The Born Queen

by Greg Keyes

  “Mine,” the marhgreft said stubbornly.

  “I am in good hands, Marhgreft,” Muriele assured the old man. “Aradal is my escort to Kaithbaurg. I leave these matters to him.”

  “Better leave the watching of piglets to a wolf,” Geoffrysen blurted. “Stay here, Majesty, and tomorrow let me escort you safely home.”

  Neil tensed and with a sidewise glance caught Sir Edhmon’s eye.

  “Marhgreft,” Muriele said softly, “that is uncalled for. For one thing, I am not a piglet.”

  “Majesty, they have gathered troops at Suthschild. They are marching even now in the north.”

  “That will be enough, my lord,” Muriele said. “I hope to enjoy your hospitality on my return.”

  Geoffrysen was red in the face. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “As you say, Highness.”

  “It is,” Muriele gently agreed.

  Neil could almost hear muscles relaxing. He nodded a salute at the marhgreft as they rode past.

  After a moment’s thought, Neil rode up alongside Aradal.

  “Sir Neil,” Aradal acknowledged.

  “My lord. May I have a word with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did the marhgreft mean by ‘the Hansan side’?”

  “Ah. Never been to Bitaenstath before?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Well, there it is.”

  They had been riding over an old earthwork, probably the remains of an earlier castle, but now Neil could see houses and shops. Most of them hugged the road closely, but some sprawled out from it. Beyond, perhaps a third of a league distant, he saw the towers of another castle.

  “That’s Suthschild, our counterpart to Northwatch,” he said. “The border of our countries is out there. I think long ago there were two towns, one near each fortress, but over the years they’ve grown together. After all, a miller doesn’t care which side buys his flour, nor a whore whose soldiers she’s servicing.”

  “But what happens during war?”

  “It hasn’t come up in a hundred years,” Aradal pointed out. “But castles always have villages, and villages are always at risk when war comes.” He nodded. “This is Southmarket. When the marhgreft needs beer or broadcloth, it’s here he’ll likely get it. But if he throws a feast, he’ll want mead or svartbier, and to get that he’ll send to Northmarket.”

  “There are no border guards?”

  “Do you see a border?”

  Neil didn’t. There was no wall, no standing stones, no pickets to mark where Crotheny became Hansa.

  Most of Southmarket seemed to be shutting down for the evening, except for the inns and bierrohsen, from which issued cheerful singing and the savory scents of roasting beef. Some of the patrons had taken their cups into the street and stood in little circles, talking and laughing. Many looked like farmers, still in their sweat-soaked shirts. Others were cleaner and more neatly dressed and seemed likely to be tradesmen. The few women he saw appeared to be working, not drinking.

  As they moved toward the center of town, the look of the people appeared richer. The taverns had tables and chairs outside and lanterns to keep the night away. The houses and shops were grander, too, some with glass windows. The road went from dirt to gravel to paved, and not much later they found themselves in a largish village square, which at one end had an imposing, high-timbered hall with great doors swung open and dance music playing within.

  “Just in time,” Aradal said, pointing up.

  Neil looked and saw the first stars appearing in the rose sky.

  “That’s our destination?”

  “The Wexrohzen. I promise you, you’ll find no better bread, butter, pork, or ale in the world than right there.” He slapped his rotund belly. “And I’ve looked.”

  “Not even in Kaithbaurg?”

  “Fancier. Not better. Too many dumplings.”

  “This hardly seems the place for the queen,” Neil said, lowering his voice. “Too busy, too crowded.”

  “William stayed several times,” Aradal said. “Muriele was with him at least once, and I don’t think she complained.”

  Neil felt a hand settle on his shoulder.

  “It’s perfectly fine,” Muriele told him.

  “Majesty…”

  “As I told Geoffrysen, we’re in the archgreft’s care now.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  And so they entered the Wexrohzen, and the music dropped away as every head in the hall turned toward them.

  Aradal raised his voice. “Welcome, all, Her Majesty Queen Muriele.”

  To Neil’s surprise, a great shout went up, and flagons were raised as the crowd answered with a welcome.

  Aradal patted his shoulder and leaned close to his ear. “They don’t, after all, know who will win the war,” he said.

  “I suppose they don’t,” Neil replied, but he already was frowning as some commotion seemed to be moving toward them, and space suddenly was cleared on the dance floor.

  And in that space stepped a man with close-cropped red hair and a sharp beard. He wore a sable tunic displaying a lion, three roses, a sword and helm.

  The hairs on Neil’s neck pricked up, because he knew the man.

  The fellow lifted his chin and addressed Muriele.

  “Your Majesty, I am Sir Alareik Wishilm af Gothfera, and your knight and I have unfinished business.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE NATURE OF A SWORDSMAN

  ANNE FOUND Cazio in the hen yard of the monastery, thrusting and stamping on the packed, swept earth. The chickens at the edge of the yard clucked protests but kept a respectable distance.

  He hadn’t noticed her yet, and Anne waited a moment, watching his graceful movements. If she hadn’t seen him kill so many people with those deft, clever movements of his feet, she might think he was practicing some sort of dance.

  She remembered the first time she had seen that dance, when two armed and armored knights had attacked her. Against such machines of war, Cazio had stood little chance, yet he’d put himself between her and them, anyway, and since then he’d never stopped.

  But it hadn’t just been her, had it? Austra had been there, too.

  The color of the sunlight seemed to change, becoming less like gold and more like brass.

  He is Austra’s love, but he is my man, she thought.

  “Cazio,” she said.

  He stopped in midaction, turned, and saluted her with his sword.

  “Majesty,” he said.

  For a moment she felt breathless and silly. Her attempt to seduce him flashed vividly in her mind’s eye.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m told it requires three days to walk the faneway of Mamres, and as you know, I am pressed to return to Eslen.”

  He nodded, an odd look on his face, but didn’t answer. She felt a flash of pique. Surely he understood what she was getting at. Did she have to make everything clear?

  Apparently.

  “You need to start walking the faneway today,” she said. “Within the hour.”

  Cazio sheathed his sword.

  “I don’t want to,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  But he didn’t sound apologetic.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You said I could walk it if I wished,” he replied. “I don’t wish.”

  Now she thought she understood his tone. “You’re angry?”

  He paused, then stared her in the eye. “I’m offended,” he replied. “When has my sword failed you? When have I not defeated your enemies with my own strength and skill?”

  “You would have failed yesterday if I hadn’t helped you.”

  You will fail when he comes. You will die; I have seen you dead. But she couldn’t say that.

  He flushed brightly. “Maybe so,” he admitted. Then: “Probably. But I am a dessrator, Majesty. I am not a killer or a mere swordsman but an artist. Would you give a singer a different voice? A painter a different pair of eyes?”

  “If they could make b
etter work, yes.”

  “But it wouldn’t be theirs, would it?”

  “Cazio, with the skills you already have and the blessing of Saint Mamres, you could be invincible.”

  “I have beaten such invincible men. Their physical abilities made them foolish.”

  “But you are not so foolish.”

  “I think if I had that power I might become so.”

  “Cazio…”

  “Majesty, whatever gifts this faneway can give me, I do not want and I do not need.”

  “But I want them, Cazio. I want them for you. I’m sorry if I’ve offended your pride. You are certainly the greatest swordsman I have ever known. I only want you to be the best swordsman you can be. How else can you guard me against the things that are to come? How else can you survive them?”

  “The way I always have. With my blade and my wits.”

  “That is no longer good enough,” she said softly.

  “If you wish another bodyguard—”

  Something had been welling up in her throughout the whole conversation, something hard in her belly and throat. She felt deeply shaken by something, frustrated by Cazio’s inability to listen. Now she suddenly convulsed and felt tears on her face.

  “Cazio,” she managed. “Do not be so selfish. I need you. I need you with the blessing of Mamres. Would it be so bad to be lustrated by a saint? How is that wrong?”

  He stepped toward her. “Don’t cry,” he said.

  “I’m angry,” she snapped. “Sometimes I cry when I’m angry. Do not mistake these tears. I’m offering you something, something—you aren’t afraid, are you?”

  “Afraid?”

  “Of the faneway. Afraid you might die?”

  One of his eyebrows lifted. “You’re calling me a coward?”

  “Ten of my Craftsmen are walking it as we speak. Three of them are already dead.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “They just weren’t worthy, Cazio. You are. By the saints, if anyone was ever worthy of the blessing of Mamres, it is you.”

  “Who has died, Majesty?”

  “I told you. Some of my Craftsmen.”

  “Which ones? What were their names?”

  It hit her like a punch in the gut, pushing the anger out of her. Her knees went weak, and she felt as if there were no longer anything in her at all. She put her hand against the wall, but it would not support her, and the next thing she knew, she was on the ground.

  What was happening to her?

  But then Cazio had her cradled in his arms. He smelled both clean and sweaty, which seemed odd.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No,” she managed. “I should know, shouldn’t I? I should know who died. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me, Cazio.”

  “There’s a lot going on,” Cazio said. “A lot to worry about.”

  “I feel—I’m sorry I asked you to walk the faneway, Cazio. I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

  “I want you to understand—” he began.

  Something suddenly tumbled into place, and Anne nearly gasped with understanding.

  “No, hush,” she said, knowing what she needed to do. “We won’t talk of this again.” She tapped his shoulder. “You can put me down now,” she said. “I’m fine. Pack your things. We’ll leave for Eslen by noon. Time for me to really act like a queen.”

  Cazio cast a look back over his shoulder at the monastery. Besides the Craftsmen still walking the fanes, they had left it invested with nearly two hundred men. The Church was sure to attempt to take it back.

  He glanced at Anne. Her face was composed and freshly powdered. He had no idea what she was thinking.

  He wasn’t sure what he was thinking. First the sudden kiss, then her request that he make himself unnatural.

  It had been very simple once. He had pledged to keep two girls alive, and with the help of his mentor, z’Acatto, he had managed to do it. But since Anne had come back into her kingdom, surrounding herself with knights, lords, and Sefry, he had been less sure of his footing. He had found his place in continuing to be her bodyguard, and he thought he had done tolerably well at it.

  But she didn’t seem to think so. He had shocked her into withdrawing her request, but she had made it and could not take it back.

  He glanced back again. Should he?

  But the mere thought sickened him.

  They traveled all day, following the banks of the Warlock River, stopping for the night at Tor Aver, a small castle just beyond the edge of the forest. They had stayed there a few nights before when preparing the assault on the monastery, and the knight who had charge of it, Sir Robert Taverner, had a feast prepared for them by the time they arrived. It wasn’t bad, but one of the discoveries Cazio had made in his travels was that good cooks were vanishingly scarce in this part of the world. The meat was heavy, greasy, more often boiled than roasted, and rarely provided with a proper sauce. The bread was grainy and dull, fruit nonexistent, cheese depressingly similar from place to place and meal to meal. The fare was better and more varied at court, of course, but then, he had spent hardly any time at court.

  The wine was often undrinkably sweet, especially the white, and so far he hadn’t found much to like about beer or mead, which tasted to him like rotted bread and bear piss, respectively. Not that he had tasted bear piss, but now he didn’t have to.

  Sir Robert’s meal did not set itself above the standard, but Cazio managed to fill himself without any unpleasant incidents. He didn’t feel much like talking, so he watched Anne, trying to gauge her mood. He had known her for more than a year and in many trying circumstances, but he had never known her to be so suddenly changeable as in these last few days.

  But she seemed at ease, chatting with Sir Robert and the guests he had invited. The anger and remorse of the morning seemed forgotten.

  And so, feeling heavy with the sweet wine, he excused himself to the chamber provided for him and lay there, wishing he were drunk on a better vintage, wishing for other things.

  He was nearly asleep when the door cracked open. Blinking, he saw Anne’s face in the candlelight, and with a guilty start he realized that one of his wishes had come true. He opened his mouth to attempt another denial, but the words glued themselves there.

  “Cazio?”

  “Majesty.”

  “Just Anne, for the moment,” she said.

  “Ah,” he managed. “Anne.” How was it he once had felt comfortable saying her name?

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I haven’t come to test your virtue again. May I enter?”

  “Of course.”

  He was still in his clothes, but he somehow felt he ought to cover himself.

  She stepped in, shuffled her feet another half step, and stopped.

  “I was wrong to ask you to walk the faneway, Cazio. I want you to know I understand. There are so many people around me I don’t really know, much less trust. But I trust you. Today you’ve only proved that I can trust you to protect me, even against myself.”

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  She nodded, and something odd worked behind her eyes. She cleared her throat softly. “So,” she said. “I need you to go to Dunmrogh.”

  Cazio blinked, wondering what he had missed. His king’s tongue was still not so good.

  “Dunmrogh.”

  “Yes. I want you to take a garrison there to guard the fane. I want you to command it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cazio said. “I’m not a commander. I’m a swordsman, that’s all.”

  “You’re a swordsman I trust,” she said.

  “To guard you,” he said.

  “I have my Sefry,” she said. “And the Craftsmen.”

  “Mamres knights.”

  “Two or three of them might make one of you,” she said. “But I shall have to make do.”

  “This doesn’t make sense to me,” he said. Was she trying to shame him into walking the faneway?

  “It’s only for a whi
le,” Anne said. “I know you’ll miss Austra, but I’ll send her to be with you. I know you want to guard me. But I’m asking you, as my friend, to do this.”

  Cazio struggled for something to say. His chest was tight. This felt like an attack from nowhere, one he had no parry and riposte for.

  “Won’t you reconsider?”

  “Cazio,” she said softly, “you aren’t one of my subjects. Everything you’ve ever done for me, you did because you wanted to. I’m not ordering you to do this, just asking.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I had a vision. I need you there.”

  Her eyes remained shut for a long moment, and he examined her face, thinking how familiar it had become and how strange that was. How had he come to this place? Shouldn’t he be back in Vitellio, sunning himself in some piato, seducing girls and starting duels? Guarding her was one thing, but this war—was it really his? Did he care about it if Anne and Austra were removed from the equation?

  He didn’t know.

  But he nodded when she opened her eyes. “Very well,” he sighed. “I shall do as you ask.”

  Even as he said it, he felt something turn in him and knew that he had never agreed to anything in his life that felt more wrong.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ZEMLÉ’S TALE

  STEPHEN WOKE paralyzed, a shriek of terror fused in his throat. Invisible things crawled in the darkness, and just at the corner of his vision a hard red light sparked. He couldn’t look at it because he knew that whatever it was was so terrible that his heart would stop from the sheer horror of it.

  He felt tears start in his eyes as he tried again to scream but could not.

  Then, abruptly, the light vanished, and his whole body seized. He flailed his arms at the dark things, and finally the shriek tore from his throat.

  Something grappled at his arms, and he sobbed another low howl, striking frantically at his attacker.

  “Stephen! Stephen!”

  At first he couldn’t identify the voice, but he was suddenly free of groping fingers.

  “Why?” he heard himself shout.

  “Stephen, it’s a Black Mary. Do you understand? It’s me, Zemlé. It’s me.”

  “Zemlé?”

  “It’s me, meldhe,” she said more softly, using her lover’s name for him. “It’s only me. You were thrashing in your sleep.”