She looked back up at him. “My name is Anne.”

He took her hand. She meant to pull it away, but somehow failed. “I’m pleased to meet you, Anne.” And he kissed the top of her hand.

“May I have that back now?” Anne asked.

“It was always yours.”

“Did you send my letter at all?”

“Yes,” he said. “I hoped he would come. I still hope so.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes distance improves love. Sometimes it dissolves it. I think you deserve to know which has happened.”

“Roderick loves me,” Anne snapped.

“Let him prove it, then,” Cazio replied.

“Do you love me then?” Anne asked, regretting the question in the same breath that asked it.

But Cazio didn’t answer immediately. When he did, it was in that new, uncertain tone. “I do not think people fall in love so quickly.”

That sounded honest, and somehow it upset Anne more than any declaration of love ever could have.

“In that case, what do you want from me?” she asked.

“To know you better,” Cazio said softly.

Anne’s throat felt thick. “And how will you do that?” she asked, trying to sound sarcastic. “Stare up at my tower all day?”

“I might,” he replied. “If it is the only way to see you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Anne said. She glanced over her shoulder.

“We’ll be missed. We have to go.”

“When can I see you again?”

“You can’t,” Anne replied, and with that she turned and went back out of the garden.

It was hard not to look back, but she managed it.

Cazio scuffed his foot in frustration and sighed. What was wrong with him? What did he care about this skinny, sickly pale, red-mopped witch anyway?

Nothing, that’s what. This whole thing had been Orchae-via’s scheme, not his.

A slight sound alerted him, and his hand flew to the hilt of Caspator, but it was only the other girl, the yellow-haired one.

“It was nice to meet you, Casnar Chiovattio,” she said, and made a little curtsey.

Inspiration struck Cazio. “A moment, please,” he said.

“I must follow my mistress.”

“I implore you, casnara. Anne won’t miss you for a mo ment or two.” He paused. “Did you say mistress?”

“I’m her maid.”

“And also in the coven?”

“I’m there, yes.”

“And is your name really Margry?”

The girl looked behind her. “No, casnar, it isn’t. My name is Austra.”

Cazio put on what he considered to be his most effective smile. “Now there is a proper name for a winsome creature like you,” he purred.

“You shouldn’t say things like that, casnar,” the girl said, looking demurely down.

“Call me simply Cazio, if you please.” He reached for her hair. “Was this spun from gold?”

She bridled at his touch. “Please, I must go.” She started to withdraw.

“A moment.” He stepped even closer. At first he thought she would flee, but she didn’t. He drew very near and took her hand.

“This Roderick fellow, Anne’s betrothed—is he so fine?”

“Betrothed?” Austra said, her eyes widening.

Aha! Cazio thought. So not even really engaged.

“I mean, yes, they are betrothed,” Austra corrected.

Cazio let the falsehood pass. “But that wasn’t my question. Answer me, pretty Austra.”

“He is—” Her voice dropped. “I do not think him so fine. To be honest, I think you’re much nicer, though I’ve just met you.”

“Thank you, Austra. That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s just that Anne can be … stubborn.”

“Well, let her be, then,” Cazio said. “I won’t pursue someone who has no desire to be caught.” He squeezed her hand. “Thank you for speaking to me,” he said.

“It was my pleasure, Cazio.”

He bowed, then wrinkled his brow in a show of consternation. “Oh, look,” he told her, pointing to her mouth. “You’ve something on your lip.”

“What?” She put her hand up, but he caught it, bent in quickly, and kissed her lips. She gave a little gasp and pulled back—not too violently.

“You see? There was a kiss there,” he said. “But I got it.”

He could see her white skin blush even in the faint light. Without another word she withdrew and fled down the hall after the vanished Anne.

Cazio watched her go, feeling pleased. Service hadn’t done the trick. Maybe a little jealousy would, he thought. The hunter was back on the trail. Whistling, he went to gaze at the stars.

7 Sacrifice

Aspar knelt to examine the horse droppings on the trail and nodded to himself.

“We’re close,” he said gruffly. “Not even a day behind ’em. And they’ve been joined by more, maybe ten more.”

Stephen watched what the holter was doing, trying to pick out the faint signs the older man was reading. “Do you think the newcomers are Sefry? This Fend fellow and his rogues?”

Aspar’s expression darkened. “That’s what your brother said, yah? That he was going to meet Fend at Cal Azroth?”

“I’m no brother of Desmond Spendlove’s,” Stephen replied, irritated by Aspar’s tone. “Whatever he’s about is nothing to do with the church.”

“You seem mighty certain of that,” Aspar said.

“Think, Holter,” Stephen said. “The fratrex saved our lives. Would he have done that if the church was behind all this?”

Aspar straightened. “You tell me,” he said seriously.

It still took Stephen aback when the holter really wanted his opinion. He recalled Desmond, that night at the monastery, talking about how he served the church. It had felt real, that conversation, like the one pure moment of honesty he had ever had from the murderous Spendlove.

“Brother Desmond answers to someone,” Stephen allowed. “It might be someone in the church. It might not. He’s not entirely sane, I think.”

“You think he answers to Fend?” Aspar grunted.

Stephen examined that for a moment. “No,” he said at last.

“He spoke of Fend as a sort of coconspirator, and with a certain amount of distaste. I think Spendlove and your Sefry outlaw serve a higher master. I don’t know who it could be.”

“Well, the forest ends soon,” Aspar said. “We’re coming to the plain of Mey Ghorn, where Cal Azroth stands. They’ve met up, so whatever they’re planning, it’ll happen soon.”

“Could we go around them? Reach the fortress before they do and warn the queen?”

“Maybe,” Aspar mused. “Likely not.”

“What then? Ten more makes sixteen men and Sefry. We can’t fight them all.”

Aspar arched one eyebrow. “We, Cape Chavel Darige? I could put what you know about fighting on the head of a beer and it would float.”

“Yes, well, you could have taught me a little, Holter. I might have been some help.”

“I could have taught you just enough to help you make a corpse of yourself,” Aspar rebutted.

“So you’ll kill them all yourself ? How?”

Aspar grunted a laugh. “I never said I couldn’t find a use for you. You could wave your arms and draw their arrows while I creep around behind.”

“I’m willing to do that,” Stephen said earnestly. “If it will work.”

“That was a joke, boy.”

“Oh,” Stephen said, and his sarcasm got the better of his sense. “My mistake, but a natural one. A joke from you? Apologies, but the first time you see a fish fly, you’re likely to think it’s a bird.” Then he sobered again. “Well, what, then?”

“I have no idea,” the holter said. “I’ll think of something before we catch up to them.”

“Marvelous plan.”

Aspar shrugged. “Do you have a better one? Something you read in a book, maybe?”

“Well,” Stephen considered, “in the Travels of Hinn, when beset by brigands, Hinn and his companions made themselves seem more numerous by building figures of mud and straw.”

“Yah. Were they able to make these figures walk?”

“Ah … no. But if we could lure Desmond and his men to come after us—”

“To fight our stick men?”

“Fine, maybe that wouldn’t work. What if we set a trap? Dig a pit and put sharpened stakes in it, cover it over with leaves or something?”

Aspar nodded. “Fine idea. We’ll dig this pit with our hands, shall we, before sunup? Maybe you can lead them in circles while the horses and I dig.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Stephen muttered. “And you asked.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Aspar sighed. “Next I’ll ask for a clout on the head. It would be more useful.” He remounted Ogre, then shot Stephen a more companionable glance. “Keep thinking,” he said. “Who knows, maybe you’ll actually come up with something helpful.”

Stephen did prove himself useful a few bells later, when he waved for Aspar’s attention. The holter caught the motion instantly and reined Ogre to a halt. Stephen tapped his ear, then pointed. He could hear men talking up ahead, and he was certain it was the rogue monks.

He had formed the opinion that none of the men they pursued had senses as well honed as his own, but there was still no point in taking chances. Thus far, remaining at the edge of his own hearing had kept them undetected. Stephen intended to treat it as a rule.

Aspar understood his signals and carefully dismounted. Stephen followed suit. The holter quietly commanded the horses to stay where they were, and the two men began creeping through the forest edge toward the source of the sound.

They stopped and crouched in a tangled mass of grapevines on the worn shoulders of a hill. Below, the forest broke into sparsely wooded fields, and beyond that a broad plain, green-gold in the afternoon sunlight.

Sixteen men were setting up camp around a small conical mound in the lightly wooded fringe. A couple of tents were already up. Ten of the figures wore broad-brimmed hats and their faces were wrapped in gauze; that would be the Sefry, Stephen mused. The rest were human, and their number included Desmond and his remaining monks. Stephen glanced over at Aspar, who wore a look he had come to recognize as quiet fury. Stephen raised an eyebrow, and the holter glanced back, mouthing a word.

Fend.

Doubtless the holter was already working out how to kill fifteen men so he could get to the one.

Aspar motioned for Stephen to remain where he was and prowled off so silently he might have been a forest cat. Stephen desperately wanted to ask him where he was going, but he didn’t dare.

Once the holter had vanished from sight, Stephen lay there, watching, wondering what he was supposed to do.

Below, the monks and Sefry were soon done preparing their camp, but their activities didn’t cease. In fact, the small mound became the focus of new activity. It was with foreboding that Stephen realized the hill must be a sedos.

It was cool, but sweat beaded on his brow as he crawled nearer, hiding at last behind the mounded roots of a huge oak on a lower part of the hill. His senses expanded, and the life of the forest pulsed through him in sound. The chattering of squirrels above him worried into his head, accompanied by the stridulations of crickets and cicadas anticipating the coming of dark, just a bell or so away. The clicking chorus of leaf-cutting ants going about their tasks tickled the drums of his ears. Finches twittered happily and jays protested the presence of Spendlove’s party below.

He strengthened his concentration, and through the stir of forest heard his enemies talking.

Spendlove chanted in a language Stephen did not recognize, though every now and then he caught a word that sounded like Old Vadhiian. Two of the other monks—Seigereik and one Stephen didn’t know—had been stripped to the waist, and one of the Sefry was painting strange glyphs or symbols on their chests. Yet another man—Stephen did not recognize him either, but did not think him a monk—had been stripped naked. He was taken to the top of the sedos and staked out spread-eagle. He had something stuffed in his mouth.

Where is Aspar? Stephen wondered desperately. Something very bad was about to happen, something that needed stopping. He searched the surroundings, but the holter could move so invisibly when he wanted to that even Stephen’s saint-given senses couldn’t always locate him.

Desmond switched languages, to Old Vadhiian, and Stephen was suddenly riveted. His mind translated so swiftly it was like hearing his native tongue.

One to open the way, dread power, and one to walk the way. A path of blood for the changeling, a soul to work the change.

Spendlove drew something from his robes, something that glittered so sharply it brought an ache to Stephen’s eyes. Brother Desmond moved to the prone man, who tried to shriek but could not. Desmond knelt over the bound man, and Stephen realized with a dull shock that the terrible thing in his hand was some sort of knife, as the monk split the man open from sternum to groin and begin pulling out his innards. The struggling quickly diminished to twitching.

Stephen’s morning meal rose to his throat, but he kept it there, tightening his will, concentrating on the details of what was happening, trying to abstract them, to pretend it wasn’t the end of a human life he was watching, that those weren’t intestines Spendlove and his men were spreading in strange patterns around the still-writhing figure.

After a time, seemingly satisfied, Spendlove beckoned one of the bare-chested monks—Seigereik—to step forward. Seigereik did so, face grim, straddling over the still-twitching, disemboweled figure.

“Are you ready, Brother?” Spendlove asked softly.

“I am, Brother Spendlove,” Seigereik said, his voice tight with determination.

“Be strong,” Spendlove bade him. “There will be a moment of disorientation. There will be pain, but you must bear it. And you must succeed. There can be no more failure.”

“I will not fail, Brother Spendlove.”

“I know you won’t, Brother Seigereik, my warrior.”

Seigereik lifted his arms and closed his eyes.

“A soul to work the change,” Spendlove intoned, and struck Seigereik in the heart with the glittering knife. Stephen choked back a gasp as the monk’s legs folded and he dropped lifeless. The air around the sedos seemed to darken, and something like a high keening of wind whipping black smoke soughed off through the treetops.

What have I just seen? Stephen wondered. Two sacrifices, one willing, one not. And Seigereik was supposed to complete a task after he was dead? It didn’t make any sense. Unless …

Would the corpse rise again? Had Desmond done the unthinkable and broken the law of death?

But the monk’s body remained where it had fallen. No, it was the soul that had been sent away, wrapped in dark magic.

He shook himself away from his suppositions. The Sefry and two of the remaining monks were mounting their horses.

“He’d better succeed,” one of the Sefry—by his eye patch, probably Fend—remarked.

“Your way is prepared,” Spendlove assured him. “It might even be over by the time you get there.”

“I doubt that.”

“One more will make it certain,” Spendlove replied. He knelt over the disemboweled man on the ground. “There’s still life in him. I can probably use him again. Brother Ash-ern, prepare yourself.”

The other painted monk nodded.

“Why take chances?” Fend asked, waving at the disemboweled captive. “Use the girl.”

“I thought you wanted to kill her in front of the holter,” Spendlove said. “After all, you brought her all this way.”

“I had that whim,” Fend said. “It has passed. Just leave her where he’ll find her.”

Desmond glanced at the dying man.

“You may be right,” he allowed. “If he pops off in the middle, Ashern’s sending will go awry.”

Fend and his Sefry rode off. A few moments later Spend-love chopped his head at one of the men, and said, “Bring her out.” A struggling woman was led from one of the tents.

Holter, where are you? Stephen wondered frantically. As-par White was nowhere to be seen.

If the holter noticed Fend riding off—and of course he would—he would probably follow in hopes of killing him. Stephen realized he could no longer count on Aspar White; the man’s obsession with the one-eyed Sefry was obvious, though he had never deigned to explain why.

Stephen thought he knew what Spendlove was up to, now, though it seemed incredible. If he didn’t act very soon, the young woman below was going to be murdered in a very unpleasant way.

He’d just seen one man die that way. He would die himself before he watched it happen again. Steeling himself, he began moving toward the camp as quickly as he could.

8 The Plain of Terror

A saint’s breath of wind sighed along the battlements of Cal Azroth as Neil gazed past the queen to the sun melting on the distant green horizon. The plain of Mey Ghorn was open and still, the only motion in sight the occasional whirl of swallows overhead. The triple ring of canals around the fortress was already in shadow, and soon their waters would hold stars. Off to his right he heard soldiers talking in the garrison, connected to the inner keep by a causeway.

The queen often stood like this at evening, facing Eslen.

Laughter bubbled up from the gap between keep and garrison. Elseny, by the sound of it. Neil glanced behind and down and saw her there. From above, the circle of her yellow dress and her dark hair made her resemble a sunflower. She was in the citadel’s narrow, high-walled horz, on the big flat rock that was at the center of it, putting flowers in the wickerwork feinglest two of the old serving women had built earlier that day. Neil had never seen one exactly like this, vaguely human in shape. In Liery it was considered ill luck to build one so, though he had never heard why.

A movement to the side caught his eye, and with a start he realized he could see the edge of a second dress, peeking from beneath the canopy of an ash tree, this one blue and less noticeable in the fading light. Then came the flash of a white face looking up, and Fastia’s gaze touching his own. She quickly looked back down, while Neil bit his lip, a blush creeping up his face. Fastia often had avoided him in the two ninedays that had passed since that evening in Glenchest. He didn’t know if she hated him or …

Nor does it matter, he told himself. Remember what Erren said. He couldn’t control what he felt, but he could certainly control what he did. With one exception, that was what he had been doing all of his life.

Once was enough, though. The unfamiliar feel of failure rested heavy in his heart.

“Ten thousand men and women died on this plain,” the queen said softly.

Neil started and turned his gaze guiltily from the horz, but the queen wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t even sure she was talking to him.

“Is it so, Your Majesty?” he asked, not certain how to respond. “Was it in battle against Hansa?”

“Hansa?” the queen said. “No. Hansa wasn’t even a dream in those days. Nor was Crotheny. In those days, the houses of men weren’t divided. The ancestors of Marcomir fought beside the Dares.”

“It was the war against the Skasloi, then?”

She nodded. “They had loosed their shackles and burned the citadels in the east, but that was nothing if they did not reach Ulheqelesh and win there.” She turned to him, and with a shock he saw tears in her eyes. “Ulheqelesh was where Eslen now stands.”

“I never knew its name in the demon’s tongue,” Neil replied. He felt profoundly ignorant.

“We don’t speak it often. Most do not know it. It is one of the burdens of royalty that we must read the oldest histories.”

“And the battle here, at Mey Ghorn?”

“The name has become corrupted over time. In the old tongue it was Magos Gorgon, the Plain of Terror.”

“And the battle—it was a great one?”

“There was no battle,” the queen said. “They marched and they died, their flesh stripped from their bones, their bones burned into dust. And yet they marched on.”

“They never saw their enemy? There was never a foe to lift arms against?”

The queen shook her head. “They marched and they died,” she repeated. “Because they knew they must. Because the only other choice was to live as slaves.”

Neil stared out at the darkening plain, a strange tickle of awe working in him.

“Every footstep on that plain must fall on the remains of those warriors.”

The queen nodded.

“It is a terrible story,” Neil offered. “Warriors should die in battle.”

“Warriors should die in bed,” the queen countered, her voice suddenly edged with anger. “Didn’t you hear me? Ten thousand ghosts are bound in the soil of Mey Ghorn. Ten thousand brothers and sisters, the fathers and mothers of Hansa, Crotheny, Saltmark, Tero Gallé, Virgenya—every nation of Everon has bones in this dirt. They were noble, and they were proud, and their only real weapon was the hope that their sons and daughters would see a better day, know a better world.

“And see what we have done with it. What do we fight about now? Fishing disputes. Trade tariffs. Bickering over borders. Our whole race has become petty and vicious. We fight for nothing.” She waved her hand to encompass the land around. “We denigrate their memory. How ashamed they must be of us.”

Neil stood silent for a few moments, until the queen turned to face him.

“Sir Neil?” she said softly. “You have something to say?”

He kept his gaze on hers, on those eyes so like her daughter’s.

“I know little of trade tariffs or politics,” he admitted. “I know little of the deep histories.”

“But you know something,” she said.

“I knew my grandfather, Dovel MeqFinden. He was a good man. He made little ships of wood for me when I was a boy, and he trooped across the rocky fields of Skern with me on his shoulders. He showed me the sea, and told me of the beautiful Fier de Meur and the terrible draugs who dwell in its depths.”

“Go on.”

“Skern is a small place, Majesty. You may not know that in those days our overlord was a duke from Hansa, and it had been thus for six generations. Our own language was forbidden us, and one half of our crops and cattle were forfeit to that man and his house. When that brought us to starvation, we must needs borrow from the duke, and to pay him back we must go into his service. We are a proud people, Majesty, but not so proud as to let our children starve.”

“Your grandfather?”

“A plague came and killed the most of his cattle, and he could not pay what he had borrowed. He was forced to work in the stables of our lord, the duke. One day a daughter of that lord sat a horse too wild for her. My grandfather warned her against it, but she ignored him. She was thrown.”

“She was killed?”

“She was not. Ten men were present to bear witness. My grandfather reached her and pulled her from beneath the hooves of the horse, taking a hard blow. He saved her life. But in so doing, he touched her, the great lady of a Hanzish house. For that he was hanged.”

Sympathy softened the queen’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Neil shrugged. “It is one story of many,” he said. “Many times we tried to rise against our Hanzish masters. Always we failed, until the day Fail de Liery came over the sea with his boats and brought us arms, and fought beside us, and drove the duke and all of his men back to their homeland. Perhaps Liery fought for Skern due to some petty dispute—I do not know. I only know that now my people can feed and clothe themselves and are not hanged for speaking their native tongue. I know we can live now like men and not like Hanzish lapdogs. This is a small thing, perhaps, compared to what happened on this plain. But in my heart, Majesty, I know tyranny did not end with the Skasloi, and the fight for what is right did not end with the men who marched across Mey Ghorn. I know my opinion lacks education—” He felt suddenly as if he had said far too much. Who was he to contradict the queen?

“No,” she said, a small smile brightening her face. “The only thing your opinion lacks is the jaded view from the towers of the highborn. Thank the saints for you, Neil MeqVren. You put me in my place.”

“Majesty, I never meant to—”

“Hush. I’m done brooding, thanks to you. Let’s speak of this no more, but go down and make merry. It’s the eve of Fiussanal, you know.”

Memory flashed, of a blue dress and a face glancing up at him, and eagerness and trepidation exchanged blows on the battlefield of his heart.

But when they reached the horz, Fastia was nowhere to be seen.

Night gentled upon the fortress, and by the toll of the eighth bell the preparations for Fiussanal were done and even the excited Elseny was quiet in her chambers awaiting sleep.

Sleep eluded Neil, however. The memory of Fastia by moonlight haunted him, but something besides that nagged him. Perhaps it was the queen’s talk of the host of ancient dead around Cal Azroth that drew him back outside, to the rampart of the tower in which she had her apartments. From there he would notice any who might come and go into the royal residence, and so prosecute his duty. But he could also gaze over the haunted, moonlit plain, studying it for any wisps of mist or light that might remark some sign of ghosts.

After the tenth bell tolled, his eyelids were finally drooping and the moon was setting on the horizon. Neil was considering a return to his quarters when, with a faint thrill, at the corner of his eye he detected motion.

Staring straight on, he saw nothing at first, but from the periphery of his vision he made out several figures moving swiftly toward the castle.

He did not think they were ghosts.

He descended the tower as far as the battlements, hoping for a better view and to alert the watch. What he had seen could have been anything—a pack of wild dogs, a Sefry band, messengers from the court—but his watchword was suspicion.

He saw no better from the battlements, but in the courtyard below them he noticed something that raised his hackles. Two human figures lay there unmoving. The moon was not yet risen, so he couldn’t make out who they were, but the positions in which they lay made him doubt they were merely asleep from too much drink.

He hesitated only long enough to wonder if he should put on the rest of his armor. He wore his leather gambeson and a light chain hauberk, and donning the plate would take far too long. Grimly, heart pounding, he started toward the stair, keeping his steps light.

Down in the courtyard, he found his worst fears realized; the massive double gate stood open, and he could see stars beyond. Now, too, he could see the insignia of the Royal Footguard on the fallen men, and the pools of blood that pronounced them dead.

A man he hadn’t seen from above lay crumpled against the base of the stairs. He was still alive, though his breath wheezed strangely. Neil approached carefully, gaze sweeping the compound. To the right of the open gate stood a second portal, still closed, beyond which lay the causeway leading to the garrison. To his left was the queen’s tower. When he detected no one, and no movement in either direction, he turned his attention to the injured man.

With a start, he saw it was Sir James Cathmayl. His throat was cut, and he was trying futilely to stop the flow of his life’s blood with his own two hands. His eyes fastened on Neil, and he tried to say something. No sound emerged, only more blood, but the downed knight gestured at something behind Neil, and his dying eyes glittered bright warning.

Neil flung himself to the right, and steel smote the cobbles where he’d knelt. He turned and brought Crow to guard.

A man stood there, a fully armored knight. “Death has found you,” the knight told him.

“Death has found me many times,” Neil replied. “I’ve always sent her away hungry.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted, “Alarm! The gate is breached, and enemies are within!”

The knight laughed and stepped closer, but didn’t raise his weapon, and with a thrill of astonishment, Neil saw it was Vargus Farre.

“Traitor,” Neil rasped, leaping forward, scything Crow in a hard blow down.

The knight merely retreated, now bringing his weapon to guard.

“Don’t you feel it, Sir Knight?” Vargus asked. There was something wrong with his accent, with the way he spoke, and despite the fact that the man wore Sir Vargus’ face, Neil suddenly doubted it was really the man he knew at all.

“Don’t you?” Sir Vargus repeated. “Death arriving in you?”

“What is this, Sir Vargus, or whatever you be? For whom have you opened the gate?”

“You’ll feel it soon.”

And suddenly, Neil did. Something struck him like flame between the eyes, but a flame that ate out from within. He heard a voice that wasn’t his, inside his ears, felt a will not his own scratching within his skull. With a shriek he fell to his knees, Crow clattering beside him.

The knight who could not be Sir Vargus laughed again, and something behind Neil’s lips bubbled a sardonic reply.

9 Night Visitors

“Well, that was rather dull,” Anne muttered, lighting a taper to illuminate the tower room she shared with Austra.

“Really?” Austra said, her voice somehow faraway sounding. “I found it entertaining enough.”

“I would go so far as to call it quaint,” Anne replied.

“Quaint,” Austra repeated, nodding. She went to the window and looked out at the night. Anne sighed and began changing out of her dress.

“It was nice to wear a gown again, at least,” she said, “even one in such questionable taste.” She held the empty dress up before her, then, shrugging, folded it carefully. She pulled her coarse sleeping shift over her head.

“It’s back to lessons tomorrow,” she said, trying to distract herself from the lingering disappointment that Cazio hadn’t been Roderick, and the uneasy feelings the shameless Vitellian had stirred in her. “We’re learning the uses of alvwort, I hear, which I’m much looking forward to.”

“Uh-huh,” Austra murmured.

Anne turned a suspicious glance on her friend.

“We’re also having a lesson on changing babies into puppies, and the reverse.”

“Good,” Austra said, nodding. “That will be interesting.”

“Saints, what’s wrong with you?” Anne demanded of her friend. “You aren’t even listening to me.”

Austra turned guiltily from the window.

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just sleepy.”

“You don’t look sleepy. You look positively excitable.”

“Well, I’m not,” Austra insisted. “I’m sleepy.”

“Yes? Then what’s got you so interested outside?”

“Nothing. It’s just pretty, tonight.”

“There’s no moon. You can’t see anything.”

“I can see plenty,”Austra replied. “Maybe I’ll see Roderick riding up.”

“Austra Laesdauter, are you making fun of me?”

“No, I’m not. I hope for your sake he does come. You still love him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And this what’s-his-name—”

“Cazio?”

“Yes, that’s it. How did you meet him? You said you would tell me.”

Anne considered that. “This is one of those secrets, Austra,” she said finally. “One of our sacred ones.”

Austra placed her hand on her heart. “By Genya Dare, I’ll keep this secret.”

Anne explained how she’d found her way out of the cave and met Cazio, still leaving out any mention of the mysterious woman and her newfound senses. She felt ashamed for that, but something still warned her it was prudent.

“So you see,” Anne concluded, “whatever impression Cazio made tonight, at heart he is an ill-mannered rogue.”

“A handsome one, though,” Austra said.

Anne opened her mouth, closed it, and then laughed. “You’re taken with him,” she said.

“What?”Austra’s face scrunched in dismay. “No, I’m not.”

Anne folded her arms and looked skeptically down one shoulder. “You stayed behind me a bit,” she said. “What happened? What did he say to you?”

Austra blushed deeply enough that it was visible even by candlelight. “It’s as you say,” she said, looking toward the corner of the room as if she had lost something there. “He is an errant rogue.”

“Austra, tell me what happened.”

“You’ll be angry,” Austra said.

“I’ll be angry only if you keep so secretive and phayshot. Tell me!”

“Well—he gave me a bit of a kiss, I think.”

“You think?” Anne asked. “What do you mean, you think? He either kissed you or he didn’t.”

“He kissed me then,” Austra said, a bit defiantly.

“You are taken with him,” Anne accused again.

“I don’t even know him.”

“The fickleness of the man!” Anne exploded. “First he’s doting on me, then twelve heartbeats later he’s slavering over you. What could you see in such a faithless heart?”

“Nothing!” Austra said. “Only …”

“Only what?”

“Well, it was nice. The kiss. He kisses well.”

“I wouldn’t know how he kisses. I wouldn’t want to.”

“You shouldn’t. You have Roderick for that. Anyway, I’m sure neither of us will ever see Casnar da Chiovattio again.”

“If the saints are kind.”

Austra shrugged and turned back to the window. “Oh!” she said.

“What is it? Is he down there?” Anne said. “That would be typical of him, to follow us back here and bother us.”

“No, no,” Austra averred. “Not unless he brought friends. Look at all the torches.”

“What? Let me see.”

Anne shouldered her way into the window, and saw that Austra was right. A long glowworm of lights was approaching the coven. Anne heard the snorting of horses and the sound of hooves.

“Who could that be, at this hour?” Anne wondered.

“A Sefry caravan, perhaps,” Austra offered. “They travel in darkness.”

“Maybe,” Anne replied dubiously.

At that moment, the coven bells began to peal the signal to gather.

“I suppose we’re going to find out,” Anne said.

Sister Casita met them in the courtyard at the foot of the stairs, where other sleepy girls were already beginning to converge, murmuring in irritation and confusion at being wakened so soon after bed.

“Go to the wine cellar,” Casita said, gesturing in the general direction with a willow wand. “Remain there until you are told to return to your rooms.”

“What’s going on?” Anne asked. “We saw riders approaching from the tower.”

“Hush, Sister Ivexa. Keep quiet and do as you’re told. Go to the wine cellar.”

“I’m going nowhere until I know what’s wrong,” Anne insisted.

Before Anne could dodge, Sister Casita switched her across the mouth with her wand. Anne tried to cry out, but found her lips frozen together.

“Obey me,” Casita said, to all of the girls assembled there.

Seeing what had happened to Anne, no one else dared question her. Anne, furious and frightened, nevertheless went with the rest of the girls toward the cellar.

The sacaum Sister Casita had laid on Anne’s lips wore off a few moments later, leaving only an odd tingling in her jaws. By then she and Austra had reached the head of the stairs that led below the coven, but rather than descending them with the rest of the girls, Anne pulled Austra into a side corridor.

“Come on,” she said.

“Where?”

“Up on the wall. I’m going to find out what the matter is.”

“Are you mad? Haven’t you learned not to disobey yet?”

“We’ll keep hidden. But I’m going to find out. Something is wrong. I think the coven is under attack.”

“Why would anyone attack a coven?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m not going into the wine cellar.”

“Anne—”

“Go with the rest if you like,” Anne said. “I know what I’m doing.”

She turned and walked off. After a moment she heard a sigh and the soft swish of Austra following her.

They wound past the kitchen and the herb garden beyond, to where the small arbor of grapevines sent tendrils out to climb the cracked stone. There, Anne remembered, was a narrow stair that led to the top of the wall that surrounded the coven. It was steep and crumbly, and she slipped twice, but soon enough they had reached the top and the walkway there. She began softly moving toward the front gate, Austra behind her. Once, they heard running feet and ducked into the shadows of a tower as a robed figure entered it. Anne listened to the muted sound of footsteps ascending its heights, then scurried past.

The large court inside the front gate was filled with dark-robed figures, the greatest part of the members of the Cerian order. Sister Secula wasn’t with them; she stood on the wall above the gate, along with Sisters Savitor and Curnax, looking down at whoever was there. Anne could hear that she was talking, but couldn’t make out the words. She crept ever nearer, Austra still following, and together they discovered an outjutting section of the bastion from which they could see both Sister Secula and the men who had arrived outside the gate.

“Saints!” Anne murmured.

In the torchlight she made out about thirty riders, handsomely mounted on warhorses and clad in full plate. None of them, however, bore standards—not even their leader, who wore armor gilded at the edges and sat his horse about two yards in front of the rest. He had his visor pushed up, but Anne couldn’t discern his features at the distance. He was talking to Sister Secula—or, rather, she was talking to him.

“… the matter,” the mestra was saying. “We are under the protection of the church and the meddisso. If you do not heed me, the consequences will be dire. Now, go.” Her voice was taut with command, and even though her words weren’t directed at Anne, they made her wince. She wouldn’t want to be that knight, whoever he was.

The knight, however, seemed unimpressed. “That I may not, lady,” he shouted up. Behind him, spurs rattled and horses stamped. The smell of burning tar from torches wafted over the wall. The whole scene was unreal, dreamlike.

“I am sworn to this,” the knight continued. “Send her out, and we can be done with this business. Make whatever complaints you wish.”

“You think because you come as cowards, bearing no standard or emblem, we will not find who you are?” Sister Secula returned. “Go. You will get nothing here save the curses of the saints.”

“The saints are with us, Sister,” the knight replied matter-of-factly. “Our cause has no blemish, and I do not fear any shinecraft you may loose on me. I warn you once more. Send me down Anne Dare, or you will force me to incivility.”

“Anne!” Austra gasped.

Anne took Austra’s hand, her heart picking up a few beats. The world seemed to whirl as everything that was happening realigned itself.

This was about her.

“I warn you once more,” Secula told the knight. “Trespass is beyond bearing. No man may set foot in this coven.”

Anne couldn’t see the mestra’s face, but she could imagine it, and wondered if the nameless knight was actually meeting her gaze.

“I regret what I must do,” the man said. “But you have forced me to it.”

He gestured, and the ranks of his cavalry parted, and through it came ten archers and as many men bearing a wooden beam clad at one end in a head of steel. The archers trained their weapons on the sisters on the wall.

“Open the gate,” the knight said. “For the love of the saints, open it and let us in.”

For answer, Sister Secula spread her fingers, and Anne felt a sudden prickling across her skin, a sensation akin to and yet different from facing a fire. Something dark spun out from the mestra’s fingertips, like a spiderweb but more gossamer and insubstantial. It drifted onto the men below. When it touched the tallest, they shrieked and threw hands up to their eyes. Anne saw blood spurting from between their fingers, and her belly tightened in horror. She had heard rumors of the encrotacnic sacaums, though she had never quite believed in them.

In response the knight lifted up his arms and shouted, and again Anne felt a surge of force, this one passing through her like a cold shock. The mestra’s sacaum shredded, floated up on the night air, and vanished.

“So,” Secula said. “Now you show your face, brother. Now I know the truth.”

“A truth perhaps,” the knight said. “This matter is beyond your understanding, Mestra.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I may not.” He gestured, and his men surged forward; the ram crashed against the gate. At the same moment, the knight’s hands flashed white, the air crackled with sudden thunder, and blue fire twisted in a helix from below the wall. Anne couldn’t see the gate from the side that was struck, but she could see it from the courtyard side, and gasped as the fire crackled through its seams like the reaching tendrils of a vine.

On the second blow, the gate collapsed, and the knight rode through, his men behind him.

Anne couldn’t feel her body anymore. She felt detached, outside, a presence as frail as a specter witnessing what followed.

The sisters tightened into a bunch and spoke dark words, and knights fell, tearing off their helms to reveal faces gone azure. They bit off their tongues and crushed their own teeth as their jaws spasmed, weeping green tears as they crossed the waters of death.

The leader strode unaffected through the unseen veil of slaughter. His heavy sword lifted, and in an instant one of the nuns was headless, her body sinking to its knees slowly as her neck seemed to stretch up and out, blooming like a red orchid. The bloody sword came back, and back, hewing into the sisters of Cer. At first the women held their line, and warriors continued to fall like ants marching into a fire, but suddenly the sisters broke before the murdering blade. Arrows whistled up into the battlements, where Sister Secula was raining black sleet that fell through armor as if it wasn’t there. Savitor and Curnax collapsed, staring at the arrows standing in them. Sister Secula grimly clapped her hands and seemed to slip into a shadow that wasn’t there. Then the shadow wasn’t there, either.

“Oh, saints,” Austra shrieked.

“This is because of me,” Anne said numbly. The words didn’t make sense, but there they were.

“We have to get to the wine cellar,” Austra said. “We have to get somewhere safe. Anne, come on.”

But Anne couldn’t move. Blood was everywhere, now. She had never dreamed so much blood existed in the whole world, or that headless bodies could twitch so, or the eyes of the dead seem so like glass.

“Anne!” Austra screamed in her ear.

The leader of the knights heard and looked up. His visor was still open, but the only thing Anne noticed about his face were eyes so blue they seemed almost white.

“There!” he shouted, thrusting his mailed finger at her.

“Anne!” Austra was weeping uncontrollably with fear and grief, tugging at her arm.

Anne found her legs, or they found themselves, and in a rush she was running, tripping along the battlements, all of her senses gone to feed her fear. Austra was close behind, nearly pushing her. They found the stair they had ascended and stumbled down it. Anne slipped and her knees smacked hard into the stone but she scarcely noticed, for as they entered the courtyard there came another hoarse male shout.

“The wine cellar!” Austra cried, gesturing.

“And be trapped? No!” Anne turned into the refectory, not daring to face the sound of mailed feet slapping the stone behind them. As they rounded past the entrance to the larder, however, Austra shrieked again, and Anne was forced to turn.

Their pursuer—a man in half plate with long black hair gathered in a tail—had Austra by her hair and his sword leveled at Anne.

“Stop your running,” he commanded. “Come with me.”

Austra’s eyes had lost all semblance of sanity, and Anne was suddenly more furious than terrified.

The nearest thing at hand was a hammer used for nailing up kegs. She snatched it up and threw it.

It wasn’t a strong throw, but it was surprisingly true. She had a glimpse of the astonishment spreading on the knight’s face, just before the mallet crushed his nose. He swore and stumbled back, and Austra was free.

The two girls started running again. Behind them, Anne heard the knight howl and stamp, and then something struck her hard on the head. She went light and then heavy, and her cheek crushed against the floor. She spit blood and tried to rise, but a boot came down on her back.

“Little bitch,” the man said. “I’ll teach you—saints!”

The last word rose into a scream so high pitched it sounded like a horse dying, and the pressure came off Anne’s back. Confused, she came groggily to her hands and knees, turning to see that the knight lay dead, with vapor drifting from between his lips.

“Get up. Quickly.”

Anne looked toward the new voice. Next to her, Austra was struggling up, as well. Sister Secula stood looking down at them.

“Come along,” she said. “The sisterhood can’t keep them back much longer.”

Anne nodded mutely, rubbing her head, which was still ringing from the blow. She fastened her eyes on the back of the mestra’s robe, wondering again if this was all actually happening.

Too fast. All too fast. Things blurred.

The next time she noticed where they were, they were standing before the pit that led down to the fane of Mefitis.

The mestra took her by the shoulders.

“I didn’t expect this,” she murmured, in a strangely soft voice. “I’m not done with you and you aren’t ready, but what is, is.”

“What do those men want with me?” Anne asked.

Sister Secula’s dark eyes narrowed. “To take hope from the world,” she said. “To take you from it.” She gestured to the harness. “Get in, the both of you.”

“Wait,” Anne said. She felt there was something she ought to ask.

“No time,” the older woman said. “Grasp the ropes firmly.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Anne asked, as she and Austra arranged themselves in the twining cords. “I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.”

“Stay alive,” Sister Secula advised. “The rest will unfold as well as it can, saints willing. Leave here, and quickly, or they will find you. Keep moving, and do not trust any illusion of safety.” She began letting off the winch, lowering them down, and her face receded above Anne. Something began thudding against the door above them.

“You know the way out,” the mestra said. “Go, the moment you reach the bottom.”

“You knew?” Anne blurted.

Sister Secula’s only answer was a soft laugh.

She let them down quickly, and no sooner had they touched the stone floor than came from above a chorus of howls, like damned souls, and the faint smell of sulfur.

Then silence.

In the darkness, Anne suddenly felt stronger. “Austra, take my hand,” she said.

“It’s too dark,” Austra protested. “We’ll fall in a chasm, or trip.”

“Just trust me and take my hand. You heard the mestra. I know the way.”

Men’s voices floated down from above.

“You hear that? They know we’re here.”

“Yes,” Austra said. “Yes, let’s go.”

Fingers gripped together, the two girls started out into the dark.

10 The Sounding

Long before Stephen entered the clearing, Desmond saw him, of course. Stephen had known he would. The monk stopped his incantation, and a sardonic smile spread across his face.

“Lewes, Owlic,” he said. “On your guard. The holter will be near. He’s a dangerous man, if he killed Topan and Aligern.” He smiled a little more broadly. “You couldn’t have had much of a hand in killing them, could you, Brother Stephen?”

“No, you’re right there,” Stephen said cheerfully. He crossed his arms and tried to look nonchalant.

Desmond cocked his head at the tone, then shrugged. “You’ve gone mad, I take it. That’s to your advantage, considering what I’m going to do to you.”

“You’re wrong about the holter, though,” Stephen went on. “He killed Topan and Aligern, but Topan gave him a mortal wound. I’m going to have to kill you by myself.”

“That’s fine,” Spendlove said. “You can do that in a moment. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable—sit if you wish. I’ve a small task to finish before I take up your case.” He looked at Lewes and Owlic. “He’s probably lying about the holter. Stay alert.” He turned back to the girl.

“You don’t have to repeat all of that rigmarole, you know,” Stephen confided. “The sedos doesn’t care if you say anything or not.”

Desmond scowled. “Perhaps not. The dark saints, however, care a great deal.”

“The dark saints are dead,” Stephen said. “You’re showing your ignorance, chanting like some Watau wonderman. The sedoi are the remains of their puissance, their old tracks of power. The potence is there, but it’s insentient.” He switched his tone to one he might use with a small child. “That means it can’t hear you,” he said.

Desmond tried on another smile, but it seemed strained. “You’re talking about things of which you know nothing,” he said.

Stephen laughed. “That’s good, coming from a thickwit like you. What don’t I understand? You’re making changelings. You just sent Brother Seigeriek’s soul off to steal a body, and now you’re sending Ashern to do the same. Knights in the queen’s guard, perhaps? Is that a lock of hair I see around Brother Ashern’s neck? A personal item is needed to find the body, yes?”

“Lewes, shut him up until I’m done,” Desmond grunted. He held up an admonishing finger. “Don’t kill him, though.”

The hulking monk started toward Stephen.

“You’re the ones who don’t understand what you’re doing,” Stephen said. “Your knowledge is less than complete, and more superstition than anything else. That’s why you needed me. You still do.”

“Oh, and you’re ready to help us now?” Spendlove said. “I doubt that, somehow.”

“Call off Lewes,” Stephen said. “Call him off, or I’ll use this.” He brought the horn from his haversack, the one the holter had carried from the Mountains of the Hare to d’Ef.

Desmond’s eyes pinched to slits.

“Hold off, Lewes,” Spendlove said. He stepped a little away from the girl, holding his empty hands out so as to make clear he was not threatening her. “Where did you get that?”

“You should have spent a little more time in the scriftorium and a little less time buggering corpses,” Stephen told him. “Do you know what this is? I think you do.”

“Something you ought not to have. Something you won’t have for long.”

“I don’t need it for long. Only for an instant.”

Desmond shook his head. “You can’t think I’m that stupid. The ritual involved—”

“Is as meaningless as the one you’re gibbering now. Any sedos can unlock the power in the horn. Any lips can blow it. And look here, we have both.”

“If you really know what you have, you know better than to use it,” Desmond said. “Calling him won’t help you.”

“You’re afraid to name him? I’m not. The Briar King. The horned lord. The Nettle-man. And the thing about calling him, you know, is that I really don’t know what will happen, and neither do you. He might kill us all, though the Codex Khwrn claims that the holder of the horn won’t be harmed. A chance I’m willing to take, that, considering how by your own admission, you’ve some nasty things planned for me.” He raised the horn, wondering if there really was any such scrift as the Codex Khwrn.

“Stop,” Desmond said, a note of desperation in his voice. “Wait a moment.”

“You’re so partial to the dark saints, yet you don’t want to meet one?”

“Not him. Not yet.” He cocked his head. “You don’t know everything, Brother Stephen. Not by half. If you wake him now—if you call him out of his wood before we’ve finished the preparations—you’ll have more blood on your hands than I ever dreamed of.”

Stephen shrugged. “Let’s not wake him, then.”

Desmond’s voice took on a bargaining tone. “What do you want?” he asked.

“The girl. Let her go.”

“You know this slut?”

“I’ve never laid eyes on her before. But I won’t watch you kill her. Let her go, and let the two of us walk away.”

“Where’s the holter?”

“I told you. He’s dead.”

Spendlove shook his head. “He probably went after Fend. They’re old friends, those two.”

Lewes was only a few yards away, tensing as if to spring.

Stephen raised the horn almost to his lips and waggled a warning finger at the giant.

Brother Ashern, standing bare-chested on the sedos, cleared his throat.

“Seigereik has probably opened the gate by now,” he said. “There may be no need for me to go.”

Desmond laughed bitterly. “You always were a coward at heart, Brother Ashern. You’ve the most important task of all. You’re to kill the queen, if the others fail. She’ll trust you.”

“If he blows that horn, I won’t be killing any queen,” Brother Ashern said defensively. “Seigereik has the gates open by now, and Fend and his men will be inside soon. It’s a ride of less than half a bell, even in the dark. They’ll get the queen, sure enough.”

“We don’t even know it’s the real thing,” Lewes growled. “It could be a cow horn he picked up someplace.”

“Or it could be I’ve been traveling with the holter who saw the Briar King, who went into his very demesne. Surely Fend told you about that. That was what Fend was after in the first place—the horn. Do you think he found it?” This was all guesswork, of course, but Stephen saw from their faces he had caught the sparrow.

Lewes was edging closer.

“No, Lewes,” Spendlove said. “He’s right, and so is Brother Ashern. Soon the queen and all of her daughters will be dead; the holter can’t kill Fend and all of his men by himself. The deed is accomplished. We’ve no need to kill this little whore.” He produced a knife from his belt, one that glittered with actinic light. “I’m going to cut her loose.”

Stephen pressed the horn to his lips, a tacit warning.

He hadn’t counted on how fast Spendlove could move. The knife was suddenly a blur in the air, and then a shearing pain in Stephen’s arm. He gasped.

He gasped, and the world filled with sound.

Stephen had never intended to blow the horn, of course, nor did he really believe it would do anything if he did. He’d been counting on Spendlove’s superstitious belief in the dark saints.

He didn’t even know how to blow a horn, though he had seen it done and knew that it wasn’t like a hautboy or recorder; it involved buzzing the lips or somesuch. Just putting air in it shouldn’t work.

But the clear note that soared into the dark air denied all that. And it wouldn’t let him stop. Even as he sank to his knees, blood spraying from his arm, the horn blew louder, sucking the wind from him as the very rocks and trees seemed to take up the note, as the sky shivered from it. Even when Brother Lewes hit him and tore the instrument from his hands, the sound went on, gathering force like a thunderhead, building higher until it was deafening, until no other sound existed in the world.

Brother Lewes knocked Stephen roughly to the ground. Grinding his teeth, Stephen pulled the knife from his arm, nearly fainting from the redoubled pain that brought. He rolled onto his back, vaguely bringing the blade up in a gesture of defense.

But Brother Lewes was doing something odd. He seemed to have found a straight stick and driven it into his own right eye. Why would he do that?

When a second arrow struck the monk in the heart, it all suddenly made sense. He watched numbly as Lewes pawed at the shaft, gave a final mutter of consternation, and fell.

“Aspar,” Stephen said. He couldn’t hear his own words for the sound of the horn.

Clutching the knife, he stumbled to his feet. He willed away the pain in his arm, and it went, just as the feeling had gone out of his body on the faneway. Grimly he started toward Desmond.

The monk watched him come. Stephen was peripherally aware that Aspar was attacking Owlic, now.

In the air around them, the note from the horn was finally beginning to fade, but slowly.

“You’re the greatest fool in the world,” Spendlove screamed. “Idiot! What have you done?”

Stephen didn’t answer. His first breath after blowing the horn felt like a winterful of icy draughts. He knew Spendlove would kill him. He didn’t care. Raising the knife he began to run straight toward the other monk, his wounded arm forgotten.

Desmond glanced down at the bound woman and then, fast as a cat, he grabbed Brother Ashern, positioned over the first still slightly twitching victim. He stabbed Ashern in the heart. At nearly the same moment, an arrow struck Desmond near the center of his chest, and he grunted and fell back.

That gave Stephen an instant to choose, and in that instant he felt a bright certainty. He shifted his charge, putting his shoulder into the dying, goggle-eyed Brother Ashern and knocking him from the mound. Then he knelt by the other man, the one still gaping at his own bowels.

“Forgive me,” he said, and drove the shining knife into one tortured blue eye, pushing it in as far as it would go.

“Once the blade is in,” he remembered reading in the Physiognomy of Ulh, “wiggle well to scramble the brains. Quick death will follow.”

He wiggled, and something in the earth beneath him seemed to groan.

He looked up just as Desmond hit him. He felt his nose collapse and tasted blood in the back of his throat, and when he bounced down the sedos, he barely felt anything. Desmond came grimly after him, snapping off the arrow in his chest. Stephen watched him sidestep another arrow, and then the monk had him by the collar, and Stephen was in the air again. He crashed to earth on the other side of the hill.

He’ll have cover here, Stephen thought. Aspar won’t be able to shoot him without moving. I’ll be dead by the time he gets here.

Desmond came around the sedos and kicked him in the ribs. Stephen grunted; he couldn’t breathe through his nose, and his mouth was full of blood.

“Enough of you, Stephen Darige,” Desmond said. “That’s very much enough of you.”

Stephen felt something in his hand as he tried to flop back, and he realized he still had the knife. Not that he would ever have the chance to use it. Spendlove was too fast. He couldn’t throw it, the way Spendlove had.

Or could he? He remembered Spendlove drawing his hand back and flipping it toward him. As lightning-quick as the throw had been, Stephen remembered it, every nuance of the motion. He thought of his own hand making the same motion.

Spendlove came, almost contemptuously. Stephen, not even half risen, cocked his hand and threw.

He was certain he had missed, until Spendlove, eyes wide and unbelieving, reached for his sternum, where the hilt stood, just below the arrow wound.

Stephen leapt up, fierce exultation finally moving his limbs. Spendlove hit him again, in the chest. It felt like a sledgehammer, but Stephen lurched forward, throwing his arms around the monk.

Spendlove put both of his hands around Stephen’s neck and began to squeeze. The world went gray as the monk’s fingers bit into his neck. Stephen, with winter in his belly, wondered how Spendlove could be so stupid. Was it a trick?

He decided it wasn’t; Spendlove was just mad with rage. With both hands, Stephen grabbed the hilt of the knife and pulled down.

“Oh, shit me,” Spendlove said, watching his guts spill to the ground. He let go of Stephen, took three steps back, and sat down heavily on the mound. He wrapped his arms around his yawning belly.

“I wondered why you didn’t think of that,” Stephen commented, dropping to his knees.

“Too mad. Saints, Darige, but you know how to make me mad.” His eyes rolled back. “You’ve killed me. Me, killed by the likes of you.”

“You shouldn’t have betrayed the church,” Stephen pointed out. “You shouldn’t have killed Fratrex Pell.”

“You’re still a fool, Brother Stephen,” Spendlove replied.

“I know others in the church must be involved,” Stephen told him. “I know you took orders from someone. Tell me who. Make absolution to me, Brother Desmond. I know you must regret some of what you’ve done.”

“I regret not killing you when I met you, yes,” Brother Desmond allowed.

“No. That night on the hill.”

Spendlove looked very weary. If it weren’t for the sanguine river flowing through his crossed arms, he might have been preparing for a nap. He blinked.

“I never had a chance,” he murmured. “I thought they would make something better of me. They made something worse.” He looked up, as if he saw something. “There they are,” he said. “Come to get me.”

“Tell me who your superiors were,” Stephen insisted.

“Come close, and I’ll whisper,” Spendlove said, his eyelids fluttering like broken moths.

“I think not. You’ve still the strength to kill me.”

“Well, you’ve learned a little, then.” He lay back. “It’s better that you live to see the world you’ve made, in any case. I hope you enjoy it, Brother Stephen.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re here.” Spendlove sounded suddenly frightened. His head threw back and his back arched. “It’s only ashes, now. I was a fool to think I could be more. Great lords!”

The last was a shriek, and then he lay still, his body as quiet as his face was tortured. Stephen sat watching him, chest heaving, slowly trying to become sane again.

Aspar finally hit the troublesome monk in the neck and, while he staggered, put the last shaft in his heart. That left only the leader, who had gone behind the mound with Stephen. Aspar sprinted from cover.

The fellow he’d just shot hadn’t given up, though. They met halfway to the mound, and he cut at Aspar with a sword, the steel a gray blur. Aspar stopped short, hopped back, then leapt forward inside the length of the weapon, crossing his dirk and the hand ax he’d acquired in a village two days back. He forced the sword down, then brought the hand ax up, edge-first, under the monk’s chin, splitting his lower jaw. In return he got a blow from the sword-pommel that sent him sprawling.

The swordsman came on, stabbing down, slower this time. Aspar batted the blade aside and sat up fast, punching his dirk into the man’s groin. When he doubled, Aspar withdrew the blade and put it through his heart, which finally stopped him. Groaning, Aspar climbed painfully to his feet and resumed his run to the mound where Winna still lay bound.

“Winn!” Beyond her, he could see the last monk folded around his belly, with Stephen watching laconically from a few yards away. The boy was bleeding freely from his arm wound, but otherwise looked well enough.

Winna was looking up at him, her eyes strangely calm. Kneeling, he cut her bonds and with a muffled cry lifted her into his arms and yanked off her gag.

“Winna—” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t, for it felt as if he’d swallowed something big and got it stuck in his throat. And why was his face wet? Was his forehead cut?

Winna sobbed then and buried her face in his neck, and they stood that way for a long moment.

Finally, he pushed her back gently.

“Winna, did they hurt you? Did they …”

“They didn’t touch my body,” she whispered. “They talked of it often. He wouldn’t let them, Fend. He wanted me pure, he said. He wanted to do things in front of you. Is he dead?”

“Fend, no. Not yet. Winna?”

“I knew you would find me.”

“I love you, Winna. If you’d died …”

She wiped her eyes, and her voice was suddenly its old practical self. “I didn’t die,” she said, “and neither did you. So here we are, and I love you, too. But the queen will die if we don’t do something.”

“I’ve the only queen I care about,” Aspar said gruffly. “I’ll kill Fend, right enough. But first, by the Raver, I’ll see you safe.”

“Nothing of that. We started this together, Aspar. We’ll stay in it together.”

“She’s right,” Stephen said, rising behind them. “We’ve got to do what we can.”

“That we’ve done, I think,” Aspar said.

“No,” Stephen said. “Not yet. We may not be able to help them at Cal Azroth, but we have to try.”

“You made a damned good fight here, lad,” Aspar said. “You did us all proud. But look at you. You’ve no fight left in you. If we don’t bandage that arm, you’ll bleed out.”

“Bandage it, then,” Stephen said. “And we’ll go.”

Aspar looked at the two determined young faces and sighed, feeling suddenly outnumbered.

“Winna, aren’t you the one ’sposed to have sense?” he asked.

Winna lifted her chin toward Stephen. “My name is Winna Rufoote,” she said.

“Stephen Darige, at your service.” He shot Aspar a look that said, you could have told me, but didn’t say anything. As-par felt suddenly embarrassed and put upon.

“Has he been as stone-stubborn with you as with me?” Winna asked Stephen.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how he could be any more stubborn than I’ve known him to be,” Stephen replied.

“Well, he can,” Winna said. “But I’m his match.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed him. “Aren’t I, love?”

Aspar felt bloodfire in his cheeks. He pursed his lips.

“Sceat,” he grunted. “We’ll go, but we do it as I say. Yah?”

“Always,” Winna agreed.

“And we get the horses. We’ll need ’em.”

11 Changeling

Neil fell to his knees, vomiting. He couldn’t feel the stone beneath his hands, or even his hands, for that matter. Threads of darkness stitched across his vision.

“Welcome, Brother Ashern,” the knight who was and was not Vargus Farre said. “You’re late. Was there trouble?”

Neil couldn’t compel his vocal cords to answer.

“What’s wrong with him?” another voice asked. Neil closed his eyes and saw the voice as a fidgeting blue line, like lightning.

“I don’t know,” the false Vargus replied. “I was sick at first, but not like that.”

“It’s no matter,” the new voice said. “We can do what needs doing, with or without him. But we cannot wait.”

“Agreed,” Vargus replied. “Brother Ashern, when you’ve recovered from your journey, find the queen. If she’s not already disposed of, then do so. Remember, she thinks you are her personal guard. Your name is Neil. Do you remember that?”

His words made no sense. The black web spinning across Neil’s vision was tightening its weave, wrapping around him, sinking toward his bones like a net cast into the sea. He briefly wondered what that net might bring up, and he remembered sunlight on whitecaps. He felt his father’s hand in his own.

Then nothing.

He woke where he had fallen, face pressed into the stone. His mouth was dry, and his head ached as if from too much wine. Fighting the urge to retch again, he found Crow and clambered to his feet. He swayed there a moment, still dizzy, gaze exploring the shadows of the keep. It was still night, so he had not been unconscious too long, but the false Vargus and whoever he had been talking to were nowhere to be seen.

What happened to me? The two men had talked as if he was someone else.

But he still felt like Neil MeqVren.

Glancing down, he saw that Sir James Cathmayl was dead, his glassy eyes staring beyond the lands of fate. All about, Cal Azroth was absolutely still and quiet, and yet somehow Neil sensed a stir of motion, of sharp darkness waiting to close on him and prick his veins.

The queen.

He started up the stairs at a dead run. Vargus had let someone into Cal Azroth, someone with murder in them. He prayed to the saints there was still time to stop them.

The guardhouse on the wall contained only dead soldiers, slain where they had been sitting or lying. As he entered the tower, Neil found more dead there. The blood pooled on the floor was still warm.

He passed Elseny’s room and saw the door standing open.

“Elseny?” he hissed. He could see her lying in her bed. He hesitated—his duty was to the queen first—but decided to wake her and keep her close.

But there was no waking Elseny. The sheets beneath her chin were dark, and a second mouth gaped in her thin white neck. Her eyes were stones, and her expression was one of puzzlement.

Fastia. Panic surged through Neil. Fastia’s room was on the other side of the tower, in the opposite direction as the queen’s.

He hesitated only an instant, then grimly continued toward the queen’s apartments.

In the anteroom, he found carnage. Two men and a Sefry lay still on the floor. The inner door was sealed. He started toward it, but something sharp pricked into the base of his neck, and he froze where he was.

“Move not,” Erren’s voice rasped. “I can kill you before you draw another breath, long before you can turn.”

“Lady Erren, it is I, Neil.”

“I have seen Vargus Farre, too,” Erren said. “But he was not Vargus Farre. Prove yourself, Sir Neil. Tell me something only Sir Neil might know.”

“The queen is well?”

“Do as I say.”

Neil bit his lip. “You knew I was with Fastia,” he said, “that night in Glenchest. You told me not to fall in love with her.”

The assassin was silent for a heartbeat. “Very well,” she said. “Turn.”

He did, and she moved so quickly he almost didn’t see. Her hand cracked across his face. “Where were you? Damn you, where were you?” she demanded.

“I saw men coming across the plain. I tried to raise the alarm, but the gate was already open. Sir Vargus opened it. And then he did something to me, witched me. I was sick and fainted; I don’t know for how long. Is the queen …”

“She is within, and well.”

“Thank the saints.” He lowered his voice. “Lady Erren, Elseny is dead. Fastia may be in danger, as well.”

“Elseny?” Erren’s face twisted in grief, but then her eyes narrowed and her features were again carved of marble. “You will stay here, Sir Neil,” Erren hissed. “Your duty is to Muriele, and Muriele alone.”

“Then you go, Lady Erren,” Neil urged. “Bring Fastia back here, where we can protect her. And Charles. All of the children must be in danger.”

Erren shook her head. “I cannot. I do not have the strength.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am injured, Sir Neil. I will not last the night. I may not last the hour.”

He stepped back, then, and saw how strangely she leaned against the wall. It was too dark to see exactly how she was hurt, but he smelled the blood.

“It cannot be so bad,” he said.

“I know death, Sir Neil. She is like a mother to me. Trust what I say, and waste no time on grief—for me, for Elseny— and no time on fear for Fastia. Stay clear headed, and answer my questions. I have killed three. How many are there in sum?”

“I don’t know,” Neil admitted. “When the illness overcame me, I was not sensible. But they told me I was to kill the queen.”

Erren’s brow furrowed. “They thought you changeling, like Vargus. Yet you were not. Somehow the sorcery was interrupted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Darkest encrotacnia,” Erren whispered. “A man is killed, and his enscorcled soul sent to take the body of another. The soul already in the body is ripped from it. You should not be alive, Sir Neil, and yet you are. But that may work to your advantage. If you pretend to be what they think you are, it might give you more space to strike.”

“Yes, lady.”

“The guards and servants are dead, you think?” Erren asked.

“Yes, lady.”

“Then you must get the queen to the garrison,” Erren told him. “They could not have killed all of the soldiers there. There are far too many.”

A faint noise came from down the hall.

“Hsst.” Erren stepped to the side of the door. Neil made out two pale figures moving toward them, and tightened his grip on Crow.

“That is you, Ashern?”

Neil seemed to remember that name from the courtyard.

“Aye.”

“Have you done it? The queen is dead?”

They were closer, now, and Neil could see they were both Sefry. The speaker had an eye patch.

“Aye, it’s done.”

“Well, let’s see. We should not tarry.”

“You will not trust my word?” They were almost close enough, but the Sefry with the eye patch hesitated, just as Neil struck. Both men leapt back, but the one who had spoken was faster, so Crow took the other in the shoulder and opened him to the lungs. Something hard hit Neil’s armor, just over his heart. The one-eyed Sefry was running backwards, his hand cocking back …

Neil understood and threw himself aside as a second thrown knife whirred by his head and snapped against the stone. By the time he recovered, the Sefry was gone.

“That’s the end of your advantage,” Erren said. “Now you must go, and swift, before he returns with more.”

“It may be that he has no more.”

“The changeling Vargus still lives. That makes at least two, but we must assume more.”

She rapped on the queen’s door, three soft taps, a pause, then two harder ones. Neil heard a bolt draw, and then the door cracked inward. He saw the queen’s eyes beyond.

“Sir Neil is here,” Erren said. “He will stay with you.”

“Erren, you’re hurt,” the queen noticed. “Come inside.”

Erren smiled briefly. “We have more visitors for me to receive. Sir Neil will take you to the garrison. You’ll be safe there.”

“My daughters—”

“Your daughters are already safe,” Erren replied, and Neil felt her hand touch his back in warning. “Now you must go with Sir Neil.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“You will,” Erren replied simply. “I will join you at the garrison.”

A noise sounded near the end of the hall, and Erren spun in time to receive one of the three arrows that sped through the door. It hit her in the kidney. The other two thudded against the wall next to Neil.

“Erren!” the queen screamed.

“Sir Neil!” Erren reminded, in a tone of cold and absolute command.

Neil was through the door in an instant, shouldering the queen aside. He slammed the portal behind him, just as several more shafts thocked into the other side. He bolted it.

“Do not open it,” Neil told the queen.

“Erren—”

“Erren is dead,” Neil told her. “She died so you might live. Do not betray her.”

The queen’s face changed, then. The confusion and grief fled from it, replaced by regal determination.

“Very well,” she said. “But whoever did this will have cause to regret it. Promise me that.”

Neil thought of Elseny, dead in her bed, all her laughter and whimsy bled into her sheets. He thought of Fastia, and nursed a terrible hope that she still lived.

“They will,” he said. “But we must survive the night.”

He went to the window, sheathing Crow as he did so. He’d examined the room earlier, of course, and even without the moon he knew the tower wall dropped some five yards to the wall of the inner keep, where he had stood earlier that night watching for ghosts. A glance showed no one without. He returned to her bed and began knotting the sheets together, tying one end to the bedpost.

The door shuddered beneath repeated blows.

“Finish here,” he told the queen. “Tie them well. When you’ve fixed two more together, start down. Do not wait for me.”

The queen nodded and went to the task. Neil, meanwhile, pushed a heavy chest to add weight to the door.

He wasn’t in time. The bolt suddenly snapped open, as if pulled by invisible fingers. Neil leapt to it, drew Crow, yanked it open, and slashed.

The pale face of a Sefry looked at him in surprise as Crow split collarbone, heart, and breastbone. Neil didn’t let the malefactor drop, but with his other hand lifted him by the hair, using him as a shield against the inevitable darts that flew from the darkness. Then he shoved the body away and slammed the door again, drawing the bolt firmly into place.

A glance behind him showed that the queen had already begun her descent. He went to the window and watched until she reached the stone cobbles, and was turning to follow her when the door exploded inward.

Neil slashed the sheet at the bedpost and leapt to the windowsill, dropping to hang by his fingers as two arrows hummed by and a third glanced from his byrnie. Then he dropped.

A fall of three yards even in half armor was easily enough to snap bones. He hit the cobbles and collapsed his knees. The air blew out of him and glimmer-lights danced across his vision.

“Sir Neil.” The queen was there. On the horizon a purple sickle was rising. For a moment, Neil did not recognize it as the moon.

“Away from the window,” he gasped, reaching up to her.

She took his hand, and they ducked around the curve of the tower, away from any sharp-nosed arrows that might scent them from above.

“This way,” Neil said. They started along the battlements toward the stair to the courtyard, glancing behind them often. Neil made out at least one slight figure dropping from the tower in the moonlight. He hoped it wasn’t one of the archers.

They reached the steps without incident, however. Once down them, they needed only to cross the courtyard and open the gate that led through the old wall and across the canal to the garrison. Last Neil had seen, that yard was empty of the living, and he hoped it still was.

They had taken only a step down, however, when the queen suddenly jerked away from him and started back up.

“Your Majesty—” he began.

“Fastia!” the queen shouted.

Neil saw Fastia, turning the corner of the battlements perhaps twenty yards away, still wearing the same blue dress he had seen her in earlier. She looked up at the sound of her name.

“Mother? Sir Neil?”

“Fastia. Come to us. Quickly. There is danger.” She started toward her daughter.

Neil swore and started after her, noting the three figures closing rapidly from the way they had come.

A fourth appeared silently from the shadows behind Fastia.

“Fastia!” he shouted. “Behind you! Run toward us!”

He passed the queen an instant later, his heart roaring, watching Fastia’s face grow nearer, confusion mixing with fear as she turned to see what he was yelling about.

“Keep back from her!” Neil thundered. “By the saints, keep back from her!”

But the black-clad figure was there, moving terrifically fast, a sliver of moonlight in his hand, lifted and then buried in Fastia’s breast, two heartbeats before Neil reached her. The man danced back and drew a sword as Neil howled and drove in, hammering Crow down with both hands. The man parried, and cut back, but Neil took the slash on his hauberk and crashed into him, bringing an elbow up into his chin with a hoarse shout. The man went down but was already bouncing back up when Crow split his skull.

The queen was kneeling with her daughter, and the men approaching from the tower were nearly upon them. They could never make it to the stairs and down before the men arrived.

Fastia looked up at him, blinking, hiccuping.

There was only one way, and Neil took it.

“Over the wall, into the canal, and swim to the causeway,” he told the queen. “I have Fastia.”

“Yes,” the queen said. She never hesitated, but jumped.

Neil lifted Fastia in his arms.

“I love you,” she gasped.

“And I you,” he said, and leapt.

The wall here was seven yards high, and the water felt like stone when he hit it. His hauberk dragged him straight to the bottom, and he had to let loose of Fastia to shuck it off. For a panicked instant he couldn’t find her again, but then felt her arm, got his grip, and brought her up. He found his bearings and struck toward the causeway that led to the garrison. It seemed impossibly far away. Ahead of him, the queen was already swimming. Fastia’s eyes had closed, but her breath still whistled in his ear.

Two loud splashes sounded behind him. He struck harder, cursing.

He emerged onto the causeway at almost the same time as the queen. He lifted Fastia into a cradle-carry and they ran for the garrison gate, keenly aware that the gate to the other courtyard—and those who probably now occupied it—lay behind them.

The garrison gate was open, too, the bodies of perhaps ten soldiers crumpled beneath its arch.

In the darkness beyond, something growled, and Neil saw glowing eyes and a shadow the size of a horse, but shaped like no horse he had ever seen.

12 A Lesson in the Sword

Cazio woke, wondering where he was, chagrined that he had dozed. Without moving more than his eyes, he quietly took in his surroundings.

He lay in a small copse of olive trees, through which the stars twinkled pleasantly in a cloudless sky. Not far away reared the shadow of the Coven Saint Cer.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, reaching instinctively to see if Caspator was there, and felt reassured to find the familiar hilt next to him.

What had wakened him? A familiar noise, it seemed. Or had it merely been a dream?

Memory came lazily, but there wasn’t much to remember. When the girls left Orchaevia’s fete, he’d taken a walk into the countryside. He’d never been afraid of the dark, and felt learning to move in it, to sense the unseen, could only improve his fencing skills.

Why and how exactly his footsteps had taken him to the coven, he couldn’t say. He’d just looked up and there it was. Once there, he’d pondered what to do; it was too early and would have seemed far too eager on his part to try to get Anne and Austra’s attention. So he just stared up at their tower for a while, finally rationalizing that the best hunter was the one who knew the habits of his prey. That being the case, he would observe and perhaps catch a glimpse of them. And after all, it was a pleasant night—not a bad one to spend beneath the stars. No doubt z’Acatto was wandering drunkenly around the triva, spoiling for an argument, and if Orchaevia found him, he would be forced to report on his success or failure with Anne. Avoiding that conversation was one of the reasons he’d gone on his nocturnal stroll in the first place.

With those thoughts in mind, he’d found the olive grove and waited. A lantern eventually brightened the tower, and he watched the shadow play of the two girls at the window— discussing him, no doubt.

Then the light had gone out, disappointingly soon, and he’d closed his eyes for a moment—

And slept, apparently.

He congratulated himself on avoiding a close call. How foolish he’d have seemed if he’d slept until morning. Anne might have seen him and thought him become what Orchaevia claimed he was, a lovesick fool.

Even thinking the word startled him. He, Cazio Pachiomadio da Chiovattio, lovesick.

Ridiculous.

He glanced back up at the tower. No light showed in the window, but then why should it? It must be well into the morning by now.

The noise that had awakened him repeated itself, a bell ringing, and with sudden interest Cazio realized that something was going on at the coven. He saw torches all along the battlements, most of them moving at what must be a frantic pace. He thought he heard horses, too, which was odd. And faintly, ever so faintly, shouting, and what might be the occasional sound of steel.

He sat up straighter. No, by Diuvo, he did hear steel. That wasn’t a sound he was likely to misplace.

That took him straight from muddled to wide awake, and he sprang to his feet with such haste that he bumped his head on a low branch. Cursing, he found his hat and donned it, took the cloak he’d been using as a bed and pinned it back on.

Who was fighting in the coven? Had bandits attacked the place? Crazed rapist vagabonds from the Lemon Hills to the south?

He had to know. He began striding toward the left, where he supposed the gate was. If it was naught—some strange exercise to celebrate the Fiussanal—the worst they could do was turn him away.

He’d gone no more than fifty pereci when he heard the drumming of hooves in the night. He stopped, cupping his ear and turning this way and that until he determined that the noises came from the very direction he was going—and they were getting louder. He watched for torches—who would ride at night without torches—but he saw none. A slice of moon was half risen, the strangest color he had ever seen, almost purple. It seemed to him he’d heard that meant something, but he couldn’t remember where. Was it a verse?

The shadows of two, perhaps three horses appeared against the paler walls of the coven. They rode at full gallop, and there was much metal in the sound, by which he reasoned whoever it was wore armor. They passed nearby but did not stop.

Rapist vagabonds from the yellow hills wouldn’t wear armor. Only the knights of the meddisso were allowed armor.

Or knights from an invading army, who did not care what the meddisso allowed.

More intrigued than ever, Cazio changed his direction, setting off at an easy lope after the horsemen, Caspator slapping at his thigh.

“I’ve always wanted to try one of these vaunted knights with their great clumsy swords, Caspator,” he confided to the rapier. “Perhaps tonight I’ll find my chance.”

The riders were easy enough to follow, for they soon entered the wilder growth around the hill, where he had first met Anne. There they were forced to slow their mounts, which fact Cazio could tell from the frequent crashing and breaking of limbs. Now and then he caught the sound of some outlandish tongue.

A new suspicion took root in him, an exciting one. Perhaps Anne’s foreign lover had come for her after all. Cazio knew the girl must have some secret way in and out of the coven, near the pool where he had met her—and that was the logical place for a rendezvous. If such was the case, this might indeed prove amusing.

He checked himself, realizing that the horses had stopped, and that he had almost walked right into them. He could vaguely make them out—two of them—through the trees, the purple light of the moon reflecting from burnished armor.

“Unnut,” one of the men said, in a clear baritone. He sounded bored. “Sa taujaza ni waiht,” he added.

“Ney,” the other replied, in the same ugly, incomprehensible jargon. “Wakath! Jainar, inna baymes.” He pointed as he said this, and in the next instant they spurred the horses into motion again, but this time going in different directions. Furthermore, Cazio saw what the man had been pointing at— two slim figures in robes crossing a clearing in the moonlight.

The knights were trying to circle their quarry. With horses and armor, they had a harder time in the trees than those on foot, but it would be only a matter of time if the knights knew what they were doing.

Cazio heard one of the running figures gasp, a distinctly feminine sound.

He drew Caspator and ran, tearing a straighter line through the brush than the horsemen. In a flash of moonlight, he was certain he saw Anne’s face.

One of the mounted men tore from the trees right on top of him. The smell of horse sweat filled the swordsman’s lungs, and for the briefest instant the very size of the beast touched a tiny chord of fear in his heart. Incensed that he should be made to feel so—and angry that the knight didn’t even seem to have noticed him—Cazio leapt up and struck the man high in the chest with Caspator’s hilt, holding it two-fisted. It felt like slamming at a run into a stone wall, but the knight yelped and rolled back off the horse, falling with one foot still in the stirrup. His helm knocked hard against a rock, and the horse slowed to a stop. The man groped feebly.

Cazio reached down and yanked off the helmet, spilling out long hair the color of milk. The face seemed very young.

“My apologies, casnar,” Cazio said. “If you wish, we may duel when I’ve finished with your friend. For the time being, though, I must assure honorable conditions rather than assume them.” With that he struck the man a blow with his hilt, rendering him unconscious.

Pleased with himself now, Cazio continued after the girls.

He caught up with them as they hesitated at the edge of the trees, probably trying to decide between cover and a run across the open country.

“Anne! Austra!” he hissed.

The two spun, and he saw it was indeed them.

“Cazio?” Anne asked, sounding hopeful. Then her voice sharpened in pitch. “Stay away from me, you—what have you to do with all of this?”

That took him flat-footed. “What? Why, you—”

But in that moment the second knight broke from the trees. Cazio tossed Anne a contemptuous glance as he planted himself in front of the mounted man. He was emerging from between two trunks, so he would have to come through Cazio to reach Anne and Austra, or else back out and try another way.

“Will you fight me, casnar?” Cazio shouted at the knight. “Do they make men where you come from, or just rapists of helpless women?”

The knight’s visor was up, but Cazio couldn’t make out his features.

“I don’t know who you are,” the knight said in an accent that suggested he was trying to swallow something and speak at the same time, “but I advise you to stand aside.”

“And I advise you to dismount, sir, or I shall impale your fine horse, something I do not wish to do. You may continue to wear your turtle shell, for I would not disadvantage you by asking you to fight fairly.”

“This is not a game,” the knight growled. “Do not waste my time, and I will let you live.”

“A lesson in dessrata would not be a waste of your time,” Cazio replied. “At least you will have something to mull over, whiling away the long hours in hell or curled weeping on your mother’s couch—depending on how merciful I am.”

The knight didn’t say another word, but dismounted, taking a shield shaped like a curved triangle from the side of his horse and drawing an incredibly clumsy-looking broadsword with his free hand. He closed his visor and advanced toward Cazio at a walk. Cazio grinned and settled into a broad dessrata stance, making passes in the air with his blade, bouncing on his knees a little.

The knight didn’t salute, or strike a stance, or anything of the sort. When he was within two pereci he simply charged with the shield held in front of him and the sword cocked back on his shoulder. That startled Cazio, but at the last instant he did a quick ancio, swinging his body out of the way and leaving his point in line for the knight to run into.

Caspator slid over the shield and arrested against the upper part of the breastplate, where the steel gorget stopped the point. The knight, unimpressed by this, swung the shield backhand, forcing the rapier up and slamming Cazio’s forearm into his chest with such force that he left the ground. He landed on his feet but nearly didn’t keep them under him, stumbling back as the knight quickly overtook him, sword still cocked. Cazio found his balance just in time to parry the overhand blow, which came with such force that he nearly lost Caspator, and his already abused arm went half numb with shock. Without thinking, he riposted to the thigh, but again all he got was the sound of steel on steel. It gave him time to recover, however, and he danced back out of range while the knight brought his sword back up.

Cazio recalled something z’Acatto had told him once, something he hadn’t paid too much attention to at the time.

“Knights in armor don’t fence, boy,” the old man had said, after taking a drink of pale yellow Abrinian wine.

“Don’t they?” Cazio had replied diffidently, whetting Cas-pator’s long blade.

“No. Their swords weigh eight coinix or more. They just hit each other with them until they find out who has the better armor.”

“Ah,” Cazio had replied. “They would be slow and clumsy, I imagine.”

“They have to hit you only once,” z’Acatto had replied. “You don’t duel knights. You run from them or you drop something very heavy on them from a castle wall. You do not fence them.”

“As you say,” Cazio had replied, but he hadn’t been convinced. Any man with a sword could be beaten by a master of dessrata. Z’Acatto had said it himself, in his more sober moments.

The thing was, this knight wasn’t nearly as slow or clumsy as he ought to be, and he did not fear being struck by Caspator in the least. Cazio kept dancing out of range, trying to think. He’d have to hit him in the slit of his mask, he decided, a challenging target indeed.

He tried that, feinting at the knee to draw the shield down. The armored man dropped the shield incrementally, but brought it back up when Cazio lunged, pushing the rapier high again. Then that huge cleaver of a sword came whistling around the side of the shield, a blow aimed to cut Cazio in half at the waist. It would have, too, but Cazio coolly parried in prismo, dropping the tip of his weapon perpendicular to the ground with the hilt on the left side of his head, guarding that entire flank.

Another rapier would have been deflected harmlessly, but not eight or nine coinix of broadsword. It beat Caspator into him, and all of the air out of him. Cazio felt and heard ribs crack, and then he was off his feet again, this time flopping painfully onto his back. He grabbed his side and it came away wet; some edge had gotten through. The cut felt shallow, but the broken ribs hurt so badly it was nearly paralyzing. The knight was coming toward him again, and he didn’t think he could get up in time.

It occurred to Cazio that he might be in trouble.

13 The Raven’s Song

As Muriele stared at the thing from Black Marys and children’s tales, darts of fever seemed to pierce her lungs. For an instant, they all stood like statues in some strange pantheon—Neil MeqVren with her dying daughter in his arms, the beaked monster, herself.

Wonder is a terrible thing, she thought. Her mind seemed to be drifting away from her.

Then she saw Neil reach for his sword.

“No!” she shouted. “Do not!” It felt like shouting in a dream, a sound no one could hear.

But the young knight hesitated.

“I am your queen,” she cried. Terror was a tiny voice in her now, nearly silenced by madness. “I command it!”

That seemed to get through to the young knight. He turned on his heel and, still carrying Fastia, followed Muriele at a staggering run back toward the inner keep they had just abandoned. The gate was shut, however, and barred from the other side. There was no escape for them there.

Muriele glanced back. The monster was padding softly toward them, in no great hurry. Why should it be?

In sudden epiphany she understood that the entire world— Crotheny, her children, her husband, she herself—existed on the edge of a vast, invisible pit. They had trod its upper slopes, never recognizing that it was even there. Now they were all sliding into it, and the beast behind her was at the bottom, waiting for them.

Waiting for her.

Almost as unhurried as their pursuer, she looked around and saw there was only one place left to go.

“The horz!” she said, gesturing.

The horz occupied an area between the keep and the garrison. The doorway was only about ten yards away. Muriele ran toward it, and the greffyn followed, increasing its speed a little. She felt its eyes burning into her back, imagined its breath on her neck, knew by her renewed terror that she wasn’t yet entirely mad. She ran toward the arched gate of the sacred garden. Perhaps the saints would protect them.

As they crossed the threshold into the horz, Sir Neil seemed to get his senses back. He quickly but gently placed Fastia on a bed of moss near the central stone, then drew his sword and turned quickly. The gateway to the horz had no door, but was open to all.

“Hide, Your Majesty,” he said. “Find the thickest part of the garden and hide there.”

But Muriele was staring past him. The greffyn, which had been just behind them, was nowhere to be seen.

Then Muriele doubled over, the muscles of her legs cramping and fever burning in her veins. She collapsed next to her daughter and reached to touch her, to comfort her, but Fastia’s skin was cool and her heart beat no more.

Unable to do anything more, Muriele lay, and wept, and waited for death.

Neil swayed against the door frame, his vision blurring. Where had the monster gone? It had been only footsteps behind them. Now it had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.

Not for the first time that night, he began to wonder if he had lost his sanity. His legs were shaking, and a hot, sick feeling twisted in him.

“I’ve failed, Father,” he whispered. “I should have heeded the warnings. I never belonged here.”

In Liery he’d known who he was. In Liery he’d never failed in anything. Here, he’d made one misstep after another, each worse than the last. His feelings for Fastia—feelings no true knight ever would have had—had cauterized his conviction and drained his confidence. He flinched, he hesitated, and now that lack of surety had killed Sir James and Elseny. He had failed the queen, his sworn charge, and even now a part of him knew he would do it again if it would save Fastia. Despite his vow, despite the wrongness of it.

He didn’t deserve the breath in his lungs.

An arrow chirruped against stone, and he realized he had all but forgotten his mortal antagonists. Yet another failure. Cursing, he took what cover he could behind the gate frame, trying to see who was without. He made out two, perhaps three of the Sefry archers on the causeway. Another had come through the gate from the inner keep and was under cover of the now open door.

Striding toward him was the armored figure of the man who had once been Vargus Farre. When he saw Sir Neil he bellowed and increased his pace, drawing the greatsword from his back.

Neil, barely able to stand, grimly summoned all of his strength and stepped out to meet him.

“You aren’t Ashern,” the false knight said, when he drew near.

“I don’t know who Ashern is,” Neil replied. “But know this: I am the hand of death.”

“You are sickened from the gaze of the greffyn. You are weary from flight and battle. Lay down your arms and accept the inevitable.”

To Neil’s horror, it sounded tempting. Lay down his arms, let the enemy strike off his head. At least he’d make no more mistakes, then. At least he would be at peace.

But no. He should die like a man, however little that might mean. “When the sea falls into the sky, that will be,” he said.

“That day may not be as far off as you might think,” Farre replied. He lifted his sword and struck.

Neil parried the blow but staggered beneath it. He replied with a cut to the shoulder joint, but missed, his weapon clanging harmlessly on steel. Farre swung again, and this time Neil managed to duck. The blade missed, but he went dizzy, and before he could recover, a reversed blow caught him on the back. The chain mail hauberk took the edge with a snapping of rings, but it absorbed none of the force of the attack, which drove him down to his knees. Sir Vargus kicked him under the chin, but Neil manage to wrap one arm around the armored leg and stab upward with Crow.

It was not a strong jab, and again Crow screeched in frustration as it scored across armor but did not harm the man.

The hilt came hammering down toward his head, but Neil twisted so it took him in the shoulder instead. Agony ruptured along his clavicle, which he distantly reckoned was probably shattered.

Farre kicked him again, and he went back like a rag doll into the horz. The knight stepped through after him. The saints, it seemed, did not care what might become of Neil MeqVren.

Spitting blood, Neil climbed slowly to his feet, watching the changeling come forward through a red fog of pain. He seemed to come very slowly, as if each blink of the eye took days. In a strange rush, Neil heard again the sound of the sea and tasted cold salt on his lips. For an instant, he was there on the strand again with his father, the older man’s hand gripping his.

We goin’to lose, Fah? We goin’to die?

And then, so plain it might have been spoken in his ear, he heard a voice.

You’re a MeqVren, boy. Damn you, but don’t lie down yet.

Neil straightened and took a breath. It felt like a burning wind.

Muriele managed to raise her head when she heard the song. It started weakly, barely a whisper, but it was in the language of her childhood.

It was Sir Neil, standing before Vargus Farre.

He sang, though it seemed impossible he could even stand. Sir Vargus swung a great two-handed blow at the smaller man. Almost laconically, Sir Neil parried the weapon, and his voice grew louder.

Suddenly Sir Neil’s sword lashed out, all out of keeping with his demeanor, and there came a din of metal. Vargus staggered back from the stroke, but Sir Neil followed it up with another that seemed to come from nowhere. He was shouting, now.

Sir Vargus rallied and cut hard into Neil’s side. Chain mail snapped with bright ringing and blood spurted, but the young knight didn’t seem to notice. He kept chanting, beating a rhythm of terrible blows that rang against plate mail.

Neil was shrieking now, and Muriele understood. He had a rage on him. Vargus Farre never got in another blow. He stumbled and fell beneath the onslaught, and Neil pounded him with his blade as if it were a club, shearing sparks from the armor. He chopped through the joint of Farre’s arm at the elbow; he crushed in his helm. Long after there was no motion, he hacked into the steel-clad corpse, screaming the death song of his Skernish fathers. And when he finally stood and his eyes turned to her, she thought she had never seen a more terrifying sight.

“The gates are open,” Stephen murmured, as they rode over the succession of drawbridges that led to Cal Azroth.

“I reckon I can see that,” Aspar grunted. “Quiet a moment, and listen.”

Stephen nodded, closing his eyes. The only sound Aspar could make out was his own breath and the labored panting of the horses. Winna was a welcome weight against his back, and a fear, as well. He had her back. He couldn’t lose her again.

But Fend was here. He could smell him.

“I hear steel meeting steel,” Stephen said, after a moment. “And someone singing, in Lierish, I think. That aside, it’s quiet.”

“Fend is quiet,” Aspar murmured. A wind blew from Cal Azroth, and autumn was on it. “You’ll both stay here and wait for me.”

“We’ll do nothing of the kind,” Winna replied.

“There’ll be fighting,” Aspar said. “You’ll hinder me.”

“You need Stephen’s ears and my sense,” Winna replied evenly. “We’ve both saved your skin in the past, Aspar White. There’s nothing to say it won’t need doing again.”

Aspar was figuring a reply to that when Stephen made an odd sound.

“What is it?” Aspar asked.

“You don’t hear it?”

“Ney. I’ve only the ordinary sort of ears.”

“The blasting of the horn. It’s returning.”

“Maybe another horn.”

“No,” Stephen said. “The same.”

“An echo? That makes no sense,” Aspar said.

“No,” Stephen said. “It does. He’s coming. The Briar King is answering the call, and it’s coming back with him.” Stephen’s eyes held fear, but his voice was steady. “I think we’d best hurry, Holter. There’s more at risk here than a queen.”

“Wait and maunt a moment,” Aspar protested. “Fend and his Sefry are in there, waiting to murder whoever comes through that gate. We’ll go deliberately and cautious or not at all.”

Stephen nodded as if he understood. The next instant he gave Angel a hard kick and the beast was flying toward the open gate.

“Grim eat you and sceat you out,” Aspar snarled. But he gave Ogre the flank and followed.

He clattered into the corpse-strewn keep just behind Stephen. As he’d fully expected, he immediately heard the snap of bowstrings. He wheeled Ogre into cover behind the gate and leapt off the horse.

“Get down,” he commanded Winna. “Ogre will fight best protecting you. Stay under cover here.”

“Yah,” Winna breathed. She squeezed his hand. “Watch my love for me,” she said.

“Yah. I’ll do that.”

He took out his bow and darted from beneath the door, painfully aware that he’d recovered only five arrows intact from his last skirmish. He’d gone scarce ten yards when a shaft hissed down from above and cracked against the courtyard stone. Aspar turned coolly, saw the shadow on the wall above, and took a full breath to aim. His shaft leapt starward at the same moment a second dart skinned along his arm. He didn’t wait to see what happened, for he knew he’d hit.

Instead he turned and ran after Stephen, who was already in considerable trouble. Angel had taken a shaft in the flank and thrown the boy. He was trying to get up, but it was a miracle he hadn’t yet been skewered, for arrows were skittering on the stone around him. Aspar found the source of some of those and hit the archer with his next arrow. It was a hard shot, and he could tell he hadn’t pierced anything vital, but the man stopped shooting for the time being.

The rest of the killers were taking cover behind a second gate. Aspar counted five or six, and he could hear someone fighting on the other side, as well.

“Get some cover!” he shouted to Stephen, sending the Sefry ducking with another dart. He had only three shafts remaining, so he needed to close the distance. He paced toward the door, another dart on his string. It was easier than he thought, for the archers were plainly distracted by the ruckus Aspar couldn’t see.

One peeped out, though, and Aspar gave him cause to regret it. He noticed Stephen had done what he’d told him to do, and was flat against the same wall as the gate. He also noticed Stephen was pointing at something behind Aspar.

“Holter!” the boy shouted.

Aspar didn’t question, he just swung and stepped hard to the right, finding himself nearly face to face with Fend. The Sefry had a knife in either hand, and an expression half-turned between glee and fury. Aspar raised the bow in defense, but he was far too close to shoot, and Fend’s knives were lightning, flashing toward him.

Aspar blocked with the bow as best he could, but the Se-fry’s right-hand blade darted past the wood and drew blood on his forearm. Aspar managed a return blow with the bow; it didn’t do Fend any harm, but it gave the holter space to draw out his dirk and ax.

Warier now, Fend circled, feinting with his shoulders. As-par turned with him, weapons ready.

“You’re getting old, Asp,” Fend commented. “Slow. There’s no challenge in this now.”

“That why you came at me from behind?” Aspar asked.

“Oh, I would have let you see me before you died. So you’d know.” He glanced toward Winna. “Pretty little piece of meat,” he allowed. “Almost as sweet as Qerla. Probably as faithful, too.”

Aspar grinned coldly. “I think I’ll have your other eye, Fend.”

“I doubt that, old man. But you’re welcome to try for it.”

Aspar’s fury was so deep and complete that he felt glacially calm. He heard a little chuckle bubble from between his lips and was surprised.

“What’s that?” Fend asked.

“You. Trying to provoke me, like a frightened little boy.”

“I’m just enjoying myself,” Fend said. “It’s not so much—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but instead bounded forward. Aspar had noticed him drawing his rear leg up as they spoke. He caught the right-hand dagger with his own dirk and cut at the other wrist with his ax. He got a little of it and sent flecks of blood into the night, but Fend was nothing if not quick, and the cut wasn’t deep.

The Sefry bounced fractionally out of range and then back in, slashing with his right and keeping the left back. Aspar let him come, fading from the blow and kicking sharply at Fend’s forward ankle. He made solid contact, and his opponent lost balance. Aspar followed up, but rather than trying to recover, Fend went down tumbling. When he came back to his feet, he had only one knife.

Aspar thought that was good until he realized the hilt of the other was jutting out of his leg.

“Your aim is off,” Aspar said, reaching down and yanking the weapon out. It hurt, that, but the muscle on the front of the thigh was pretty forgiving. It probably wouldn’t even bleed much. He tucked the dagger in his belt and closed on Fend again.

Fend, still looking confident, began a light-footed dance around Aspar. The holter turned, using slower footwork. When Fend came again, his left hand caught at Aspar’s ax wrist, and Aspar let him think he was slow enough to be caught. As soon as the finger touched him, however, he suddenly swung away, avoiding a thrust toward his heart, and lashed with the ax. He made it in deep, digging a gouge into Fend’s shoulder and feeling bone crunch. The Sefry gasped and dropped back, his eye widening in amazement.

“Yah, I reckon I’ll kill you today, Fend,” Aspar said. “You had your chance when you threw your knife, and you missed it.” He started forward, still cautious.

They closed again, but there was something desperate in the way the Sefry fought now, something worried. It was fast and close, and when they parted once more, each had several new wounds. Aspar’s were all shallow, but Fend had a hole in his ribs. Not deep enough to kill him anytime soon, but it probably hurt.

“Why Qerla, Fend?” Aspar asked. “Why did you kill her? I’ve never known that.”

Fend grinned, showing his teeth. “You don’t know? That’s delightful.” He coughed. “You’re a lucky old man, you know that? Always lucky.”

“Yah. Very lucky. Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Not, I think.”

Aspar shrugged. “That’s the only thing I wanted from you besides your life. I suppose I’ll settle.”

“I have a little luck of my own,” Fend said. “Look to your lady.”

It was an old trick, and Aspar didn’t fall for it until Winna screamed. Then Aspar wheeled and dropped, knowing no matter what was happening his enemy wouldn’t miss the opportunity. Fend’s second knife whispered over his head, but Aspar didn’t care about him anymore. The greffyn had just entered through the gate. It was moving toward Winna, and Ogre was stamping, ready to meet it.

14 The Arrival

As Anne watched the knight advance on Cazio, something seemed to dim in her even as the purple moonlight seemed to brighten, as if the darkness the moon was displacing sought a hiding place in her soul.

“He’s going to kill Cazio,” Austra said. “Then he’ll kill us.”

“Yes,” Anne said. She realized that they should have been running while Cazio fought, but something had stayed her feet. There might still be time; the Vitellian was certainly losing the battle, but he might last a little longer, long enough for them to escape.

But no, she was horsewoman enough to know how quickly she and Austra would be run down. Their first hope had been in an unnoticed escape, and their second had been Cazio. Neither had proved out. She eyed the knight’s horse specula-tively—but no, a warhorse would never let her mount. It would probably strike her dead if she drew near enough to try.

“Can’t we help him?” Austra asked.

“Against a knight?” But even as she said it, Anne suddenly felt a strange dislocation, as if she were two people—the Anne who had fearlessly ridden down the Sleeve, and the Anne who was starting to understand the consequences of life, who had just watched knights like this slaughter women as if they were barnyard beasts.

Once, she had imagined adventures in which, dressed as a knight herself, she had triumphed over evil foes. Now all she could see was blood, and all she could imagine was her own head lifting from her shoulders in a spray of it.

A few months ago she would have rushed to Cazio’s aid. Now her illusions were dying, and she was left with the world that was. And in that world, a woman did not stand against a knight.

Austra gave her an odd look, one Anne didn’t recognize, as if her friend was a stranger she had only just met.

The knight, meanwhile, lifted his sword over the fallen Cazio, who put up his own slender weapon in frail defense.

“No!” Austra shrieked. Before Anne could think of stopping her, the younger girl ran forward, snatched up a stone, and threw it. It glanced from the knight’s armor, distracting him for a second. Austra kept running toward him.

Anne grabbed a fallen branch, cursing. She couldn’t just watch Austra die.

Austra tried to grab the warrior’s sword arm, but he cuffed her hard on the side of the head with a mailed fist. Cazio wobbled back to his feet, a little out of range, as Anne drew up and stood over her friend, stick in hand. The knight’s visor turned toward her.

“Do not be foolish,” he said. Through the slits in his helm she saw contempt and moonlight reflected in his eyes, and a sudden dark fury raged through her. Her thoughts were whisper-winged owls, stooping on mice. How dare he, beneath the sickle moon? How dare he, in the very womb of night? He, who had violated the sacred soil of Cer and soaked it with the blood of her daughters? How dare he look at her in such a way?

“Man,” Anne husked. “Man, do not look at me.” She didn’t recognize her own voice, so inert it seemed, so devoid of life, as if the dimness in her spilled out with her words.

The light in the knight’s eyes vanished, though the moon was still there, though he had not turned his head. His breath caught, and rattled, and then he did turn his head, this way and that. He rubbed at those eyes, like two holes darker than moonshadow.

Men fight from the outside, with clumsy swords and arrows, Sister Casita had said, trying to pierce the layers of protections we bundle in. They are of the outside. We are of the inside. We can reach there in a thousand ways, slipping through the cracks of eye and ear, nostril and lip, through the very pores of the flesh. Here is your frontier, Sisters, and eventually your domain. Here is where your touch will bring the rise and fall of kingdoms.

Anne, confused and suddenly frightened again, stumbled back, shaking.

What had she done? How?

“Casnar!” Cazio shouted. Anne noticed he’d managed to stand, though not firmly. “Leave off your brave battle against unarmed women and address me.”

The knight ignored him, cutting wildly in the air.

“Haliurun! Waizeza! Hundan!” he shouted. “Meina auyos! Hwa … What have you done to my eyes?”

“Hanzish!” Anne said. “Austra, they’re from Hansa!” She turned to Cazio. “Kill him! Now, while he’s blind.”

Cazio had begun advancing, but now he stopped, puzzled.

“He cannot see? I can’t fight a man who cannot see.”

The knight lurched toward Cazio, but even in his injured state the Vitellian easily avoided him.

“How did you do that, by the by?” Cazio asked, watching his erstwhile opponent crash into a tree. “I’ve heard a dust ground from the nut of Lady Una’s frock—”

“He was going to kill you,” Anne interrupted.

“He has no honor,” Cazio said. “I do.”

“Then let us flee!” Austra urged.

“Will honor allow that?” Anne asked sarcastically.

Cazio coughed and a look of pain wormed through his brow. “Honor discourages it,” he said.

Anne shook a remonstrative finger at him. “Listen to me well, Cazio Pachiomadio da Chiovattio,” she said, remembering how her mother sounded when she was giving orders. “There are many more knights than this one, and we are in danger from them. I require your protection for Austra and myself. I require your aid in removing us from harm’s way. Will your honor deny me that?”

Cazio scratched his head, then grinned sheepishly. The blinded knight stood with his back against a tree, sword out, facing no one in particular. “No, casnara,” he said. “I will accompany you.”

“Then let us go, and quickly,” Austra said.

“A moment,” Anne told them. She raised her voice. “Knight of Hansa. Why have you and your companions sinned against Saint Cer? Why did you murder the sisters, and why do you pursue me? Answer me, or I shall wither the rest of you as I have darkened your eyes.”

The knight turned at the sound of her voice.

“I do not know the answer to that, lady,” he said. “I know only that what my prince tells me to do must be done.”

At that he charged her. Almost casually, Cazio stuck out his foot, which the knight tripped over. He went sprawling to the ground.

“Have you more questions for him?” the Vitellian asked.

“Let me think,” Anne replied.

“The night wanes, and she is our ally. The sun will not be as kind.”

Anne nodded. She didn’t think the Hanzish knight would tell her more even if he knew it. They would waste precious time.

“Very well,” Cazio said. “Follow me, fair casnaras. I know the countryside. I will guide you through it.” His brow wrinkled. “If you do not rob me of my sight, of course.”

Cazio’s ribs felt as if they were aflame, but his blood, at least, did not flow strongly. He was able to set a good pace but could not run for any length of time. That was just as well, he knew, for running would only wear them all out.

Of course, there was no reason to expect the knights attacking the coven would come after them. If it was women they wanted, they already had plenty.

Didn’t they?

“How many of these beetle-backed ruffians are there?” he asked.

“I’m not certain,” Anne answered. “Some thirty to begin with. Some were killed by the sisters of the coven.”

That was impressive. “And you’ve no idea why?” he asked.

It seemed to Cazio that Anne hesitated too long before answering.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think they killed all of the sisters. The novitiates were hiding. I don’t know what happened to them. Austra and I fled through the fane of Saint Mefitis, a cave that emerges near where you found us. Where are we going?”

“Back to the triva of the countess Orchaevia.”

“Can she protect us? I saw no soldiers there.”

“True,” Cazio replied. “She sent them away for the Fiussanal. But why should these knights pursue us?”

“Why shouldn’t they?”

“Have they some especial grudge against you two? Did you endear them in some way?”

Again, Anne seemed to hesitate. “They will pursue us, Cazio.”

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you that. I’m not sure I know why myself. But it is a fact.”

She did know something then, but wasn’t willing to tell it. He looked at her again. Who was this girl, really? The daughter of some northern warlord? What had he gotten himself into?

“Very well, then,” he said. Whatever it was, he was deep in it now. He ought to see it through. Perhaps there would even be some reward in it for him.

Lady Ausa’s robe lay coral on the eastern horizon and the stars were vanishing above. They were out in open countryside, easy prey for horsemen. He tried to quicken his pace. If Anne was right, and they were followed, returning to Orchae-via’s triva would repay the countess in poor coin for the hospitality she had shown him. The place was defensible, but not by two swordsmen and a few serving women.

“There is an old estate nearby,” he considered aloud. Z’Acatto had dragged him to it one day in hopes of finding an unplundered wine cellar. They had found the cellar, but all of the wine had gone to vinegar. “It will make a good hiding place,” he decided. After all, if he couldn’t defeat one of the knights in single combat, what chance did he have against ten, or twenty? His father had made the mistake of choosing to face the wrong enemy for the wrong reasons. He would not make the same blunder.

Anne didn’t answer, but she was beginning to stumble. The sandals she and Austra wore were hardly fit for this sort of travel.

Lord Abullo’s horses were well in the sky, pulling a burnt orange sun free of the horizon, before Cazio made out the crumbling walls of the ancient triva. He wondered if the well was still good, for he was terribly thirsty. The vinegar was all gone, smashed by z’Acatto in a fit of disappointment.

They had almost reached the walls when he thought he heard hooves, and a glance back showed two horsemen approaching. There was little need to wonder who they were, for the gleam of the now-golden sun on their armor was evident.

“They may not have seen us yet,” Cazio hoped aloud, leading them behind a picket of cedars bordering the abandoned mansion. “Quickly.” The gate had long since crumbled, leaving only the columns of the pastato, and walls that were sometimes knee high and sometimes higher than his head. Weeds and small olive trees had cracked the stone of the courtyard and pushed it up as Lord Selvans sought to reclaim the place for his own. In the distance, he heard the approaching percussion.

“Just where I left it,” Cazio murmured, when they reached the vine-draped entrance to the cellar. The stairs still remained, albeit broken and covered in earth and moss. A cool breath seemed to sigh up from its depths.

“We’ll be trapped down there,” Anne protested.

“Better there than in the open,” Cazio pointed out. “See how narrow the way down is? They won’t get their horses in, and won’t be able to swing those pig-slaughtering blades. It will give me an advantage.”

“You can barely stand,” Anne said.

“Yes, but a da Chiovattio who can barely stand is worth six men hale and healthy. And here there are only two.”

“Don’t lie to me, Cazio. If we go down in there, can you win?”

Cazio shrugged. “I cannot say. But out in the open, I cannot.” The words sounded strange to him, though he had already thought them. He took Anne’s hand, and she didn’t protest. “On foot, outside, you will be run down before you can travel a cenpereci. We should not wish for choices we do not have.”

Reluctantly, the two girls followed him down.

“It smells like vinegar in here,” Austra observed.

“Indeed,” Cazio remarked. “Now remain below.”

For a moment the world seemed to turn strangely, and the next he was lying on the cold stone.

“Cazio!” Austra cried, coming to his side.

“It’s nothing,” Cazio murmured. “A dizziness. Perhaps an other kiss might cure it.”

“He can’t fight them,” Austra said. “He’ll be killed.”

“They still may not know we’re here,” Cazio pointed out.

But they heard hooves on stone, and nearby.

“I’ll need that kiss,” Cazio whispered.

He couldn’t see her blush, but Austra leaned close and touched her lips to his. They tasted sweet, like wine and plums, and he lingered on it. It was likely the last kiss he would ever have. He thought of asking Anne for one, too, but she wouldn’t give it and time was dear, now.

“That will be my token,” Cazio said, clambering to his feet. “And now it will be my pleasure to defend you ladies.”

His legs shaking, Cazio climbed back up toward the sun, where shadows were moving.

For some reason, he remembered where he had heard of a purple moon. It was in a song his father used to sing when he was a boy.

He remembered the line because, unlike the other verses, it never made any sense to him.

It still didn’t.

In the distance, he thought he heard a cornet sounding.

To Muriele the world felt suddenly silent, as if all of the sounds of battle had retreated to an infinite distance. She looked at the dead face of her daughter, saw her as an infant, as a child of six spilling milk on the Galléan carpet in her sunroom, as a woman in a wedding gown. The silence gripped beneath her breast, waiting to become a scream.

Elseny must be dead, too. And Erren, and Charles …

But the silence was in her, not without. Steel still rang, and Neil’s fierce battle cries proved him still alive. And over all that the sound of a horn, growing steadily louder.

It had sounded far off, at first, as if shrilled from the ends of the earth. Now it called from much nearer, but with a prickling she realized that it wasn’t approaching, only growing louder. And the source of the sounding was quite close indeed.

But where? Muriele puzzled at it, used the mystery to cloak Fastia’s dead face and her own imaginings. It didn’t take her long to discover the sound came from the wickerwork feinglest Elseny had filled with flowers only the day before. And in her dazed sight, the feinglest was changing, as slowly and surely as the sunrise drowning the morning star in gray light.

Her gaze fastened and would not waver, and as the horn droned louder she saw the change quicken, the wickerwork drawing tighter and taller. The vague resemblance to human shape was more pronounced with each heartbeat. Muriele watched, unable to move or speak, her mind refusing the sight as anything more than a waking dream.

It grew on, and the wailing of the trumpet rose so loud that Muriele at last managed to pull her hands to her ears to try to stop the sound, but her palms held no power to diminish it.

Nor could her brain arrest her eyes from seeing the feinglest shiver like a wasp-wing in flight, throw out arms and sprout proud antlers from its head, and open two almost-human eyes, leaf-green orbs in black almond slivers. A powerful animal musk penetrated her nostrils, overwhelming the sickly sweet scent of the flowers.

The Briar King towered the height of two men over her; his gaze connected with hers. He was naked, and his flesh was mottled bark. A beard of moss curled from his face, and long unshorn locks of the same dangled from his head. His eyes seemed to see nothing and everything, like those of a newborn. His nostrils quivered, and a sound came from his throat that carried no meaning for her, like the snuffling of a strange beast.

He leaned near her and sniffed again, and though his nose was of human shape, Muriele was reminded more of a horse or a stag than of a man. His breath was damp and cold, and smelled like a forest stream. Muriele’s flesh crawled as if covered with ants.

The Briar King turned to Fastia and blinked, slowly, then shifted his strange eyes back to Muriele, narrowing them as they came mere fingers from her own.

Her vision dissolved in those eyes. She saw strange, deep woods full of trees like giant mosses and trunked ferns. She saw beasts with the eyes of owls and the shapes of mastiffs.

He blinked again, slowly, and she saw Eslen fallen into ruins and swallowed by vines of black thorn with blooms like purple spiders. She saw Newland beneath the stars, covered by dark waters, and then those waters dancing with pale flame. She saw a vast hall of shadow and a throne of sooty stone, and on it a figure whose face could not be seen but for eyes that burned like green flame. She heard laughter that sounded almost like a hound baying.

And then, as if in a mirror of polished jet, she saw her own dead face. Then it was again the face of the Briar King, and her fear was gone, as if she really were dead and moved beyond all mortal thoughts. As in a dream, she reached to touch his beard.

His face contorted in a sudden expression of pain and rage, and he howled, a sound with nothing human and everything wild in it.

Aspar was too far from his bow. The greffyn would reach Winna and Ogre long before he could fit an arrow to string. He did the only thing he could do; he threw his ax. It struck the greffyn in the back of the head and bounced, leaving a gash and drawing a thin train of ruby droplets.

“So you can bleed, you mikel rooster,” Aspar snarled in perverse satisfaction.

The greffyn turned slowly to face him, and Aspar felt the fever from its eyes strike straight through to his bones. But it wasn’t so bad as before; his knees trembled but did not betray him. He gripped his dirk as it came, but he did not watch it. Instead he focused on Winna, on her face, for he wanted to remember it.

He couldn’t quite remember Qerla’s face.

It was luck to find love twice in one lifetime, he decided, and luck always came with a price. It was time to pay it, he supposed.

Give me strength, Raver, he thought. He’d never asked Haergrim for anything before. Perhaps the Raver would take that into account.

The greffyn came, then, almost faster than sight could follow. Aspar turned just slightly, striking the beast above and between the eyes with the iron hilt of his dirk. He felt a terrible shock in his arm and knew he was already dead.

He heard Winna scream.

Incredibly, the greffyn stumbled at the blow, and Aspar took the only chance he had. He threw himself upon the scaled back and wrapped one arm beneath the hooked jaw. The creature screamed then, a shrill cacophony that almost overshadowed the rising sound of the horn.

He guessed where the heart might be and drove his dirk there, once, twice, again. The greffyn crashed into the courtyard wall, trying to dislodge him, but for the moment his arm was a steel band. Aspar felt larger, like one of the great tyrants of the forest, his roots sinking deep, pulling strength from stone and soil and deep hidden springs, and when his heart beat again he knew he was the forest itself, seeking vengeance.

Motion blurred everything. He caught a brief glimpse of Winna’s anguished face, of Ogre, proud and fearless, rushing to his aid. There was air, and then water, as they plunged into the canal beyond the gate.

Close the gate, Winna, he thought. Be the bright girl. He would have shouted it, but the water was wrapped too tightly about him.

All the while his dirk was cutting, as if the Grim had indeed taken Aspar’s hand for his own. The water of the canal burned like lye.

Cazio stood unsteadily at the entrance to the wine cellar, but when he raised Caspator, the weapon did not waver.

“Hello, my fine casnars,” he said to the two armored men. “Which of you do I have the honor of killing first?”

The knights had just dismounted. He noticed one of them had more ornate armor than the other, all gilded on the edges. That was the one who answered him.

“I know not who you are, sir,” the fellow said. “But there is no need for you to die. Leave here and return to a life that might be long and prosperous.”

Cazio looked down the length of Caspator. He wondered if his father had felt this way at the end. There was certainly no profit in this fight. No one would hear of it.

“I prefer to live an honorable life to a long one, casnar,” he said. “Can the same be said of you?”

The knight regarded him enigmatically for a moment, and Cazio felt a brief hope. Then the man in gilded armor turned his head toward his companion.

“Kill this one for me,” he said.

The other man nodded slightly and started forward.

He doesn’t have a shield, at least, Cazio remarked to himself. The eye slits. That’s my target.

The horn in the distance grew louder. More knights, probably.

The knight came hewing. Cazio calmly parried the blows, though Caspator shivered from them. He riposted at the steel visor, but the fellow stayed out of distance, and Cazio didn’t have the footing needed to lunge. They fought for several long phrases before the heavy broadsword finally smashed down onto Caspator’s hilt, shocking his already numbed arm enough that the weapon clattered to the ground.

It was then that a cascade of mortar and brick fell on the knight’s head. Dust and grit followed, stinging Cazio’s eyes. Masonry tumbled past him down the worn stairway, and he saw the knight collapse, his helm deeply dented.

The gilded knight—who hadn’t been beneath the fall of rubble—looked up in time to receive a brick in the face, and then another. Stunned, Cazio bent to retrieve Caspator as z’Acatto dropped down from above the arch of the cellar door.

“I told you, boy,” the swordmaster grunted. “You don’t fence knights.”

“Granted,” Cazio said, noticing that the gilded knight was regaining his feet. With what little remained of his strength, Cazio leapt forward. The broadsword came up and down, but he turned and avoided it, and this time Caspator drove true, through the slit in the helm and further, stopped only by the steel on the other side of the skull, or the skull itself. He withdrew the bloody point and watched the knight sink first to his knees, and then to a prone position.

“I’ll follow your advice more closely next time,” he promised the older swordsman.

“What have you gotten yourself into, lad?” z’Acatto asked. He looked past Cazio, then, and shook his head.

“Ah,” he said. “I see where the trouble is.”

Anne and Austra had come to the top of the stair and were staring at the tableau.

“There will be more,” Cazio said.

“More women?”

“More trouble.”

“The same thing,” z’Acatto remarked.

“More knights,” Cazio clarified. “Maybe many more.”

“I’ve two horses,” z’Acatto said. “We can ride double.”

Cazio crossed his arms and gave his swordmaster a dubious look. “It’s fortunate you brought horses,” he said. “Also very odd.”

“Don’t be an empty bottle, boy. The road to the coven goes near the well at the edge of Orchaevia’s estates. I saw them arrive.”

“What were you doing there?”

Z’Acatto grinned and drew a narrow bottle of green glass from beneath his doublet. He held it up to the light.

“I found it,” he said triumphantly. “The very best year. I knew I would smell it out.”

Cazio rolled his eyes. “At least we were saved by a good vintage,” he said.

“The best,” z’Acatto repeated happily.

Cazio made a weak bow to the two women.

“My casnaras Anne and Austra, I present to you my sword-master, the learned z’Acatto.” He hesitated and caught the old man’s eyes. “My master and best friend.”

Z’Acatto held his gaze for an instant, and something glimmered there Cazio did not quite understand. Then he looked to Anne and Austra.

“My great pleasure, casnaras,” z’Acatto said. “I hope one of you will not mind my company on horse.”

Anne bowed. “You’ve saved us, sir,” she said. She looked at Cazio significantly. “The two of you. I’m in your debt.”

It was then Austra shrieked at something behind Cazio. Cazio sighed and turned, ready for anything.

Anything except for what he saw. Slowly, tremulously, the gilded knight was trying to rise. Blood ran from his visor like water from a fountain. Cazio raised his sword.

“No,” z’Acatto said. “No. He’s not alive.” Cazio couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question, but z’Acatto drew his own sword and jabbed it through the other eye. The knight fell back again, but this time started to get up immediately.

“Diuvo’s wagging—” Z’Acatto didn’t finish the curse, but instead picked up the knight’s abandoned broadsword and hewed off the man’s head.

The fingers continued to claw at the dirt.

Z’Acatto watched that for a moment. “I advise rapid flight,” he told them. “And later, some wine.”

“We’re in agreement,” Cazio husked.

The rage had almost left Neil when the horz exploded. The Sefry archer on the point of his sword was gaping at the otherworld, and with no other enemies at hand, the red cloud was lifting, allowing reason back into his head.

He had heard of the rage before; his uncle Odcher had had that gift. In all of his years of battle, Neil had never experienced it before.

Watching the Sefry slowly relinquish his life, he stared at the carnage around him, trying to remember what he’d been doing when the lightning had entered his soul.

The sound of shattering stone turned him, and he saw what appeared to be turbid coils of black smoke billowing through the rent walls of the garden. He staggered toward the horz, remembering that he had left the queen and Fastia within. It was only when he actually plunged into what he’d believed to be smoke that focus came, though not comprehension.

Black tendrils groped past him, gripping at his limbs, fastening to the stone of the walkway. He cut at them, and they fell writhing to the ground, but they were merely the vanguard of the thicker vines they sprang from, wide as a man’s legs and growing larger with each moment. The sharp points of thorns tore at Neil’s armor. The briars pushed him back to the edge of the causeway, though he hacked at them with Crow. It had been a long while since he’d understood much of anything, and he no longer cared. He’d left the queen in the horz; he had to return for her.

So he pitched himself forward, sweat and blood sheening his face and stinging his eyes, slowly fighting through the impossible foliage, until his sword hit something it would not cut. He looked up and green eyes stared back down at him.

It was far taller than a man, the thing, entirely wrapped about in the black vines. They tugged at him, as if trying to pull him into the earth from which they sprang, but he ignored their grasping just as he ignored Neil after a single glance.

Neil smelled spring rain mingled with rotting wood.

The green-eyed thing strode past the young warrior, snapping the vines and tearing them from the stone as he went, but wherever his feet trod new growth sprang up. Neil watched him, gape-mouthed, as he stepped into the canal, the deepest waters of which came only to his waist.

He’d never seen a monster before, and now he’d seen two. Neil wondered if the world was coming to an end.

The queen, you fool. The end of the world was not his concern. Muriele Dare was.

He turned to what was left of the horz, slashing at the thick vines with Crow, weeping, for what could tear apart stone must be able to do much more to human flesh.

But he found the queen untouched upon the stone from which the largest of the vines had emerged, staring at where the dark briars had crept over Fastia’s form. Numb of all human feeling, Neil took the queen in his arms, stumbling through the path he had cut in the vines, through the courtyard full of corpses and out the front gates. He saw the thorn-giant again, striding up the canal where it bent around toward the front gate of Cal Azroth, where others stood watching. Neil lay the queen on the grass and fumbled for Crow; they were surely more of his enemies—

But Saint Oblivion beckoned, and he had no power to resist her.

The greffyn rolled and pitched beneath the water, and Aspar’s lungs would stay shut no longer. His hold loosened, and he was flung away. He struck toward the surface, the dirk still in his hand.

He came up near the edge of the canal and clambered at it, pulled himself from the water with little more than strength of will. He fought to stand, tremors running through his entire body, watching the roiling water for a quicker doom he felt certain would emerge.

Everything in him felt broken. He vomited, and saw that it was mostly blood. Far away he heard his name, but he hadn’t time for that, for the greffyn did come out of the water, sinuous and beautiful, like something a poet might sing made flesh. He marveled that he hadn’t seen it that way from the start. That he’d wounded it seemed almost a shame—except that of course it had to die.

“Come here,” Aspar told it. “There’s not much left of me, but come get what’s here, if you can.”

It seemed to him that it moved a little slower, this time, when it lashed at him with its great beak. It seemed he shouldn’t have had time to drive the dirk into its eye, but he did.

Just like Fend, he thought, wondering where the Sefry had gone. Then the greffyn hit him with a weight like a horse in full barding. Everything went white, but he kept hold of consciousness, flexing his now-empty hands, knowing they would do him no good at all, but happy he could at least fight to the end.

But when he turned, he saw that the beast lay still. It had hit a stone piling, and its neck was crooked at an implausible angle.

Well. Easier than I thought. Grim, if that luck was sent by you, my thanks. It’s good to see your foe die before you. Now if Fend would be so good as to drop dead nearby …

Aspar lay there, coughing blood, the now-familiar feel of poison deepening. He hoped Stephen would keep Winna away, but then she had enough sense not to touch his corpse anyway, didn’t she?

He turned his head and saw her there, standing beside Stephen, on the other side of the canal. She was weeping. He raised his hand weakly but didn’t have enough strength to call out. “Stay there, lass,” he whispered. “By Grim, stay there.” There must be poison every place the greffyn had spilled blood.

But now something else went across Winna’s face, and Stephen’s, as well.

A shadow fell over him, blocking the morning sun, and Aspar wearily raised his head to look once more upon the Briar King.

Stephen dropped Aspar’s bow from trembling hands. He’d been trying to shoot the greffyn, but he’d feared hitting Aspar, and now, incredibly, the beast was dead.

Winna, by his side, started forward, but he held her back.

“There’s nothing you can do for him,” he said. “If you go near, you’ll die, too.”

“I don’t care,” she said huskily. “I don’t care.”

“But he would,” Stephen told her. “I’ll not let you.”

She opened her mouth, probably to argue further, but then around the corner of the keep, wading up the canal, came what could only be the Briar King, dragging a train of thorns behind him. One great step brought him out of the water, and with large and purposeful strides he started toward the King’s Forest.

But then he paused and lifted his nose as if scenting something, and his antlered head turned to regard the fallen figures of Aspar and the greffyn. It moved toward them purposefully.

“It’s happened,” Stephen whispered. “Saints, but it’s happened.” He saw in his mind’s eye the scrifts and tomes he had pored over, the bits of time-shattered clues, the terrible prophecies. And he felt something, in the earth and sky, as if something were broken and sifting away, as if the world itself was bleeding.

As if the end had truly begun.

Which meant nothing much was worth doing, was it?

But he ought to try, he supposed.

He picked up the bow and shot the single remaining arrow. He didn’t know if he actually hit the monster or not, but it certainly didn’t notice. It stooped first upon Aspar, and vines writhed all about him. Then it left him there and moved on to the greffyn. Stephen saw him lift the slain beast in his arms, cradling it like a child, and then walk away, leaving a trail of black springlings in his footsteps.

Behind them, the stones of Cal Azroth began to slowly shatter as the vines pulled it down.

15 Observations Quaint and Curious

“Stephen Darige?”

Stephen glanced up at the page, who wore orange stockings and a fur-trimmed coat of black. He supposed, from his brief acquaintance with her, that this was the best the duchess of Loiyes could do in the way of mourning clothes for her servants, at least on short notice.

Observations and Speculations on the Multicolored Popinjays, he began in his head. Or, the Assorted Maladies of Royal Blood.

“My lord,” the servant repeated, “are you Stephen Darige?”

“That I am,” Stephen allowed wearily, his gaze languidly tracing the carefully manicured lawns of Glenchest. In the distance he could see Crown Prince Charles, the poor saint-touched oaf, playing a game of jackpins with his Sefry jester. Stephen had met the prince four days earlier, on their arrival at Glenchest. Charles hardly seemed aware of the butchering of his family. He hadn’t been in the keep at Cal Azroth when Fend and the changelings came, but was sleeping in the stables after a day of childlike play.

The small footguard assigned to him had much to be grateful for, for they were the only survivors of the household guard that had accompanied the royals to Cal Azroth. While the fortress was rent to pieces by the unnatural thorns of the Briar King, they had easily managed to get Charles out of danger, then sent to Glenchest for help.

“Her Majesty Muriele Dare requests your presence in the Chamber of Sparrows.”

“At what bell?” Stephen asked.

“If you please, you are to follow me.”

“Ah. This instant?”

“If it please you, lord.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

The page looked confused. “Lord?”

“Never mind. Show me the way, good fellow.” He wished the page would stop calling him lord, but the duchess insisted all of her guests be treated as nobility, in address at least.

He followed the boy through the hedges and up a path overarched with twined willows. He mused that while he had once enjoyed such gardens, he found them somehow claustrophobic now. He remembered the great trees of the King’s Forest and had a sudden, powerful urge to be among them, even if it meant enduring Aspar White’s sarcasm and disdain.

What good did I think thousand-year-old maps would be? he wondered. Sometimes it was hard to comprehend that earlier Stephen Darige, so much of him was gone now.

Faint voices touched his saint-blessed ears, intruding on his thoughts.

“… found the bodies. They were monks, as was said, but then so is this Stephen Darige. And of the same order, too.” That was Humfry Thenroesn, councilor to the duchess of Loiyes, such as he was. Stephen could smell the sour brandy of the fellow’s breath on the autumn breeze, though they still hadn’t even entered the manse.

“Darige risked his life for my children. He took wounds for them.” And that was the queen herself.

“So he says,” Thenroesn replied. “We have only his word for that. Perhaps he was one of the invading force, and when he saw they were losing—”

The queen interrupted. “The holter with him slew half of the remaining assassins, and the greffyn, as well.”

Thenroesn sniffed. “Again, Majesty, that is based on hearsay. It is a grave risk to trust this Darige.”

Stephen passed into the arched foyer of the manse. He noticed the walls were patterned with gilded sea serpents.

Humfry’s voice grew prouder. “I have sent a rider to his eminence, Praifec Hespero,” he boasted, as if taking such initiative deserved high praise. “He will surely send someone to confirm Darige’s story. Until such time, I recommend that he be incarcerated.”

There was a pause in which Stephen heard only his own footsteps, and then the queen’s voice came, so chill that even at this distance Stephen shivered.

“Am I to understand that you contacted the praifec without my knowledge?” she asked.

Stephen followed the page down a long hall as Thenroesn suddenly became defensive. “Your Majesty, it is within my prerogative to—”

“Am I to understand,” the queen asked again, “that you contacted the praifec without my knowledge?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Duchess, do you have a dungeon in this … this place?”

Stephen recognized the duchess of Loiyes answering. “Yes, dear Majesty.”

“Have this man placed in it, please.”

“But, Your Majesty,” Humfry Thenroesn began, then the duchess cut him off, just as Stephen came to the entrance to the chamber.

“You really should be more careful not to offend my sister-in-law, dear Humfry,” the duchess said. She turned to one of her guards. “Drey, please escort Lord Humfry to one of the danker cells.”

The queen glanced at Stephen, as he stood in the doorway, waiting to be admitted. She was as beautiful as her reputation, but her features were tightly composed. She might have been in fury, or despair, or felt nothing at all, if one had only her expression to read. Yet to Stephen’s senses her voice revealed a heart in turmoil and a soul in torment.

“Dispatch a rider to intercept Lord Humfry’s courier,” the queen told the duchess. “Do no harm unless needs be. Just return him here with his message.”

The duchess signed, and another of the Loiyes guard bowed and rushed off on that errand.

The queen turned her attention back to Stephen.

“Fraleth Darige. Please join us,” she said.

Stephen bowed. “Your Majesty.”

The queen sat in a modest armchair and wore a gown of black brocade with a collar that stood stiffly up her neck. The duchess, seated in a chair next to her, was also clad in black, though her neckline was less modest.

“Fraleth Darige, two of my daughters are dead. Tell me why.” To Stephen, her voice was a raw wound, despite its flat and measured tone.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I do not know. As I told the duchess and her councilor, I discovered the plot by chance at the monastery d’Ef, when Aspar White, your holter, came to us injured. We followed Desmond Spendlove and his men to near here, where they met with Sefry outlaws and performed forbidden encrotacnia. I believe that is how they had the gates of your keep opened from the inside.”

“Explain.”

Stephen explained the rite as best he could. He expected disbelief, but the queen nodded as if she understood. “My late handmaiden, Erren, suggested as much before she was taken from me,” she said. “Is there any protection for us? Must we continually fear these changelings in our midst?”

“There are protections against encrotacnia,” Stephen said. “If Your Majesty wishes, and can provide me with a scriftorium, I can discover them, I’m certain.”

“You will have access to whatever this kingdom has,” the queen assured him. “Now, tell me. Do you see anything of Hansa in all of this?”

“Hansa, my queen?” Stephen asked, confused. “Nothing. Desmond Spendlove was from Virgenya. The Sefry owe allegiance to no nation.”

“You see no involvement of Liery, either?” she asked, very softly.

“No, Majesty.”

“Did you know the king was dead, as well? Did they speak of him?”

Stephen found his mouth was open, with nothing coming out.

“Well?”

“No, Majesty,” he managed. “No mention was ever made of the king.”

“It must have happened on the same day,” the queen said. “The rider just reached us with the news.”

“I … my deepest condolences, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you.” Her brow wrinkled and smoothed. She seemed to start to say something, think better of it, and start again. “Much strange happened at Cal Azroth. Much out of the ordinary. Your account has been passed to me, but I would like to hear it again, and your thoughts on the matter.”

Stephen told her what he could of the greffyn and the Briar King, of Aspar White’s adventures and his own. He knew it all sounded incredible, but his saint-blessed memory was clear. He could not, like an ordinary person, retreat to a dreamworld where the events themselves had been a dream, where the Briar King and the greffyn had been born of terror and exhaustion, blood haze or wine.

“The accounts are mixed,” he concluded. “The greffyn was in the habit of following the Sefry, I cannot say why. I don’t think they commanded it, or it them, merely that they traveled untouched by it, as did the monks. The Briar King himself was wakened and summoned by the horn, I think, and it seems he has returned to the King’s Forest.”

“His trail is clear enough,” the duchess remarked. “My riders found a path of dark thorns marching to the edge of the forest.”

“The same thorns that destroyed Cal Azroth,” the queen said. “You cannot say why he came?”

Stephen winced. “As you know, I returned yesterday to Cal Azroth with knights in the service of her ladyship the duchess. The growth of the vines, at least, has subsided; they creep still, but at slower pace. As for the Briar King—and I do believe that is who we saw—the Briar King is very ancient, perhaps one of the old gods the saints were said to have defeated. He came to Cal Azroth because I summoned him there with his horn. The sedos provided the summoning, and the feinglest sacred to Fiussa became the door of his manifestation.

“Whatever he was before, he is flesh now, and walks the world.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” the queen replied.

“I do not know the answer, Majesty,” Stephen said quietly. “But if the accounts we have are to be trusted, his waking forebodes evil times.” He paused. “Very evil times. Perhaps the end of everything we know.”

“So I have heard. And yet the world still exists.”

“Your pardon, Majesty,” Stephen replied. “That may be so, but I feel as if an hourglass has been turned, and when the sands run out …” He shook his head. He had nothing to finish the thought with.

The queen seemed somehow to understand, and did not press him. And yet her silence itself was a weight.

“Majesty,” he began again, “I threatened blowing the horn only to stop Desmond Spendlove completing his sorcery.” He paused, and guilt as keen as grief nearly stoppered his throat. “I did not intend to sound it, nor did I believe anything would result if I did so. I am to blame for whatever follows.”

The queen shrugged. “If Sir Neil had turned changeling, I would now be dead. That threat is ended, thanks to you. I only wish you had acted earlier, for my daughters would also be alive. As to the apparition we all saw, despite your instincts, there seemed no malice in his actions. He spared me, certainly. He left as soon as he appeared, and the destruction of Cal Azroth, I think, was just a by-blow of his coming. Keep your guilt, Stephen Darige, for when it has proven itself justified.”

Stephen bowed. “I will try to learn what I have done and right it, Majesty. I once thought I knew quite a lot. Now I think I know very little indeed.” He looked the queen directly in the eye. “But I must repeat. I speak from something deeper than instinct. Our troubles are not ended. They have just begun. The world is changed. Can you not feel it, Majesty?”

“Two of my children are dead,” the queen said, her eyes focused on some middle distance. “My husband, the emperor of Crotheny, is dead. My best friend is dead.” Her gaze suddenly stabbed into Stephen’s. “The world I knew is not changed. It is dead.”

Stephen’s audience was ended soon after that, and he took the opportunity to wander through the airy halls of Glenchest to the hospital that had been set up in one of the lesser-used chambers. A young knight from Liery lay there, one Neil MeqVren. His deep, regular breaths proved him asleep, taking the rest his body needed to recover from the insults dealt it.

Stephen’s own bed had been empty for two days; the wound in his arm still ached and leaked frequently, but the fever in it had gone quickly.

The third bed—Aspar’s—was empty, of course.

Outside he heard voices. He peeked through the door to the terrace beyond, where two figures shared a bench between a pair of potted orange trees, gazing on the rich, rolling hills of Loiyes.

He’d turned, deciding not to interrupt, when a gruff voice called his name.

“What are you skulking about for, Cape Chavel Darige? Join us in the sun.”

“Yes, do,” Winna—who sat next to Aspar—said. Stephen noticed the two were holding hands.

“You’ve told me often how poor my skulking is,” Stephen replied. “I thought to improve it.”

“By practice? Is there no book on the subject?”

“Indeed,” Stephen said. “It’s contained in a certain bestiary I know.”

Observations on the Quaint and Vulgar Behaviors of the Common Holter-Beast.

Stephen suppressed a smile. “But sometimes,” he went on, “sometimes, I’ve learned, a bit of practice is necessary.”

“Yah,” Aspar allowed. “Sometimes, I suppose. And some-times—not often, mind you—the learning of books may have its use.”

Stephen ambled out onto the white stone of the terrace. The air was edged with a promise of autumn, and to prove it the apple trees out on the fields wore golden crowns.

Winna rose, patted Aspar’s hand, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’ll return,” she said. “I’m off to see what I can garner from the kitchen. I’ll bring us back a picnic.”

“No pickled lark’s tongue or gilded cockatrice balls,” As-par grunted. “Look in the servant’s larder and see if you can find some honest cheese.”

When she had gone, Aspar glowered at Stephen. “What are you grinning about?”

“You blushed. When she kissed you.”

“Sceat. It’s the sun, is all.”

“She’s good for you, I think. She improves your disposition considerably.”

“It never needed improving.”

“So the old rooster said before ending in the pot,” Stephen replied.

“Huh,” Aspar grunted, apparently at a loss for a protracted defense.

Stephen took a seat on another bench, and a quiet grew between them, until Aspar cleared his throat.

“Why am I alive?” he asked. “The medicine Mother Gastya gave me could never have been that potent, and it was gone, besides.”

“True,” Stephen replied. “I’d hoped you would remember. Don’t you?”

Aspar looked off toward the King’s Forest. “He did it, didn’t he?”

“I think so. Don’t ask me why.”

“You’ve no fine, scholarly words to explain it, then? The Briar King was supposed to come and kill us all, yah?”

“He might yet. He left us because he had other things to do, and I suspect we will not like what those things are.” He shrugged. “He took the poison from you. He did not close your wounds or stop your blood; that was for us to do, and still you nearly went to pale.” Stephen lifted his hands. “Perhaps he thought you a creature of his kingdom. Perhaps you are—you certainly smell like one. A crippled boar, a mangy bear. You might be mistaken for such a thing.”

Aspar stared at him for a long moment.

“I only remember that when he touched me I felt something, something I haven’t known since I was a child. It was …” He frowned. “Sceat, I haven’t the words.” He waved his hands, dismissing the entire matter. He was silent for long time, and Stephen began to wish Winna would hurry her return. She had a way of easing things.

But Aspar spoke, without looking at him.

“I’ve a sense it’s a lucky thing I met you, Cape Chavel Darige,” he said.

Stephen blinked back an unexpected moistness in his eye.

On the Very Strange and Subtle Dispositions of the Holter-Beast, he composed, in his head. Though irascible in the extreme, it must be admitted the beast has not only a talent for annoyance, but beneath its tough and leathersome skin, something that resembles, in many respects, a human heart.

“Now what are you grinning at?” Aspar asked.

Stephen realized he was smiling. “Nothing,” he replied. “Something I read, once.”

When Cazio stepped into the small circle of firelight, Anne flinched involuntarily.

Z’Acatto clucked his tongue. “No need to worry, young casnara,” he said. “We’re well away from those devils.”

“At least for the time being,” Cazio corrected. “If they are as persistent in the hunt as in leaving life, we shall see them again.”

“Don’t worry the ladies with such talk,” z’Acatto growled. “We have eluded them for the time being, of that we can be sure. A hundred crooked leagues we have put between them and us, and never leaving any sign.” He looked up significantly at the younger man. “Unless you did so tonight.”

“I was a ghost,” Cazio replied. “A shadow entered the Inn of the Lisping Boar, a shadow left it.”

“Left it the heavier, I hope,” z’Acatto said hopefully, eyeing the sack Cazio had slung casually over one shoulder.

“Heavier, yes. But this is your sort of work, old man. I’m no thief, by trade.”

“You’ll do as an amateur,” the swordsmaster said. “What’ve you got there?”

Anne found her own stomach rumbling. The countryside offered little in the way of sustenance, and avoiding anyone who might describe them to pursuers meant they couldn’t beg the hospitality of strangers, though z’Acatto had assured them that hospitality was lacking in the poor and rustic province of Curhavia. Whatever the truth, the four of them had eaten only moldy bread the day before, and not much of that.

“Tonight we feast,” Cazio said. He proceeded to produce a joint of ham, a spit-roasted hen, a full loaf of crusty brown bread, a small amphora of olive oil, and two black bottles of wine. Anne watched this unloading hungrily, but when she glanced at Austra she saw something that more resembled worship, which was irritating. Cazio was made of better stuff than she had first supposed, true, and she and Austra doubtless owed him their lives, but there was no reason to be silly.

“This is the wrong year,” z’Acatto complained.

“Ghosts drink what they can find,” Cazio replied. “I’m sure this will do.”

Z’Acatto snatched one of the bottles, took a swallow, and swirled it about in his mouth.

“Hardly better than vinegar,” he said. Nevertheless, he took another long drink of it.

They ate with no thought to conversation. It was only later, when most of the wine was gone, that speech resumed.

“In three days we’ll reach the coast,” Cazio said. “I’ve no doubt we can find the two of you passage there to someplace safe. Your home, perhaps.”

“You’ve been most kind,” Anne said.

“You can’t just put us on a ship, two women alone,” Austra protested. “What if the Hanzish knights should find us at sea?”

“I’d be more worried about the sailors,” z’Acatto said. “They’re the more known and obvious danger.”

“Well, go with them, then,” Cazio said. “Me, I’m returning to my house in Avella and pretending I never saw a knight who wouldn’t die.”

“Anne’s father will reward you,” Austra blurted.

“Austra, hush,” Anne said. “Casnars da Chiovattio and z’Acatto have done more than we could ever repay them for already.”

“A gentleman does not require payment for saving young ladies in need,” Cazio pointed out.

“But a gentleman without funds can’t pay off the lien on his property,” z’Acatto said, “even if certain legal complications have vanished, which cannot be taken for granted.”

Cazio looked pained. “Must you trouble me with such mundane matters?” he asked. But he turned to Anne. “Who is your father, by the by?”

Anne hesitated. “A wealthy man,” she said.

“From what country?”

“The empire of Crotheny.”

“That’s a long journey,” Cazio noticed.

“Hah!” z’Acatto shouted. “You don’t even know where it is! You’ve no idea! To you, z’Irbina is the end of the world.”

“I am content in Vitellio, if that’s what you mean,” Cazio said. “I’ve my father’s estates to win back.”

“You’ll pardon him, casnaras,” z’Acatto said. “The experience with your Hanzish knights has taught Cazio here a certain reluctance when it comes to things foreign. You see, in Avella, he can fancy himself a great swordsmaster. In the wider world, he might find himself proven wrong.”

Cazio looked stung. “That is purest slander,” he said, “and you know it.”

“I know what I see. Dessrata is deeds, not words.”

“And you’ve told me on many occasions that I am no dessrator,” Cazio replied.

“And, on occasion, I tend toward pessimism,” z’Acatto murmured.

“Meaning?” Cazio’s eyebrows leapt in surprise.

“Meaning there might be hope for you,” z’Acatto said. He wagged the wine bottle at his student. “Might.”

“So you admit—!”

“I admit nothing!”

“You drunken old fool, I—”

They argued on, but Anne knew the battle was won. She and Austra would have their escort back to Crotheny.

She thought again of her visions, of the thing she had done to the Hanzish knight, and wished everything in the world was as simple as Cazio. For her, the world would never be simple again.

16 The Emperor Sits

The emperor of Crotheny counted to three and then clapped his hands in delight as Hound Hat produced a partridge from what appeared to be thin air.

“Most excellent, Sire!” the Sefry said. “And now I shall produce a fire, if to you I might implore, please this time to count to four.”

Muriele glanced hard at the Sefry and then more gently at her son. “Charles,” she said. “It is time to hold court.”

Charles looked at her, his face working. “Mother,” he whispered, “I can’t count to four. What am I to do?”

“Charles,” she said, her voice a bit more insistent. “It is time for court. You must concentrate and be king.”

“But Father is king.”

“Your father is away. In his place, you must be king. Do you understand?”

He must have heard the frustration in her voice, for his face fell. Charles didn’t always understand words, but at times he could be surprisingly sensitive to mood.

“How do I do that, Mother? How do I be king?”

She patted his hand. “I will teach you. Some men are going to come in, in a moment. You will know some of them. Your uncle Fail de Liery, for instance.”

“Uncle Fail?”

“Yes. I will talk to them, and you will remain silent. If you do this, then afterwards you can have fried apples and cream, and play games on the lawn.”

“I don’t know that I want to go to the lawn,” Charles replied dubiously.

“Then you can do whatever you wish. But you must be silent while I talk to these men, unless I look at you. If I look at you, then you are to say, ‘That is my command.’ Only that, and nothing more. Can you do that?”

“That is how a king behaves?”

“It is exactly how a king behaves.”

Charles nodded earnestly. “That is my command,” he practiced.

Muriele flinched, for in that instant he sounded almost exactly like her dead William. Charles must have listened more than she’d thought, the few times he had been to court.

“Very well.” She started to nod at the Royal Footguard, but paused, briefly, to glance at Sir Neil, who stood stiffly a few feet from her.

“Sir Neil?” she asked. “Are you fit for this?”

Sir Neil turned his dark, hollowed eyes to her. “I can serve, Your Majesty,” he said.

She took a deep breath. “Come close, Sir Neil,” she said.

He did so, kneeling before her.

“Rise, and sit with me.”

The young knight with the old eyes did as he was told, taking a seat on the armless chair to the left of her own.

“Sir Neil,” she said softly, “I need you with me. With Erren gone, I need all of you here. Are you here?”

“I am with you, Majesty,” Neil replied. “I will not fail you again.”

“You have never failed me, Sir Neil,” she said. “How can you think you did? I owe you my life more than twice. No other man in the kingdom could have preserved me at Cal Azroth, and yet you did.”

Neil did not answer, but his lips tightened, and she saw the doubt.

“I know you loved my daughter,” she said softly. “And no, Erren never told me. I never saw it on your face, either, but I saw it in Fastia’s.

“Sir Neil, we do not lead lives aimed toward happiness, here near the throne. We lead the lives we are given, and we do as best we can. My daughter had little happiness in her life. I watched her wither from a joyful maid to a bitter old woman in the space of a few years. You brought happiness and hope back to her, before her end. I could not have asked a better service of you.”

“You could have asked me to save her,” he said bitterly.

“That was not your charge,” Muriele said. “Your duty was to me. That duty you discharged. Sir Neil, you are my one true knight.”

“I do not feel worthy of that, Majesty.”

“I do not care what you feel, Sir Neil,” she said, letting anger creep into her voice. “When this court begins, look around you. You will see Praifec Hespero, a man of ambition and influence. You will see Lady Gramme, and next to her my hus-band’s bastard, and you will notice a keen glint of avarice in her eyes. You will see twice five nobles who believe this is an opportune time to substitute their fat bottoms for my son’s on the throne. You will see my own family and your old companions from Liery, spoiling for a war with us, wondering if perhaps it isn’t time that Crotheny returned to a Lierish patrimony. And always there is Hansa, building her armies, weaving her plots against us.

“Who among them killed my husband? It could have been any of them. He was feathered with Lierish arrows, but that is a most transparent ploy. Someone here killed him, Sir Neil, and my daughters, and Prince Robert. Someone in this very court, but who? Here in Eslen you will see nothing but my enemies, Sir Neil, and all I have between them and me is you. So I do not care what you think your shortcomings are. I do not care how much you grieve, for I swear to you it is no tenth of what I feel. But I will command you, as your queen and the mother of your king, that you will protect me, keeping your senses sharp and your wits about you. With you, I may last a few months at this game. Without you, I will not survive the day.”

He bowed his head, and then raised it, and at last she recognized something of the young man she had first seen praying in the chapel of Saint Lier.

“I am here, Majesty,” he said, firmly this time. “I am with you.”

“Good. That is fortunate.”

“Majesty? May I ask a question?”

“Yes.”

“Will it be war with Liery?”

She measured that a moment before answering. “If it is,” she asked, “can you kill those you once fought beside?”

He frowned as if he did not understand the question. “Of course, Majesty. I will kill whoever needs killing, for you. I want to know only so I can better prepare the guard.”

“The war with Liery is the least of my concerns,” she said. “In me they see a way to eventually have this throne without a fight, and they have Saltmark and Hansa to concern them. I need only suggest that in me they have a powerful influence on the throne; let one of my cousins court me, perhaps. The facts surrounding my husband’s death and the Sorrovian ships we sank can be quietly forgotten, and they will be. I do not know what William and Robert were about, and probably never will, but I can sweep up the mess. It is Hansa that concerns me, and daggers in my own house.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Neil said.

She inclined her head. “Now, as I said, you must watch what I cannot. Hespero will be admitted first, and I will make him my prime minister.”

Sir Neil raised his brow. “I thought you did not trust him.”

“Not in the least, but he must not know that. He must be lulled and coddled. He must be watched, and that were easiest if he is always at my right hand. After I have spoken to him, then the sea lords will come, and we will make our peace with them.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Yes.” She drew a deep breath.

“That is my command!” Charles shouted experimentally.

Neil bowed to Charles. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he told the emperor. “As in all things, I am your servant.”

Charles grinned, a boyish, silly grin. “This will amuse,” he said.