by Greg Keyes
“No, I’m not. Your mother is going to ask to go, anyway; she thinks there is a chance for peace. You’ll know by that that I’m telling you something useful. But further, I’ll tell you this: If you send your mother, the knight, and the assassin to Kaithbaurg, I foresee an excellent chance for them to end the threat of the Hellrune and thus weaken Hansa. If you do not send them, I see you weeping over your mother’s body in Eslen-of-the-Dead.”
“An ‘excellent chance’? Why can’t you see whether they kill him or not?”
“Two reasons. The first is that since you haven’t decided to send them, the future is cloudy. But the deeper reason is that as I told you, I am not able to see the Hellrune. But I know the opportunity can arise. Try seeing it yourself.”
“I can’t direct my visions,” Anne said. “They just come.”
“You can direct them,” the woman insisted. “Remember how once you had to be summoned here? Now you come and go as you please. It’s the same. Everything you need is here, especially now that the Faiths aren’t mucking around.”
“Where is here?” Anne asked. “I’ve never understood that.”
“Why, inside the sedos,” she replied. “This is where the world is moved from, where the power flows from. It is given form only by those who live here. It is your kingdom now, and you can shape it as you want. Hansa, the future, the past—all are here. Grasp the reins of power. You need not take my word for anything I’ve just said. Discover it for yourself.”
And like a fire blown out by a wind, she flickered and was gone.
Anne stood there for a moment, looking at the dead faces of the Faiths.
Was it possible? Could she really free herself from the whims of the forces around her? Could she actually steer them herself, be free of doubt, finally chart her own destiny without the meddling of untrustworthy wights?
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” she asked the Faiths.
But their whispering was over.
“Well,” she murmured. “Let’s see if she’s telling the truth.”
And she saw, and woke with tears streaming on her face, and knew some things had to be done.
She rose to do them.
CHAPTER TWO
AN EMBASSY
WHEN NEIL MEQVREN saw the dragon banner of Hansa, his heart sped and his hand shivered for killing. Pain stitched up his side, and he couldn’t keep back a gasp.
“Easy, Sir Neil,” Muriele Dare said.
He tried to smile at her. In the sunlight a bit of her age was showing: wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and on the line of the chin, a few strands of silver in her black hair. Yet he had never seen her look more beautiful than now, in an emerald Safnite riding habit and embroidered black buskins. A simple rose gold circlet settled over her brow told her rank.
“Sir Neil?” she repeated.
“Majesty,” he replied.
“We aren’t here to fight, so stray your hand away from that sword.” Her brow creased. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be here at all.”
“I’m hale, Majesty.”
“No, you aren’t,” she retorted. “Your wounds are still fresh.”
“He’s a MeqVren,” Sir Fail de Liery said. “Like his father and his before. Men stubborn as an iron prow.”
“I know I can’t fight,” Neil said. “I know I’ll split open at the seams. But I still have eyes. I might see a knife in time.”
“And then split open your seams,” Fail grunted.
Neil shrugged, and even that hurt.
“You’re not here to step between me and a knife, Sir Neil,” Muriele said.
Then why am I here? he wondered silently. But he felt the tightness in his arms and legs and knew. Like the leics who had tended him, the queen mother believed he might never be able to wield a blade again. She was trying, as it were, to teach him another trade. So now, while the kingdom girded for war, Neil found himself gazing on the faces of the enemy, trying to count them.
He estimated a full Hanzish wairdu, about a hundred men, on the field between them and the white walls of Copenwis, but that would be only a fraction of their army. Copenwis was occupied, and though he could not see them, Neil knew that a sizable portion of the Hansan fleet was anchored in the harbor and along the shore of the great port. Six thousand, perhaps. Ten? Twenty? There was no way to know from here.
In his own party there were twenty, not twenty thousand. To be sure, they had nearly two thousand men behind them, but they were more than a league behind. The queen had not wanted to tempt the Hansans into battle. Not yet, anyway.
So the northerners glared at their flag of parley, and they waited. Neil heard them muttering in their windy tongue and remembered dark nights in his childhood, creeping up on Hanzish positions, hearing the same hushed language.
“Copenwis has fine walls,” Sir Fail observed.
Neil nodded and glanced at his old patron. Not long ago, he’d still had a trace of black in his hair, but now it was less gray than white. He wore it long, in the fashion of the isles, bound back with a simple leather thong. His cheek was pitted from the shatters of a spear shaft, and one of his brows lifted oddly from the time a Weihand sword had all but flensed that part of his forehead from his skull. Neil had first seen him with that purple, loose flap of skin and his eye swollen shut. He’d been six and had thought he was seeing Neuden Lem Eryeint, the battle saint, come as flesh on earth. And in the years since, serving him, in his heart of hearts he still thought of Fail that way: immortal, greater than other men.
But Fail looked old now. He seemed to have shrunk a bit. It unsettled Neil.
“It does,” he agreed, tracing his gaze along the stout bastions of white stone.
“I lived there for a time,” Alis Berrye said.
“Did you?” Muriele asked.
“When I was eight. I stayed here with an uncle for a few months. I remember a pretty park in the midst of the city, with a fountain and the statue of Saint Nethune.”
Neil studied Alis from the corner of his eye. Her tone was light, but a little pucker between her eyes made him guess the young woman was trying to remember more: how the streets were laid out, where the gates were, anything that might help her protect and defend Muriele. For despite her youth, charm, and beauty, if the petite brunette was anything like her predecessor, she was dangerous, and the more knowledge she had, the more dangerous she could be.
Neil wasn’t sure he trusted her. Her past did not speak well of her.
He suddenly found Alis staring straight into his eyes and felt a flush on his face.
I caught you, she mouthed, then smiled cheerfully.
“Stout walls, anyway,” he said, sheepishly returning her smile.
“This poor city has changed hands so often, I wonder why they bother with walls,” Muriele remarked. She stood a bit in her stirrups. “Ah,” she said. “Here we are.”
Neil saw him, coming through the Hanzish ranks, a large man mounted on a charger in gleaming barding enameled black and sanguine. He wore a breastplate made in the same colors displaying an eagle stooping. It looked more ceremonial than useful. A cloak of white bearskin hung on his shoulders, and his oiled sealskin boots gleamed.
Neil knew him. He’d first seen that pink, corpulent face at his own introduction to the court of Eslen. It was the Archgreft Valamhar of Aradal, once ambassador to the court of Crotheny.
“Saint Rooster’s balls,” Fail muttered under his breath.
“Hush,” Muriele hissed, then raised her voice.
“Archgreft.”
The Hanzish lord nodded and dismounted, aided by four of the eight young men in his livery who had come with him to the field. Then he took a knee.
“Majesty,” he said. “I must say, I am glad the Ansus have kept you well. I worried and prayed for you during your captivity.”
“I’m sorry you were troubled,” Muriele told him. “I do so dislike being the cause of disturbance.”
Aradal smiled uncertainly. “Well, I am all better now
,” he replied.
“Yes. And rather camped in one of our cities,” she said, nodding at Copenwis.
“Oh, yes, that,” Aradal said. “I’m thinking that is what you’ve come to discuss.”
“You are as brilliant as ever, my lord,” she replied.
“Well, it must be the company I keep,” he said.
“Perhaps,” Muriele replied. “In any event, yes, I’ve been empowered by Empress Anne to take the terms of your withdrawal from our northern port.”
“Well, Majesty, that’s a bit sticky,” Aradal said. “You see, we had the king’s permission to take Copenwis under our protection.”
“By king you mean my brother-in-law Robert?” Muriele asked. “Robert was a usurper, never a lawful sovereign, so that’s easily cleared up. His word never came from the crown, and so you’ve no right or reason to be here.”
Aradal scratched his ear. “It’s rather more complicated than that, don’t you think?”
The queen drew back a bit. “I don’t see how. Take your fleet and your men and go home, Aradal.”
“Well, they aren’t my men or my fleet, are they, Majesty? They belong to His Majesty Marcomir III, and he recognizes Robert as king and emperor of Crotheny.”
“If you’ve given shelter to that hell-hearted bastard—” Fail began, but Muriele silenced him with a frown before turning back to the archgreft.
“If Robert has taken refuge with your liege, that is another matter,” she said, her voice sounding a bit strained. “But for now, I think bringing our countries back from the brink of war should do.”
Aradal lowered his voice. “Majesty, you assume that war is to be prevented. I rather think it will happen.”
“Marcomir’s avarice has been known for a long time,” Muriele said, “but—”
Aradal shook his head. “No, there is more to it than that, Majesty. Your daughter has murdered churchmen, Muriele. William defied the Church, but Anne has denied and attacked it. Our people are devout, and the signs are all around us. There are those who say that it is not enough to conquer Crotheny; they say it must be cleansed.” His voice lowered further. “Majesty, I have tried to tell you before, I am friendly to you. Take your daughter and those you care for and go to Virgenya or someplace even farther. I…” He broke off. “I have said too much.”
“You will do nothing?”
“I can do nothing.”
Muriele shrugged. “Very well. Then I must speak with Marcomir.”
Aradal’s brows raised. “Lady…”
“By the most ancient law of nations, by the covenant the free peoples created when the Skasloi were destroyed, you must provide me safe passage to the court of your king, and you must conduct me safely out of it. Even the Church itself cannot subvert that most basic law.”
Aradal’s cheek twitched.
“Can you do that? Can you uphold the ancient covenant?”
“I can give you my word,” he finally said. “But my word does not travel very far from me these days.”
The queen’s eyes widened. “You cannot be implying that Marcomir would kill me or take me prisoner.”
“I am saying, lady, that the world has gone mad, and I can promise nothing. My liege is a man of law, I assure you, and I would stake my life that he would not treat you ill.”
“But?”
“But I can promise nothing.”
Muriele took a deep breath and let it out. Then she straightened and spoke in her most courtly tones. “Will you arrange for my party to travel to the court under flag of truce so that I can press the case for peace before His Majesty? Will you do that, Archgreft?”
Aradal tried to meet her gaze and failed, but then something strengthened in him, and he lifted his head. “I will,” he replied.
“I will return in the morning with my chosen companions,” she said.
“No more than fifteen,” he said.
“That will be sufficient,” Muriele assured him.
On another day the Maog Voast plain might have seemed pretty, Neil reflected. Four months had passed since his wounding in the battle for the waerd. It was the fifteenth of Ponthmen, and summer was just coming into its own. The fields were glorious with the white spires of lady’s traces, yellow oxeyes, purple thrift, and a rainbow’s hoard of flowers he didn’t recognize. They mingled their sweet scents with that of wild rosemary, bee fennel, and something that reminded him of apple, although there were no trees in sight on the flat landscape. Still, the riding of a league was a long time for Neil to have the army of Hansa at his back, and he glanced behind often despite the lack of cover for an ambush. But that lack of cover went two ways, and Neil felt rather as a mouse might, wondering if a hawk was about to come out of the sun.
Muriele noticed.
“I don’t think they’ll attack us, Sir Neil,” she said.
“No,” Fail snapped. “Why should they when you’ll deliver yourself to them tomorrow?”
“The old law—”
“Even Aradal won’t vouch for its keeping,” the duke pointed out.
“Niece, you’ve just escaped one prison. Why must you hurry back into another? They’ll hold you hostage to better bargain with Anne. Lady Berrye, reason with her.”
Alis shrugged. “I serve at the pleasure of Queen Muriele,” she said. “I find her reasonable enough.”
“And don’t forget, we have hostages of our own,” Muriele added.
“Schalksweih?” Fail muttered. “How could I forget? It was I took him captive and his ship a prize. But against you…”
“He’s a favorite of Marcomir’s,” she said. “They have sued for his release.”
Fail looked heavenward, shaking his head.
“Why are you really doing this, dove?”
“What else should I do? Knit stockings while my daughter rides into battle? Arrange flowers as army after army arrays against us?”
“Why not, Majesty?” Neil interjected.
“Excuse me, Sir Neil?”
“Why not?” he repeated “The fleet of Hansa is inside our borders, and their land army is on the march. What can you say that will deter them? Sir Fail is right: You’ve suffered enough, milady.”
“How much I’ve suffered is not at issue,” Muriele countered. “And although I’m not flattered by your opinion of my political abilities, I see a chance to stop this war, and I will take it. I’ve discussed this with Anne. She will not yield one grain of our dirt if I am taken hostage.”
“She fought like a demon to retrieve you from Robert,” Fail pointed out. “Things have changed,” Muriele said.
Anne has changed, Neil reflected. Muriele was probably right in that: The empress would not be intimidated even by threats to her own mother.
He wondered where she was now: on the throne or off killing churchmen. The latter had become almost a sport to her.
“Well,” Fail said. “I’ll go.”
“One of our best sea commanders? It’s out of the question. You’re needed here, guarding our waves. Anyway, the strain of keeping your sword sheathed would split the vein on your forehead. You’re not much of a diplomat, Uncle.”
“And you are?”
She shrugged. “I’ve seen it done, and I have the station for it, even though I am a woman.” She paused. “Anne wants me to go, Uncle. One of her visions. She says there’s a chance.”
“Visions,” he snorted.
“She knew you were coming with the fleet,” Neil said. “She knew when. It’s why we knew we had to take down Thornrath so quickly.”
“Aye,” Fail muttered, chewing his lip. “Maybe her visions are true. But your own daughter, sending you to the viper’s den—it’s hard to fathom.”
“Majesty,” Neil said. “I know I’m not much use—”
“Oh, you’re going,” Muriele said. “Why do you think you’re here? If it were my decision, you would still be abed.”
Neil frowned. “You mean to say the empress wants me to go to Hansa?”
“She was quite a
damant about it.”
“I see.”
Muriele shifted in her saddle.
“Do you feel slighted, not being in her guard?” she asked.
That took him by surprise. “Milady?”
“Are you disappointed at being returned to my service?” she amplified.
He shook his head. “Majesty, I always considered myself in your service. When I was guarding Anne, I was following your orders. I am your man and do not hope to be anyone else’s.”
He didn’t add that he found Anne more than a little uncanny, and although he knew firsthand that some in the Church had turned to darkness, he was happy not to be directly involved in Anne’s vendetta against z’Irbina.
Muriele took in his speech without a hint of changed expression, then nodded slightly.
“Very well. Once we return to camp, pick the men who will accompany us. In the morning we’ll begin our journey to Hansa.”
Neil nodded and began thinking about who to take along.
More than ever, he felt like prey beneath a hunter sky.
CHAPTER THREE
THE END OF A REST
ASPAR WHITE tried to match his breath to the faint breeze through the forest fringe, to be as still as a stump as the monster approached. It was just a shape at the moment, about twice the size of a horse and slouching through the narrow white boles of the aspens. But he smelled autumn leaves although it was high summer, and when its eyes glittered like blue lightning through the branches, he felt the poison in its blood.
It wasn’t a surprise. The world was made of monsters now, and he had fought plenty. Sceat, he’d met their mother.
A few jays were shrieking at the thing, but most of the other bird sounds were gone, because most birds weren’t as blind, stupid, brave as jays.
Maybe it’ll just go by, he thought. Maybe it’ll just pass on by.
He was already tired; that was the damned thing. His leg ached, and his lungs hurt. His muscles were all soft, and his vision kept going blurry.
Half a bell he’d been out there, at the most, working himself no harder than a baby taking pap. Just looking across the meadow.
