The Briar King

Epilogue A Final Curse

As the last echoes of her footsteps were eaten by the hungry darkness, Muriele Dare perceived a low moan, like talons scratching across the skin of a kettle drum. Something unseen shifted, and though no light appeared in the darkness, she felt eyes like two hot coals pressed against her flesh.

“The stink of woman,” a voice graveled. “Many long centuries since I have scented that.” A soft clicking, then, and the voice continued thoughtfully. “You are not her. Like, but not.”

Muriele’s nose twitched at a resiny scent that censed the chamber.

“Are you what this man says you are?” she asked. “Are you a Skaslos?”

“Am I, was I, will I.” The words seemed to creep through the air like centipedes. “How come you here if you do not know me?”

“I found a key in my husband’s chambers. I inquired about it. Qexqaneh, answer my question.”

“My name,” the Kept said. It sounded like an imprecation. “I have forgotten much of what I was. But yes, I was once called that.”

“You’ve been here for two thousand years?”

“I remember years no more than I remember the moon.” Another scraping in the darkness. “I mislike your scent.”

“I care not what you like,” Muriele told him.

“Then what care you for? Why do you disturb me?”

“Your race had knowledge of things mine does not.”

“To make little of much, yes.”

“Tell me—can you see things unseen? Do you know who killed my daughters and my husband? Can you tell me if my youngest daughter still lives?”

“I see,” the Kept replied. “I see a smoke spreading in the wind. I see the cloak of death brushing the world. I see a sickle in you, eager to reap.”

“Who murdered my daughters?” Muriele demanded.

“Kissssss,” he wheezed. “Their shapes are too vague. They stand behind the pall.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Queen! You have a knife in you, eager for poking and twisting.”

“Is he lying?” Muriele asked the Keeper.

“He cannot lie,” the ancient Sefry told her.

“What did you tell my husband?” Muriele asked.

“To be death or die. I see which he chose. Would you be death, you who stink of motherhood?”

“I would see the murderers of my family dead.”

“Sssssssssssss! That is a simpler matter than seeing who did the deed,” the Kept said. “I can tell you a curse. It is a most terrible curse, the most terrible I remember.”

“Majesty,” the Keeper said. “Do not listen to him.”

She ignored the old man. “I can curse those who took my children?”

“Oh, easily. Very easily.”

“Tell me, then.”

“Majesty—” the Keeper began again, but Muriele cut him off.

“You have warned me thrice, Keeper,” she said. “Do not warn me again, or I shall have the drums of your ears broken. How then will you delight in your solitary music?”

The Sefry fell momentarily silent at the threat. “As you say, Majesty,” he finally submitted.

“Await me where you cannot hear this conversation. I will call for you when I need guidance.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

She heard him shuffle away.

“A daughter of the queen are you,” the Kept said, once the Sefry was gone.

“I am the queen,” Muriele replied. “Tell me of this curse.”

“I will tell you a thing to write, and you will scrive it on a lead tissue and place it in a certain sarcophagus you will find beneath the horz in the city of the dead. Who sleeps there will take your message to one who knows well how to curse.”

Muriele considered that a moment, remembering the breath leaving Fastia.

“Tell me what to write,” she said.

The candles in the chapel flickered as if some unseen wing beat above them. Sacritor Hohn looked around nervously, feeling as if he had just awoken from a night terror, though he hadn’t been asleep.

Nothing seemed amiss. The chapel was quiet.

He had almost soothed himself when the screaming began. It came from the chamber of healing, where the stranger was. Hastily the sacritor made his way there, knowing what it must mean.

Hard men in dark clothing had brought the stranger weeks ago. Sacritor Hohn did not know who he was, but he was certainly a man of importance by his dress and the way he was attended. He’d been wounded near the heart, and his medicines and sacaums of healing had been able to do little but slow the rate of his demise. Only this morning, he had taken a turn for the worse. The only surprise was that he still had the strength to scream.

When the sacritor drew back the curtain, however, the stranger was not screaming, nor was he dead. He stood naked, staring at some unseen horizon of horror.

“My lord,” the sacritor said. “You’ve woken.”

“Indeed?” the man whispered. “I feel I dream. A dream most foul.”

“The saint has blessed you,” the sacritor said, making a sign. “I never thought to see you stand. Only this morning, your soul was slipping away.”

The man looked at him, and something in his eyes sent worms up the sacritor’s back. “Where am I?” he asked.

“The chapel of Saint Loy at Copenwis,” the sacritor answered.

“Where are my men?”

“Quartered in the town, I think. One stands guard outside. Shall I fetch him?”

“In a moment. A moment. My brother is dead?”

“I do not know your brother, my lord.”

“Do you know me?”

“I do not, my lord.”

The stranger nodded and stroked his beard. “I think I do not, either,” he said.

Sacritor Hohn wasn’t sure he understood. “Have you lost your memory?” he asked. He’d heard of that. “Sometimes the shock of a wound—”

“No, I don’t mean that. I remember all too well. Fetch my clothes.”

“My lord, you cannot travel yet.”

“I think that I can.” Something in the man’s eyes told Sacritor Hohn he ought not to argue. And after all, he had just seen a miracle. If the saints had saved a man from death, they could as easily restore him to perfect health.

Of course, the wound was still there …

“As you wish, my lord,” he said, bowing. “But before you go, shall I shrive you? Shall I perform lustration?”

The man stared at him, and his lips parted. He made a sound as if he were choking, and another.

It was only after a third that the sacritor understood that he was hearing laughter more bitter than the harshest sea.