by Greg Keyes
He heard Anne sigh.
“It’s five, maybe six years ago,” he began. “The hills in the Tero Vaillamo are purple with the blooms of wild oregano and lavender; the juniper trees are swaying in a slight breeze. It’s hot, and it hasn’t rained in a month. The vines are heavy with little purple grapes so ripe that some have already begun to ferment. The familia is picking them, old men, young men, girls and boys, handling each grape like a little jewel, fruit from the same stock their grandparents and great-grandparents picked two hundred years ago and more. They put the grapes in a big vat, and as the afternoon cools, they feast on roast pork, they open last year’s wine, and there’s music while they smash the grapes with apple-wood pestles. They ferment it carefully, the way they’ve done it for centuries. They take their time, and the method never leaves the family. They let it ripen in a cellar, not too cool, not too hot. Perfect.” He took another sip. “Taste. The oregano, the lavender, the juniper. The smoke is their cooking fire, where they roasted the boar for the vatting feast. The art, the care…”
He suddenly felt breath on his lips.
“Hush,” Anne said as she kissed him.
She smelled like the wine and apricot and fresh green apple. Her tongue searched against his, and his whole body flashed hot. He fumbled his wine down and stood, reaching for her head, cupping behind her ears, and drawing her up against him. She laughed and pressed close.
Cazio took a breath—and lifted his head.
“Wait,” he said. “What—what?”
“I had to shut you up,” she said, reaching back up with her mouth. “You would have gone on like that all night. Come on; you know you wanted this.”
He released her and stepped back a little. “Well, yes,” he said. “But you weren’t interested, and then Austra…” He floundered off.
“So all of those things you said in Vitellio, when we met, and on the road home were nothing, just lies?”
“No,” he said. “No, but it was before I knew who you were and before—”
“Austra,” Anne finished, crossing her arms. “Before you and Austra.” She frowned. “You’re no good for her.”
“No good for her but fine for you?”
“I’m different,” Anne said. “Austra—you could hurt Austra.”
“But not you?”
“Once, maybe. Not now.”
“Well, I’ve no intention of hurting Austra,” Cazio said.
“No. Otherwise you might do something like, oh, kiss her best friend.”
“You kissed me!”
“That’s how you tell it,” Anne replied.
“Now, wait,” he began, suddenly feeling that everything was out of control.
Anne suddenly laughed and picked her wine back up. “Hush, drink,” she said. “Your virtue is safe. I just wanted to know.”
“What?”
“If you really love Austra. If you’re really faithful to her. If you can be trusted.”
“Oh,” he said, his head whirling. “Then this was all for her?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t for you,” Anne said. “Now tacheta, and drink your wine, and don’t try to explain it to me anymore.”
Cazio did as he was told, desperately trying to sort out what had just happened. He’d felt more competent on his brother’s boat, and he not only knew nothing about the sea but never felt adequate around his brother. He tried to sneak a glance at Anne, to see what the expression on her face was, but was a little afraid to.
When he’d first met Anne, she’d been in love with a man named Roderick, or thought she was, the way girls often did with their first paramours. Still, Cazio had always felt he had a chance. Anne had never given him much hope, though, and when he’d discovered she was in line to be queen of one of the most powerful nations in the world, he’d given up the matter for lost. Besides, his feelings for Austra had been strengthening that whole time, and he was happy with her, missed her even now.
So why did he want to grab Anne and return her kiss? Why did he find it so hard to picture Austra at the moment?
A light rap at the door caught his attention. He glanced up and saw that it was one of Anne’s Sefry pages.
“Majesty,” he said. “Duke Artwair of Haundwarpen begs a word.”
“Yes, of course; send him in.”
A moment later the duke appeared, an imposing man with steel-gray eyes and close-cropped hair. One of his hands was made of wood.
“Majesty,” he said, bowing.
“Cousin, it’s good to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He smiled uncomfortably. “I was riding in the area.”
“That’s an odd coincidence. This place is rather out of the way.”
“Indeed. I was riding in the area because reports were that you were here.”
“I see. You’ve come to collect me. Is that it?”
“You are the empress,” Artwair said, “I cannot ‘collect’ you. But you are needed in Eslen. Your people need you on your throne.”
“My people have seemed rather pleased to see me freeing their towns from torture and oppression.”
“Yes, I agree. Your…adventures…have made you very popular. But now some begin to wonder if you are neglecting the larger issue of the war that seems sure to come.”
“I’ve you to general my army.”
“And you’ve an army to do the sort of thing you’ve been risking your life at these last few months. And this place—why did you come here? A monastery in the country, not so far from the Hansan border. Have you any idea how exposed you are here?”
Anne nodded. “I won’t be here long. And this is the last.”
“The last what?”
“The last of my ‘little adventures,’ as I was just telling Cazio. When I’m done here, I’ll return to Eslen, I promise.”
“Well, you’ve reduced the place,” Artwair pointed out. “What more did you have in mind?”
“Don’t you know where we are?” Anne asked. “The saint this faneway is dedicated to?”
The duke’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t—”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“B-because that is the business of the Church,” Artwair sputtered.
“A Church I have stripped of authority in my kingdom,” she pointed out. “Of temporal authority, yes,” Artwair said. “But this is different. Here you are definitely stepping into the realm of the sacred.”
Anne shrugged. “So be it. The Church abused the boundaries first, not me.”
“I don’t understand,” Cazio said.
Anne turned to him. “This monastery is committed to Saint Mamres, the bloody saint of war,” she said. “His faneway is here. As we control it now, the Church will be making no new warrior-monks. And indeed, perhaps I will make a few of my own.”
Artwair’s face was still red, but the expression on it was turning thoughtful.
“It’s an interesting idea,” he said, “but a dangerous one. Forget the ire of the Church—”
“Done,” Anne pronounced.
“Well. Forget it, then. But you aren’t the first worldly ruler to try this, you know. Twenty years ago, Marhgreft Walis bribed the monks to let his bodyguard walk this faneway.”
“And?”
“There were ten of them. Seven died walking it. Another went mad immediately.”
“And the other two?”
“Were very good bodyguards. But the sacrifice—”
“Even bribed, I expect, the monks were loath to give up the power they guarded,” Anne said. “I imagine they neglected to mention some sacaum or such that needed doing. We have a few of them to question on the matter, so we won’t be missing any information.”
“I’m just urging caution, Majesty.”
“I know. But the enemy has Mamres monks and knights that cannot die and other monsters in number. I feel we need some of the same benefits.”
“Nor do I dispute it. Just be cautious.”
“I shall. And then I shall return to Eslen,
I promise you, Cousin.”
Artwair left, and Cazio stayed close on his heels, looking more than a little relieved to be leaving her presence. She poured herself more wine, took a swallow, and went to the window.
“What have I done?” she whispered to the faintly visible evening star. She closed her eyes, but lightning seemed to flash there and made her mind busy. Her body was humming head to toe with desire.
She and Austra had been best friends for all of her life. She loved her like a sister and in a moment had betrayed her.
She wasn’t entirely stupid. She’d known her feelings for Cazio had been changing these last few months. Despite her first impressions of him, he’d proved more reliable and noble than any knight she had ever known with the possible exception of Neil MeqVren. He was also handsome, amusing, and intelligent.
And Austra’s now. She’d tried to keep that firmly in her mind. But Austra should have known better, shouldn’t she? Austra knew what Anne felt before she did. Austra, her best friend, had snapped up the swordsman before Anne could sort out her own feelings.
“What sort of friend is that?” she wondered aloud.
She knew that she probably wasn’t being completely fair, but who was there to hear her?
Austra had no place in a fighting force and had proved that by getting injured on their first ride against the gallows of Brithwater. Nothing serious, but she’d sent her back to Eslen. These last few weeks, without her maid around, she’d felt that something was happening between her and the swordsman, something inevitable.
And when he’d kissed her back, she’d been really happy, like a girl again, ready to forget her duties, the coming war, the strange things happening in her mind and body as she gained more and more command of the powers Saint Cer had given her.
But no, he’d been surprised, and he’d remembered Austra very quickly, and so she had been wrong about their growing closer.
How foolish that must seem to him, and how intolerable to seem foolish.
And how tiring, how very tiring, to be still a virgin. Maybe she should have someone she didn’t give a fig about fix that for her and then have him exiled or beheaded or something so that she could see what the fuss was about. Austra knew well enough, didn’t she? Because of Cazio.
She shook that away. With all that was going on in her kingdom—in the world—didn’t she have better things to worry about? If Eslen fell, if the dark forces gathering against her triumphed, it wouldn’t matter who Cazio had or hadn’t loved.
“Majesty?” a soft voice whispered. She turned to find Cauth regarding her.
“Yes?”
“We’ve found the map of the faneway.”
“Excellent,” she replied. “We should begin immediately. Have you picked your men?”
“I—Majesty, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Sefry cannot walk faneways. Our constitutions forbid it.”
“What does that mean?”
“No Sefry has ever survived the attempt,” he replied.
“Really? Not just this faneway but any?”
“That’s correct, Majesty.”
“Wonderful,” she said sarcastically. “Send for the Craftsmen, then.”
“Very well. Is there anything else?”
Anne turned and rested her head against the windowsill.
“I’m changing, Sir Cauth,” she said. “Why is that?”
“I haven’t known you long,” he said, “but I expect being queen changes you.”
“No. That’s not what I mean. How much did Mother Uun tell you?”
“Not everything, but enough. You mean your blessing.”
“Is it a blessing?” she asked. “I’m stronger, yes. I can do things. But I’m changing. I think things I never thought before, feel things I’ve never felt…”
“You are touched by great powers,” he said. “That’s only natural.”
Anne shivered. “Some of my visions are terrible.”
“I’m sorry for your pain,” he said. He sounded sincere.
She shrugged.
“It’s lonely,” he ventured. “No one understands you.”
“That’s true,” she murmured, taking a sideways glance at the Sefry.
She had first seen Cauth when he and his troops had saved her from her uncle Robert’s men and, much to her surprise, he had pledged his life and loyalty to her. The Sefry had enabled her to win back her throne. She owed Cauth and his men a great deal.
But the Sefry were so strange, and despite their help and constant presence, she hadn’t really gotten to know any of them.
Nor had any of them spoken to her as Cauth was speaking now. It was a surprise but also something of a relief. The Sefry always had walked in that borderland between the mundane and the very strange. The unnatural was natural to them.
“People fear to speak to me,” she said. “Some are calling me the witch-queen. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” he said. “But your friends—”
“My friends,” she repeated. “Austra has always been my friend. But even she…” She shied away from the subject. Who had really betrayed whom?
“We are less now.”
“What of Casnar de Pachiomadio?”
“Cazio?” She shrugged. “He doesn’t understand, either.”
“But he might.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he was touched by great powers, as you are. Then perhaps—and forgive my impertinence—then he might truly be worthy of you.”
She felt her face go hot. “That is impertinence.”
“I beg your forgiveness, then.”
“And it is dangerous, I’m told.”
“Not for a true swordsman,” Cauth replied.
“You know this?”
Cauth bowed. “I’ve spoken when I should have kept silent,” he said. “Please understand; it was only my concern for you speaking.”
“I forgive it,” she said. “When we are alone, you may speak your mind. I need that, I think, to stay honest myself.” She tilted her head. “Sir Cauth, why do you serve me?”
He hesitated. “Because you are our only hope,” he replied.
“You believe that?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you did not. I wish no one did.”
He smiled thinly. “That’s why you are worthy.”
And then he went. She returned to the window to think.
Cazio as a knight of Mamres, at her side. Her knight, not one on loan from her mother. Cauth was right: She needed someone more than merely mortal, someone else touched by the saints.
A knight of the dark moon for the Born Queen, a woman’s voice whispered. Anne didn’t bother turning. She knew she would find no one there.
CHAPTER FIVE
TESTAMENT
STEPHEN HAD SPENT months expecting Fend to kill him. Now that the moment had arrived, he felt that he had no right to be surprised, but there he was, watching in frozen shock as the kneeling Sefry’s blade came free of its ancient sheath. Stephen tried to back away, but of course he was sitting down in a chair carved of granite. He wondered if the guards behind him were rushing toward the assassin or if they were part of the plot. He wondered if Fend would kill Zemlé, too, and hoped not.
The weapon darted toward him—and stopped. Stephen realized that it was the hilt end and that the one-eyed Sefry was holding the blade in his black-gloved hand.
The shock passed through him, pulling rage in its wake.
“What?” he heard himself snap. “What the sceat—” He cut himself off. “Sceat” was not a word he used. In the dialect he had grown up speaking, it wasn’t even a word. No, he’d gotten that from Aspar White, and his Oostish brogue.
He swallowed, feeling the anger already replaced by relief.
“What is this, Fend?” he asked, more controlled.
Fend’s eye glittered. “I understand we aren’t the best of friends,” he began.
Stephen coughed a mirthless laug
h. “No, we’re not,” he affirmed.
“But you are Kauron’s heir, and I am the Blood Knight. It is my duty to serve you. But since your distrust for me stops you doing what you must, I see I will serve you best by letting another bear this sword and wear my armor.”
“You’re the Blood Knight because you drank the blood of the waurm,” Stephen said, “not because of those arms. And the waurm is dead.”
“The waurm’s blood is still quick in mine,” Fend said. “So drive this sword into my heart, collect my blood, and feed it to a champion you like.”
Stephen stared at the hilt of the weapon and, almost without thinking, took hold of it. He felt dizzy and odd and thought he smelled something sharp and dusty.
Killing Fend seemed like a good idea. The man was a murderer many times over. He nearly had killed Aspar, had treated Winna with great cruelty, and had had a hand in the slaughter of two young princesses.
Oddly, Stephen found himself reviewing those facts without much passion. The best reason to kill Fend was that he, Stephen, could rest easier at night. He shrugged and started to thrust.
What am I doing? he suddenly wondered, and stopped.
“Pathikh?” Fend gasped.
Stephen felt a little smile play on his lips. He’d frightened Fend. He had frightened Fend. He dropped the tip of the weapon.
“I don’t believe you,” Stephen said.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t believe you’re willing to sacrifice your life for a higher purpose. I think you expect to get something out of this or, rather, more out of it, since the waurm’s blood has already made you something more than you were. No, Fend, you have a goal, and it isn’t to die.”
“I’ve offered you my life,” Fend said.
“What happens when I stab the Blood Knight? I don’t know. I’ve seen a man that no blade can kill.”
“I’m not like that.”
Stephen lifted his hands. “You know I don’t trust you. You just said so. Do you imagine this charade has changed that?”
Fend’s eyebrows rose.
“What?”
The Sefry grinned a little. “This isn’t the Stephen Darige I met at Cal Azroth,” he said. “You’re getting some steel.”
