The Charnel Prince Free download

  

Greg Keyes

The Charnel Prince

  

(Book Two of The Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone) Greg Keyes was born in Meridian, Mississippi, to a large, diverse, storytelling family. He received degrees in anthropology from Mississippi State and the University of Georgia before becoming a full-time writer. He is the author of The Briar King and the Age of Unreason tetralogy, as well as

  

The Waterborn, The Blackgod, and the Star Wars® New Jedi Order novels:

Edge of Victory I: Conquest, Edge of Victory II: Rebirth, and The Final

Prophecy. He lives in Savannah, Georgia.

  

PROLOGUE

Had laybyd hw loygwn eyl

Nhag Heybeywr, ayg nhoygwr niwoyd.

  The Forest speaks with many tongues Listen well but never answer.

  

—Nhuwd nhy Whad proverb, given as a warning to young children

  “I HEAR A noise,” Martyn murmured, reining in his dappled gray stallion. “It is an unnatural sound.” The monk’s predatory blue eyes strained, as if trying to burn through the huge-girthed ironoaks and rocky slopes of the King’s Forest. Ehawk could see by the set of the man’s shoulders beneath his blood-red robe that every muscle in his body was tensed.

  “No doubt,” Sir Oneu replied jovially. “This forest chatters like a woman who is half-mad with love.” But despite his tone, Sir Oneu’s black eyes were serious when he turned to speak to Ehawk. As always, Ehawk was surprised by the older man’s face

  —soft and tapered it was, the corners of his eyes crinkled by fifty years of laughter. The knight hardly seemed to fit his reputation as a fierce warrior.

  “What do you say, m’ lad?” Oneu asked. “From what I’ve seen,” Ehawk began, “Brother Martyn can hear a snake breathe over the next hill. I haven’t such ears, and at this moment hear little.

  But sir, that’s strange of itself. There ought to be more birds singing.” “Saint Rooster’s balls,” Oneu scoffed, “what do y’mean? There’s one warbling right now, so loud I can scarce hear myself.” “Yes, sir,” Ehawk replied. “But that ‘un is an etechakichuk, and they—” “In the king’s tongue, boy, or in Almannish,” snapped a dour, sallow- faced man. He wore robes of the same color as Martyn’s. “Don’t gabble at us in your heathen language.” That was Gavrel, another of the five monks traveling with the party. His face looked as if it had been cut into an apple and left to dry. Ehawk didn’t like Gavrel much. “Mind your own tongue, Brother Gavrel,” Sir Oneu said mildly. “I’m the one speaking to our young guide, not you.” Gavrel glared at the reprimand, but he did not challenge the knight. “You were saying, m’ lad Ehawk?” “I believe you call ‘em crow-woodpeckers,” Ehawk replied. “Nothing frightens them.” “Ah.” Oneu frowned. “Then let’s have quiet, while Brother Martyn listens more closely.” Ehawk did as he was told, straining his own ears to the limits, feeling an unaccustomed chill as the hush of the forest sank in. It was strange. But these were strange days. Only a fortnight before, the crescent moon had risen purple, a dire portent indeed, and a weird horn had sounded on the wind, heard not just in Ehawk’s village but everywhere. The old oracle- women muttered prophecies of doom, and tales of awful beasts roaming and slaying in the King’s Forest grew more common each day.

  And then these men had come from the west, a knight of the Church, resplendent in his lord’s plate, and five monks of the order of Saint Mamres —warriors all. They’d arrived in Ehawk’s village four days ago and bargained for a native guide. The elders had appointed him, for though Ehawk was scarcely beyond his seventeenth summer, there was no man more keenly gifted at hunting and tracking. He’d been excited to go, for strangers were uncommon here near the Mountains of the Hare, and he’d hoped to learn something of foreign lands.

  He hadn’t been disappointed. Sir Oneu de Loingvele loved to talk of his adventures, and he seemed to have been everywhere. The monks were quieter and somewhat frightening—except Gavrel, who was outspoken and frightening—and Martyn, who was kind in his own brusque way. If he spoke laconically of his training and his life, what he did have to say was usually interesting.

  But one thing Ehawk had not learned—what these men were searching for. Sometimes he thought they themselves did not know. Sir Oneu doffed his conical helm and rested it under one arm. A stray beam of sunlight glinted from his steel breastplate as he patted the neck of his warhorse to calm it. He shifted his gaze back to Martyn.

  “Well, Brother?” he asked. “What are the saints whispering to you?” “No saints, I think,” Martyn said. “A rustling, many men moving over the leaves, but they pant like dogs. They make other strange sounds.” He turned to Ehawk. “What people live in these parts?”

  Ehawk considered. “The villages of the Duth ag Pae are scattered through these hills. The nearest is Aghdon, just up the valley.” “Are they warriors?” Martyn asked. “Not usually. Farmers and hunters, same as my people.” “Are these sounds drawing nearer?” Sir Oneu asked.

  “No,” Martyn replied. “Very well. Then we’ll go on to this village and see what the local people have to say.”

  ———«»——————«»——————«»——— “Not much to look at,” Sir Oneu observed half a bell later, when they reached Aghdon.

  To Ehawk’s eyes, Aghdon wasn’t that different from his own village—a collection of small wooden houses around a common square and a high- beamed longhouse where the chieftain lived.

  The greatest difference was that his own village bustled with people, chickens, and pigs. Aghdon was empty as a Sefry’s promise. “Where is everyone?” Sir Oneu asked. “Hallo? Anyone there?” But there was no reply, and not a soul stirred.

  “Look here,” Martyn said. “They were trying to build a stockade.” Sure enough, Ehawk saw that a number of fresh-cut timbers had been erected. Other logs had been cut, but never set up.

  “On your guard, fellows,” Sir Oneu said softly. “Let’s ride in there and see what happened to these folk.” But there was nothing to be found. There were no bodies, no signs of violence. Ehawk found a copper kettle with its bottom scorched out. It had been left on the cookfire, untended, until its contents had boiled away.

  “I think they all left suddenly,” he told Martyn. “Yah,” the monk replied. “They were in a hurry for certain. They didn’t take anything.” “But they were afraid of something,” Ehawk said. “Those wreaths of mistletoe above their doors—that’s to ward against evil.” “Yes, and the stockade they began,” Sir Oneu said. “The praifec was right. Something is happening here. First the Sefry abandon the forest, now the tribesmen.” He shook his head. “Mount up. We’ll continue. I fear our mission is more urgent than ever.”

  They left Aghdon and struck off across the uplands, leaving the largest of the ironoaks behind them and entering a forest of hickory, liquidambar, and witaec.

  Still they rode in eerie silence, and the horses seemed nervous. Brother Martyn wore a slight but perpetual frown. “Ride up with me, lad,” Sir Oneu called back. Obediently, Ehawk trotted his own dun mare until he was abreast of the knight. “Sir Oneu?” “Yes. Now would you like to hear the rest of that story?” “Yes, sir. Indeed I would.” “Well, you’ll recall that I was on a ship?” “Yes, sir. On the Woebringer.” “That’s right. We’d just broken the siege at Reysquele, and what was left of the Joquien pirates were scattering to the sea winds. The Woebringer was badly damaged, but so were a lot of ships, and no dearth of them ahead of us for repairs at Reysquele. The weather was calm, so we reckoned we could make Copenwis, where fewer ships go for dry-dock.” He shook his head. “We didn’t make it to Copenwis, though. A squall came up, and only the favor of Saint Lier brought us to a small island none of us knew, somewhere near the Sorrows. We made land in a longboat and gave offering to Saint Lier and Saint Vriente, then sent out parties to search for habitants.”

  “Did you find any?” leeward side of the island.” “Oh. That must have been trouble.” “Indeed. Our ship was too badly damaged for us to leave, and too big to hide. It was a matter of little time before we were discovered.” “What did you do?” “I marched over to the pirate camp and challenged their leader to a duel of honor.” “He accepted?” “He had to. Pirate chieftains must appear to be strong, or their men will not follow them. If he had refused me, the next day he would have had to fight ten of his own lieutenants. As it was, I relieved him of that worry by killing him.”

  “And then what?” “I challenged the second-in-command. And then the next, and so on.” Ehawk grinned. “Did you kill them all?” “No. While I fought, my men took possession of one of their ships and sailed away.” “Without you?” “Yes. I’d ordered them to.” “And so what happened?” “When the pirates discovered what had happened, they took me prisoner, of course, and the dueling stopped. But I convinced them the

  Church would pay my ransom, and so they treated me pretty well.” “Did the Church pay?” “They might have—I didn’t wait to see. I had a chance for escape, later, and took it.” “Tell me about that,” Ehawk pleaded. The knight nodded. “In time, lad. But you tell me now—you grew up in these parts. The elders at your village told many strange tales of greffyns, manticores—fabulous monsters, never seen for a thousand years, now suddenly everywhere. What do you make of that, Ehawk, m’ lad? Do you credit such talk?”

  Ehawk considered his words carefully. “I’ve seen strange tracks and smelled weird spore. My cousin Owel says he saw a beast like a lion, but scaled, and with the head of an eagle. Owel don’t lie, and he’s not like to scare or see things wrong.”

  “So you do believe these tales?” “Yah.” “Where do these monsters come from?” “They’ve been’t sleep, they say—like how a bear sleeps the winter, or the cicada sleeps in the ground for seventeen years before comin’ out.” “And why do you think they wake now?” Ehawk hesitated again.

  “Come, m‘ lad,” the knight said softly. “Your elders were tight-lipped, I know, I suspect for fear of being labeled heretics. If that’s your fear, you’ve no worry about me. The mysteries of the saints are all around us, and without the Church to guide, folk think odd things. But you live here, lad—you know things I don’t. Stories. The ancient songs.”

  “Yah,” Ehawk said unhappily. He glanced at Gavrel, wondering if he, too, had keener hearing than a normal man. Sir Oneu caught the look. “This expedition is my charge,” he said, softly still. “I give you my word as a knight, no harm will come to you for what you tell. Now—what do the old women say? Why do unholy things stalk the weald, when never they did before?”

  Ehawk bit his lip. “They say ‘tis Etthoroam, the Mosslord. They say he woke when the moon was purple, as was foretold in ancient prophecy. The creatures are his servants.”

  “Tell me about him, this Mosslord.” “Ah . . . it’s only old stories, Sir Oneu.” “Tell me nevertheless. Please.” “In shape, they say he is a man, but made of the stuff of the forest.

  Antlers grow from his head, as on an elk.” Ehawk looked frankly at the knight. “They say he was here before the saints, before anything, when there was only the forest, and it covered all the world.”

  Sir Oneu nodded as if he already knew that. “And why does he wake?” he asked. “What does prophecy say he will do?”

  “It’s his forest,” Ehawk said. “He’ll do what he wants. But it’s said when he wakes, the forest will rise against those who have done it harm.” He cut his eyes away. “It’s why the Sefry left. They fear he will kill us all.”

  “And do you fear that?” “I don’t know. I only know . . .” He broke off, uncertain how to put it. “Go on.” “I had an uncle. A sickness came to him. There was little to see—no sores nor open wounds, no marks of fever—but he grew more tired as the months passed, and his eyes dulled. His skin paled. He died very slowly, and it was only near the end that we could smell the death in him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Ehawk shrugged. “The forest—I think it’s dying like that.” “How do you know?” “I can smell it.” “Ah.” The knight seemed to mull that over for a few minutes, and so they rode in silence.

  “This Mosslord,” Sir Oneu said at last. “Have you ever heard him called the Briar King?” “That’s what the Oostish call him, Sir Oneu.” Sir Oneu sighed, and looked older. “I thought as much.” “Is that what you’re looking for in the forest, sir? The Briar King?” “Yes.” “Then—” But Martyn cut him off suddenly. “Sir Oneu?” the monk’s face was set in hard lines. “Yes, Brother?” “I hear them again.” “Where?” “Everywhere. In all directions now. Coming closer.” “What is it, Martyn? Can you tell me what we face? Minions of the

  Briar King?” “I don’t know, Sir Oneu. I only know we are surrounded.”

  “Ehawk? Is there aught you can tell us?” “No, sir. I can’t hear anything yet.” But soon enough he did. The wood stirred all around them, as if the trees themselves had come alive. Ehawk felt as if the forest was tightening, the trees standing ever closer together, a great trap closing on the company. The horses began to whicker nervously, even Airece, Sir Oneu’s warsteed.

  “Ready yourselves, lads,” Sir Oneu muttered. Ehawk caught glimpses of them now, the figures in the trees. They grunted and growled like beasts, they croaked and mewed, but they looked like men and women, naked or wearing only the uncured skins of beasts.

  Sir Oneu increased his pace to a trot, indicating that the others in the party should do the same. He lifted his heavy ashe spear. Ahead, on the trail, Ehawk saw that someone was awaiting them.

  His heart was a cricket in his breast as they drew near. There were seven of them, some men, some women, cut and bruised and naked as the day they were born—all save one. He stood in front, a lion-skin thrown over one shoulder like a cloak. From his head grew spreading antlers.

  “Etthoroam!” Ehawk gasped. He could no longer feel his knees clasping his horse. “No,” Martyn said. “It is a man. The antlers are part of a headdress.” Ehawk, trying to control his growing terror, saw that Martyn was right. But that didn’t mean anything. Etthoroam was a sorcerer. He could take any form.

  “You’re certain?” Sir Oneu asked Martyn, perhaps sharing Ehawk’s doubts. “He has the smell of a man,” Martyn said. “They’re everywhere,” Gavrel muttered, jerking his head from side to side, peering at the forest. The other three monks, Ehawk noticed, had strung their bows and formed a loose perimeter around the group.

  Martyn brought his mount alongside Ehawk’s. “Keep near me,” he said, voice very low. “Ehawk, m‘ lad,” Sir Oneu said. “Could those be the villagers?” Ehawk studied the faces of those who stood with the antlered man. Their hair was matted and tangled.

  “I reckon they might be,” he answered. “It’s hard to say, them lookin’ like that.” Sir Oneu nodded and drew to a halt ten yards from the strangers. It was suddenly so still, Ehawk could hear the breeze in the highest branches. “I am Sir Oneu de Loingvele,” the knight called in a clear, carrying voice, “a peer of the church on a holy mission. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  The stag-horned figure grinned and raised his fists so they could see the snakes he held writhing in them. “Look at their eyes,” Gavrel said, drawing his sword. He sounded grim. “They are mad.”

  “Hold your hand,” Sir Oneu said. He rested his palm on his pommel and leaned forward. “That’s a clever reply,” the knight said loudly. “Most would give a name or speak some vapid greeting. You, with your deer-horn cap, you’re too clever for that. Instead, you shake snakes at me. Very cunning, I must say. A most excellent reply. I await your next witticism with utmost eagerness.”

  The antlered man merely blinked, as if Sir Oneu’s words were so many raindrops. “You’re quite senseless, aren’t you?” Sir Oneu asked. This time the horned man crooked his head back, so his mouth opened to the sky, and he howled.

  Three bows hummed together. Ehawk jerked around at the sound and saw that three of the monks were firing into the forest. The naked and half- naked figures that had been drifting through the trees were suddenly charging. Ehawk watched as one of them fell, an arrow in her neck. She was pretty, or had been. Now she spasmed on the ground like a wounded deer.

  “Flank me, Brother Gavrel,” Sir Oneu said. He dropped his lance level to the party on the trail. Like their brethren in the woods, they were unarmed, and the sight of a fully armored knight ought to have shaken them, but instead, one of the women sprang forward and ran upon the spear. It hit her with such force that the spearhead broke through her back, but she clawed at the shaft as if she might drag herself up its length to the knight who had killed her.

  Sir Oneu cursed and drew his broadsword. He hacked down the first man leaping for him, and the next, but more and more of the madmen came pouring from the woods. The three monks kept firing at a rate Ehawk deemed impossible, yet already most of their shafts were hitting almost point-blank, and the sides of the trail were quickly heaped with dead.

  Martyn, Gavrel, and Sir Oneu drew swords, now trading places with the archers, forming a circle around them to give them space to fire. Ehawk was crowded into the center of the ring. Belatedly, he took out his own bow and put an arrow to it, but with all the jostling chaos, it was hard to find a shot.

  They had more attackers than Ehawk could count, but those were all unarmed. Then that changed, suddenly, as someone seemed to remember how to throw a stone. The first rock belled from Sir Oneu’s helm and did no damage, but soon there came a hail of them. Meanwhile, the enemy had begun a kind of wordless chant or keening. It rose and fell like the call of the whippoorwill.

  Brother Alvaer staggered as a stone struck his forehead and blood sprayed from the cut. He raised a hand to wipe his eyes, and in that brief pause, a giant of a man yanked at his arm, pulling him into the sea of rabid faces.

  Ehawk had never seen the sea, of course, but he could imagine it from Sir Oneu’s vivid descriptions—like a lake that rose and fell. Alvaer was like a man drowning in such water. He fought his way above the waves and was pulled down again. He reappeared once more, farther away and very bloody. Ehawk thought the monk was missing an eye.

  Alvaer struggled back up a final time—and then was gone. Meanwhile, the other monks and Sir Oneu continued the slaughter, but bodies were piling too thick for the horses to move. Gavrel was next to die, pulled into the throng and torn limb from limb.

  “They will overwhelm us!” Sir Oneu shouted. “We must break free.” He urged Airece forward, his sword arm rising and falling, hewing limbs that grappled at him and his mount. Ehawk’s pony screamed and pranced, and suddenly a man was there, tearing at Ehawk’s leg with filthy, ragged nails. He shouted, dropped his bow, and yanked out his dirk. He stabbed and felt rather than saw the blade cut. The man ignored him and leapt up, caught Ehawk by the arm, and began to pull with hideous strength.

  Then suddenly Martyn was beside him, and the attacker’s head bouncing on the ground. Ehawk watched with detached fascination. He looked back up in time to see Sir Oneu go down, three men attached to his sword arm and two more tugging at him. He shouted in anguish as they pulled him from his horse. The monks fought forward, moving with absurd speed, striking, it seemed, in all directions at once.

  They did not reach Sir Oneu in time. A rock hit Ehawk in the shoulder; several struck Martyn, one in the head. He swayed for just an instant, but kept in his saddle.

  “Follow me,” Martyn told Ehawk. “Do not flinch.” He wheeled his horse away from his two brothers and plunged off the trail. Dazed, Ehawk never considered disobeying. Martyn’s sword whirled too quickly to be seen, and the monk had chosen his direction wisely, picking the point where the attackers were thinnest. Beyond the battle was a broad stream.

  They plunged into the water, and their steeds sank deep and began to swim. They managed the other side, where the slope was gentle and their mounts found purchase.

  A look back showed their attackers already following. Martyn reached over and took Ehawk by the shoulder. “News of this must reach the praifec. Do you understand? Praifec Hespero, in Eslen. It’s much for me to ask of you, but you must swear to do it.”

  “Eslen? I can’t go to Eslen. It’s too far, and I don’t know the way.” “You must. You must, Ehawk. I lay it as a dying geis on you.” Several of their pursuers splashed into the stream, swimming clumsily.

  “Go with me,” Ehawk desperately begged. “I cannot do it without you.” “I’ll follow if I can, but I must hold them here, and you must ride as hard as that horse will take you. Here.” He detached a pouch from his belt and thrust it into Ehawk’s hand. “There’s coin there, not much. Spend it wisely. Within is also a letter with a seal. That will get you before the praifec.

  Tell him what we’ve seen here. Do not fail. Now go!” Then he had to turn to meet the first of the madmen emerging from the stream. He split the fellow’s skull like a melon, then shifted his footing and prepared to meet the next.

  “Go!” he shouted, without looking back. “Or we all have died in vain.” Something snapped in Ehawk then, and he spurred his horse and rode until the mare stumbled in exhaustion. Even then, he did not stop, but kept the poor beast at what pace it could maintain. Sobs tore from his chest until it ached, and then the stars came out.

  He rode always west, for he knew it was somewhere in that direction that Eslen lay.

  

PART I

SHADOW DAYS

The Year 2,223 of Everon

The Month of Novmen

The last day of Otavmen is the day of Saint Temnos. The first six days in

Novmen are, in their turn, Saint Dun, Saint Under, Saint Shade, Saint Mefitis,

Saint Gavriel, and Saint Halaqin. Taken together, these are the Shadow

Days, where the World of the Quick meets the World of the Dead.

  

—from The Almanack of Presson Manteo

And after twelve long months he grieved

His lover’s ghost rose from the deep

  

What do you want from me my love

That troubles my eternal sleep?

I want a kiss, oh love of mine

A single kiss from thee

  

And then I’ll trouble you no more

I’ll let you sleep in peace

My breath is ice and sea my love

My lips are cold as clay

  

And if you kiss my salt wet lips

  

You’ll never live another day

—from “The Drowned Lover,” a folk song of Virgenya

  

CHAPTER ONE

He shall be cursed to live, and thus bring ruin to life.

  

—translated from the Taflks Taceis or Book of Murmurs

The Night

  NEIL MEQVREN RODE with his queen down a dark street in the city of the dead. The tattoo of their horses’ hooves was drowned by hail shattering on lead cobbles. The wind was a dragon heaving its misty coils and lashing its wet tail. Ghosts began to stir, and beneath Neil’s burnished breastplate, beneath his chilled skin and cage of bone, worry clenched.

  He did not mind the wind or frozen rain. His homeland was Skern, where the frost and the sea and the clouds were all the same, where ice and pain were the simplest facts of life. The dead did not bother him either.

  It was the living he feared, the knives and darts the dark and weather hid from his merely human eyes. It would take so little to kill his queen—the prick of a tiny needle, a hole the size of a little finger in her heart, a sling- flung stone to her temple. How could he protect her? How could he keep safe the only thing he had left?

  He glanced at her; she was obscured in a wool weather-cloak, her face shadowed deep in the cowl. A similar cloak covered his own lord’s plate and helm. They might appear to be any two pilgrims, come to see their ancestors —or so he hoped. If those who wanted the queen dead were grains of sand, there would be strand enough to beach a war galley.

  They crossed stone bridges over black water canals that caught bits of the fire from their lantern and stirred them into gauzy yellow webs. The houses of the dead huddled between the waterways, peaked roofs shedding the storm, keeping their quiet inhabitants dry if not warm. A few lights moved elsewhere between the lanes—the queen, it seemed, was not the only one undeterred by the weather, determined to seek the company of the dead this night. The dead could be spoken to on any night, of course, but on the last night of Otavmen—Saint Temnosnaht—the dead might speak back.

  Up the hill in Eslen-of-the-Quick, they were feasting, and until the storm came, the streets had been filled with dancers in skeleton costume and somber Sverrun priests chanting the forty hymns of Temnos. Skull-masked petitioners went from house to house, begging soulcakes, and bonfires burned in public squares, the largest in the great assembly ground known as the Candle Grove. Now the feasts had gone inside homes and taverns, and the procession that would have wound its way to the Eslen-of-Shadows had shrunk from a river to a brook in the fierce face of winter’s arrival. The little lamps carved of turnips and apples were all dark, and there would be little in the way of festival here tonight.

  Neil kept his hand on the pommel of his broadsword, Crow, and his eyes were restless. He did not watch the moving light of the lanterns, but the darkness that stretched between. If something came for her, it would likely come from there.

  The houses grew larger and taller as they passed the third and fourth canals, and then they came to the final circle, walled in granite and iron spears, where the statues of Saint Dun and Saint Under watched over palaces of marble and alabaster. Here, a lantern approached them.

  “Keep your cowl drawn, milady,” Neil told the queen. “It is only one of the scathomen, who guard the tombs,” she answered. “That may or may not be,” Neil replied. He trotted Hurricane up a few paces. “Who’s there?” he called. The lantern lifted, and in its light, an angular, middle-aged face appeared from the shadows of a weather-cloak. Neil’s breath sat a little easier in his lungs, for he knew this man—Sir Len, indeed, one of the scathomen who dedicated their lives to the dead.

  Of course, the appearance of a man and what was inside him were two different things, as Neil had learned from bitter experience. So he remained wary.

  “I must ask you the same question,” the old knight replied to Neil’s question. Neil rode nearer. “It is the queen,” he told the man. “I must see her face,” Sir Len said. “Tonight of all nights, everything must be proper.” and drew back the deep hood of her cloak.

  Her face appeared, beautiful and hard as the ice falling from the sky. “I know you, lady,” Sir Len said. “You may pass. But . . .” His words seemed to go off with the wind.

  “Do not question Her Majesty,” Neil cautioned stiffly. The old knight’s eyes speared at Neil. “I knew your queen when she wore toddling clothes,” he said, “when you were never born nor even thought of.”

  “Sir Neil is my knight,” the queen said. “He is my protector.” “Auy. Then away from here he should take you. You should not come to this place, lady, when the dead speak. No good shall come of it. I have watched here long enough to know that.”

  The queen regarded Sir Len for a long moment. “Your advice is well- intended,” she said, “but I will disregard it. Please question me no more.” Sir Len bowed to his knee. “I shall not, my queen.” “I am queen no longer,” she said softly. “My husband is dead. There is no queen in Eslen.” “As you live, lady, there is a queen,” the old knight replied. “In truth, if not in law.” She nodded her head slightly, and they passed into the houses of the royal dead without another word. They moved under the wrought-iron pastato of a large house of red marble, where they tethered the horses, and with the turn of an iron key left the freezing rain outside. Within the doors they found a small foyer with an altar and a hall that led into the depths of the building. Someone had lit the hall tapers already, though shadows still clung like cobwebs in the corners.

  “What shall I do, lady?” Neil asked. “Keep guard,” she answered. “That is all.” She knelt at the altar and lit the candles.

  “Fathers and mothers of the house Dare,” she sang, “your adopted daughter is calling, humble before her elders. Honor me, I beg you, this night of all nights.”

  Now she lit a small wand of incense, and an aroma like pine and liquidambar seemed to explode in Neil’s nostrils.

  Somewhere in the house, something rustled, and a chime sounded. Muriele rose and removed her weather-cloak. Beneath was a gown of boned black safnite. Her raven hair seemed to blend into it, making an orphan of her face, which appeared almost to float. Neil’s throat caught. The queen was beautiful beyond compare, and age had done little to diminish her beauty, but it was not that which twisted Neil’s heart—rather, it was that for just an instant she resembled someone else.

  Neil turned his gaze away, searching the shadows. The queen started up the corridor. “If I may, Majesty,” he said quickly. “I would precede you.” She hesitated. “You are my servant, and my husband’s kin will see you as such. You must walk behind me.” “Lady, if there is ambush ahead—” “I will chance it,” she replied.

  They moved down a hall paneled in bas-reliefs depicting the deeds of the house Dare. The queen walked with measured step, head bowed, and her footsteps echoed clearly, despite the distant hammering of the storm on the slate roof.

  They entered a great chamber with vaulted ceilings where a long table was prepared, thirty places set with crystal goblets. In each, wine as red as blood had been poured. The queen paced by the chairs, searching, until she found the one she sought, and then she sat, staring at the wine.

  Outside the wind groaned. Long moments passed, and then a bell sounded, and another. Twelve in all, and with the midnight stroke, the queen drank from the cup.

  Neil felt something pass in the air, a chill, a humming. Then the queen began to speak, in a voice deeper and huskier than usual. The hairs on Neil’s neck prickled at the sound of it.

  “Muriele,” she said. “My queen.” And then, as if answering herself, she spoke in her more usual tone. “Erren, my friend.”

  “Your servant,” the deeper voice replied. “How fare you? Did I fail?”

  “I live,” Muriele answered. “Your sacrifice was not in vain.” “But your daughters are here, in this place of dust.” Neil’s heartbeat quickened, and he realized he had moved. He was standing near one of the chairs, staring at the wine.

  “All of them?” “No. But Fastia is here, and sweet Elseny. They wear shrouds, Muriele. I failed them—and you.” “We were betrayed,” Muriele replied. “You did all you could, gave all you could. I cannot blame you. But I must know about Anne.” “Anne . . .” The voice sighed off. “We forget, Muriele. The dead forget. It is like a cloud, a mist that eats more of us each day. Anne . . .”

  “My youngest daughter. Anne. I sent her to the coven of Saint Cer, and no word has come from there. I must know if the assassins found her there.” “Your husband is dead,” the voice called Erren replied. “He does not sleep here, but calls from far away. His voice is faint, and sad. Lonely. He did love you.”

  “William? Can you speak to him?” “He is too distant. He cannot find his way here. The paths are dark, you know. The whole world is dark, and the wind is strong.” “But Anne—you cannot hear her whisper?” “I remember her now,” Erren crooned, in the queen’s voice. “Hair like strawberry. Always trouble. Your favorite.” “Does she live, Erren? I must know.” Silence then, and to his surprise Neil found the glass of wine in his hand.

  It was only distantly that he heard the reply.

  “I believe she lives. It is cold here, Muriele.” More was said, but Neil did not hear it, for he raised the cup before him and drank.

  He set the cup on the table as he swallowed the bitter sip he’d taken. He stared into the remaining wine, which calmed and became a red mirror. He saw himself in it; his father’s strong jaw was there, but his blue eyes were black pits and his wheat hair ruddy, as if he examined a portrait painted in blood.

  Then someone stood behind him, and a hand fell on his shoulder. “Do not turn,” a feminine voice whispered. “Fastia?” But now he saw her face instead of his mirrored in the wine. He smelled her lavender fragrance. “I was called that, wasn’t I?” Fastia said. “And you were my love.” He tried to face her then, but the hand tightened on his shoulder. “Do not,” she said. “Do not look at me.”

  His hand trembled the wineglass, but the image of her in it remained untroubled. She smiled faintly, but her eyes were lamps burning sadness. “I wish . . .” he began, but could not finish. “Yes,” she said. “So do I. But it could not have been, you know. We were foolish.” “And I let you die.” “I don’t remember that. I remember you holding me in your arms. Cradled, like a child. I was happy. That is all I remember, and soon I will not even remember that. But it is enough. It is almost enough.” Fingers traced chills on the back of his neck. “I must know if you loved me,” she whispered.

  “I have never loved anyone as I loved you,” Neil said. “I shall never love another.” “You will,” she said softly. “You must. But do not forget me, for I will forget myself, in time.” “I would never,” he said, vaguely aware that tears were coursing down his face. A drop fell into the wine, and the shade of Fastia gasped. “That is cold,” she said. “Your tears are cold, Sir Neil.” “I am sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for everything, milady. I cannot sleep

  —” “Hush, love. Quiet, and let me tell you something while I still remember. It’s about Anne.” “The queen is here, asking about Anne.” “I know. She speaks to Erren. But there is this, Sir Neil, a thing I have been told. Anne is important. More important than my mother or my brother

  —or any other. She must not die, or all is lost.” “All?” “The age of Everon is ending,” she said. “Ancient evils and fresh curses speed it. My mother broke the law of death, did you know?” “The law of death?” “It is broken,” she affirmed.

  “I don’t understand.” “Nor do I, but it is whispered in the halls of bone. The world is now in motion, rushing toward its end. All who live stand at the edge of night, and if they pass, none shall follow them. No children, no generations to come. Someone is standing there, watching them pass, laughing. Man or woman I do not know, but there is little chance they can be stopped. There is only the smallest opportunity to set things right. But without Anne, even that possibility does not exist.”

  “Without you, I do not care. I do not care if the world goes into oblivion.” The hand came onto his shoulder and stroked across the back of his neck. “You must,” she said. “Think of the generations unborn and think of them as our children, the children we could never have. Think of them as the offspring of our love. Live for them as you would for me.”

  “Fastia—” He turned then, unable to bear it any longer, but there was nothing there, and the touch on his shoulder was gone, leaving only a fading tingle.

  The queen was still staring at her wine, whispering. “I miss you, Erren,” she said. “You were my strong right hand, my sister, my friend. Enemies surround me. I don’t have the strength for it.” “There is no end to your strength,” Erren replied. “You will do what must be done.” “But what you showed me. The blood. How can I do that?” “You will make seas of blood in the end,” Erren said. “But it is necessary. You must.” “I cannot. They would ever allow it.” “When the time comes, they cannot stop you. Now hush, Muriele, and bid me peace, for I must go.” “Do not. I need you, specially now.” “Then I’ve failed you twice. I must go.” And the queen, who these past months might have been forged of steel, put her head down and wept. Neil stood by, his heart savaged by Fastia’s touch, his mind burning with her words.

  He wished for the simplicity of battle, where failure meant death rather than torment. Outside, the sounds of the storm grew stronger as the dead returned to their sleep. Sleep never came, but morning did. By the sun’s first light the storm was gone, and they began the ascent from Eslen-of-Shadows to Eslen-of-the-

  Quick. A clean, cold sea wind was blowing, and the bare branches of the oaks lining the path glistened in sheaths of ice.

  The queen had been silent all night, but while they were still some distance from the city gates she turned to him. “Sir Neil, I have a task for you.” “Majesty, I am yours to command.” She nodded. “You must find Anne. You must find the only daughter I have left.” Neil gripped his reins tighter. “That is the one thing I cannot do,

  Majesty.” “It is my command.” “My duty is to Your Majesty. When the king knighted me, I was sworn to stay at your side, to protect you from all danger. I cannot do that if I am traveling afar.”

  “The king is dead,” Muriele said, her voice growing a bit harsher. “I command you now. You will do this thing for me, Sir Neil.” “Majesty, please do not ask this of me. If harm should befall you—” “You are the only one I can trust,” Muriele interrupted. “Do you think I

  

want to send you from my side? To send away the one person I know will

  never betray me? But that is why you must go. Those who killed my other daughters now seek Anne—I’m certain of it. She remains alive because I sent her away, and no one at the court knows where she is. If I trust any other than you with her location, I compromise that knowledge and open my daughter to even greater danger. If I tell only you, I know the secret is still safe.”

  “If you believe her secure where she is, should you not leave her there?” “I cannot be sure. Erren intimated that the danger is still great.” “The danger to Your Majesty is great. Whoever employed the assassins that slew your husband and daughters meant to kill you, as well. They still do, surely.”

  “Surely. I am not arguing with you, Sir Neil. But I have given my command. You will make ready for a long journey. You will leave tomorrow. Pick the men who will guard me in your absence—I trust your judgment more than my own in such matters. But for your own task you must travel alone, I fear.”

  Neil bowed his head. “Yes, Majesty.” The queen’s voice softened. “I am sorry, Sir Neil. I truly am. I know how badly your heart has been hurt. I know how keen your sense of duty is and how terribly it was wounded at Cal Azroth. But you must do this thing for me. Please.”

  “Majesty, I would beg all day if I thought you would change your mind, but I see that you won’t.” “You have good vision.” Neil nodded. “I will do as you command, Majesty. I will be ready by morning.”

  

z’Espino

  ANNE DARE, YOUNGEST daughter of the Emperor of Crotheny, Duchess of Rovy, knelt by a cistern and scrubbed clothes with raw and blistered hands. Her shoulders ached and her knees hurt, and the sun beat her like a golden hammer.

  Only a few yards away, children played in the cool shade of a grape arbor, and two ladies in gowns of silk brocade sat sipping wine. Anne’s own dress—a secondhand shift of cotton—hadn’t been washed in days. She sighed, wiped her brow, and made sure her red hair was secure beneath her scarf. She sneaked a longing glance at the two women and continued her work.

  She cast her mind away from her hands, a trick she was becoming quite adept at, and imagined herself back home, riding her horse Faster on the Sleeve or eating roasted quail and trout in green sauce, with gobs of fried apples and clotted cream for desert.

  Scrub, scrub, went her hands. She was imagining a cool bath when she suddenly felt a sharp pinch on her rump. She turned to find a boy about four or five years younger than she

  —perhaps thirteen—grinning as if he’d just told the best joke in the world.