by Greg Keyes
“Sir Neil,” Muriele whispered in Lierish.
“It’s too late,” he replied in the same tongue. “I can’t refuse this.”
“You certainly can,” she said. “Your injuries—”
“Don’t matter, Majesty. Don’t you see? It’s not the insult to me that’s the problem; it’s the insult to you and to Crotheny. If we’re weak here, we’ll be weak before Marcomir. There’s no helping it.”
“Nonsense. We just show we won’t be distracted from our purpose. You’re not that wise in politics yet, Sir Neil.”
“Maybe not, but I know men of war, Majesty. I know knights, and I know Hansans.”
“What’s your mother say there, sir knight?” Sir Alareik shouted to general laughter.
Muriele lifted a glare at the man. “You’ve no manners, sir,” she replied. “You’re no better than a beast. You’ve interrupted a perfectly fine evening in the most boorish manner possible.”
“I’ve approached your knight in an honorable way, Your Majesty,” he replied. “Which is more than I can say about how he dealt with my poor squires, whom he set upon from hiding. What sort of satisfaction can I have if I can’t fight him?”
To Neil, Muriele seemed to pause for an instant.
“Oh, you can fight him,” she replied. “I was only pleading with him to spare your life when the moment comes.”
The Wishilm knight’s brow arched in surprise, and then he smiled. But Neil saw something in the man’s eyes. It looked like worry.
He thought I would refuse, Neil realized. He doesn’t want to fight me.
“Shall we wait for the sun?” Neil asked. “Or would you rather have it now?”
“The morning is fine,” Alareik replied. “On the green. Mounted or not?”
“Your choice,” Neil replied. “I don’t care.”
Alareik stood there for a moment.
“Was there something else?” Muriele asked.
“No, Majesty,” the Wishilm knight replied. He bowed awkwardly and vanished into the crowd. The music struck up again, and the rest of the evening was all beer, food, and song.
Neil lifted himself from bed after the midnight bell tolled. He put on his gambeson, took up Battlehound, and made his way back down to the great hall and through its doors to the dark street. He took the sword and made a few passes, trying not to wince at how weak the arm felt. An arrow had struck him from above, piercing bone and muscle, and even after the head finally had been withdrawn, fever had nested there for more than a nineday.
Experimentally, he shifted to a left-favoring hold, but that was worse, because the muscles in his upper arm seized into a ball of pain. He’d taken a spear there, and the blade had cut one of the tendons that attached muscle to bone. Apparently those didn’t grow back.
He saw something move from the corner of his eye and found a silhouette watching him. Not surprisingly, the shadow had a familiar hulking shape.
“Good evening, Everwulf af Gastenmarka,” Neil said. “Come to do your master’s dirty work again?”
He couldn’t see the face, but the head moved from side to side.
“I’m much ashamed of that,” the man growled. “You taught me a proper lesson that night. You could have killed me, but you didn’t.”
“You were never in danger of that,” Neil said.
“Ney, nor was I ever in danger of beating you,” the fellow said, “not even with my friends to help me.”
“I was lucky.”
“Oh, no. I was there. And who hasn’t heard of the battle on Thornrath? You butchered our men there, and one of them was Slautwulf Thvairheison. You’ve made a large reputation in a small time.”
“It’s the past, Everwulf. No need for you to worry over it.”
“Oh, but there is. My lord sent us after you, do you understand? To punish you and affront Sir Fail de Liery. And when you beat us, two of us quit him and went in search of more honorable masters. That’s the humiliation that stings him now, that forces this fight, even with you injured.”
“What makes him think I’m injured?”
“The battle for the waerd is famous, Sir Neil. And the tale says that you were bleeding from six wounds and lay three months abed. That’s not long enough, Sir Neil. You can’t be fully mended.”
“It is if I didn’t really bleed from six wounds,” he replied.
“His squires watched you approach. Do you really think he would fight you if he didn’t think you were infirm?”
“I think he thought I would back down, and now he isn’t sure I’m injured at all.”
“Yah. I’m sure you’re right there. He’s trembling. But he’s challenged you in public. He’ll fight you.”
“There’s no talking him out of it?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll fight him, then.”
Everwulf’s voice dropped a bit lower. “Rumor is your legs are good, that your worst injuries were to shoulder and arm. If that were me, I would choose to fight on foot. Quick feet can make up for a slow arm, and I know you have quick feet.”
“Thank you,” Neil said.
“May the Ansus favor you,” Everwulf replied, taking a step back. He paused, then turned and walked quickly off.
“Well, that was interesting,” another voice murmured from the darkness, this one feminine. Heat flashed through Neil’s veins, and he lifted his blade before recognizing the voice.
“Lady Berrye,” he acknowledged.
“You might as well call me Alis,” she replied softly.
“You were here for all of that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Shouldn’t you be guarding the queen?”
“I am,” she replied.
“By watching after me?”
“I never thought she ought to be on this fool’s errand in the first place,” Berrye said, “and I think it was a mistake to bring you. The embassy is hardly under way, and already you’ve endangered it just by being who you are. Every knight between here and Kaithbaurg is going to want to fight you.”
“I know,” Neil replied.
“Well, then put a stop to it now. Admit your injuries and withdraw.”
For a moment Neil honestly thought she was joking, but then her tone registered.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “That’s what Sir Alareik wants.”
“Yes. It’s what I want, too.”
“Is this the queen’s word?”
“No. She bleeds the same hot island blood you do, and you convinced her. I think she really believes you will win.”
“And you don’t?”
“You can barely move your sword arm. Even a little exertion leaves you gasping.”
“Well, then I’ll lose,” Neil said. “That’s still better than not fighting.”
“You’re her champion. If you fight and fall, it weakens her. If you refuse to fight, it shows she’s really determined to carry out this embassy, to avoid distraction, that she has you under control.”
“If she orders me to withdraw, I will.”
“She won’t.”
“She won’t because you’re wrong,” Neil replied. “Anything I do other than fight and win will weaken her. So I’ll fight and I’ll win.”
“That’s pure genius,” Berrye said, her voice larded with sarcasm.
He didn’t see much point in replying, and after a moment she sighed.
“Very well. This fellow you just spoke to—was he really trying to help you? If you chose to fight on foot, won’t that just let Wishilm know about the trouble with your arms?”
“Probably. But I don’t think Everwulf came to trick me.”
“Why, then?”
“To make his peace with me and tell me good-bye.”
“You can still stop this,” Alis murmured.
Muriele nodded absently. The sun was breaking through the mist, crowning the poplars and firs at the edge of the green, which lay on the eastern outskirts of town. It wasn’t, of course, very green but rather an expanse of muddy ground churned up
by horses and wagons, soldiers practicing, and children playing games. There were bits of grass here and there, but on balance Muriele thought it probably ought to be called a “brown.”
There was no seating as such, although a chair had been provided for her. Everyone else—and it really did look as if it might be everyone in town—was standing or squatting around the perimeter, waiting expectantly. The Wishilm knight was already on the field, his suit of lord’s plate beginning to pick up the gleam of the rising sun. Neil hadn’t appeared yet.
“He’ll be killed,” Alis pursued.
“He’s a knight,” she replied.
“A badly injured knight. A knight the leics said should never fight again. A knight you brought along to ease into less martial professions.”
“He will be of no use to me if I allow Hansa to brand him a coward,” Muriele said.
“I cannot believe you are so cold,” Alis said.
Muriele felt a flare of anger but let it flicker down.
“I love that boy,” she said after a moment. “He has more heart and soul than any man I have ever known, and I owe him more than I can possibly say. But he is from Skern, Alis. I could make him turn from this, but it would wither him. It would destroy him. For a man like him, death is better.”
“So you send him to his death?”
Muriele forced a little laugh. “You did not see him at Cal Azroth,” she said.
The crowd suddenly erupted in cheers and heckling that were nearly matched, and Muriele wondered if Neil’s hounds were from the south part of town and his ravens from the north. But nothing about Bitaenstath seemed so neatly divided.
Neil wore armor easily as bright as Sir Alareik’s. It should have been: It never had been worn before. His last harness had had to be cut from him after the battle of the waerd. The new armor was very plain, made in the style of the islands, without ornamentation, formed for battle and not for court.
He was mounted as Wishilm was, but something about the way he sat seemed strange.
Alis caught it first. “He’s got it in his left,” she said.
That was it. Neil had his lance couched under his left arm. His shield rested heavily on his right.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said. That puts point against point. His shield is useless; it’s on the wrong side of the horse.”
“The same is true for Wishilm,” Alis pointed out.
“What is this?” Sir Alareik muttered as they raised visors. “You’ve got your spear in the wrong hand.”
“It’s the hand I want it in,” Neil shot back.
“It isn’t done.”
“You challenged me, and yet I let you choose the place and the weapons. Now you’re going to begrudge how I choose to wield my spear?”
“This is some trick. It won’t work.”
Neil shook his head. “It’s not a trick,” he said. “My right arm is hurt. I think you know that. I can’t hold a lance in it, and in fact I don’t think I would be able to hold a shield up to take a blow.”
Alareik’s puzzlement was plain. “Do you wish to withdraw?” he asked.
“Withdraw? No, Sir Alareik. I’m going to kill you. This isn’t a formal list; I’ll stay to your left, where your shield won’t be of any use to you. If you try to bring it around, you’ll hit your horse in the head, won’t you? So we’ll come together point to point, and I’ll drive my spear through one of your eyes, and that will be that.”
“I’ll do the same.”
Neil smiled thinly. He leaned forward, keeping his gaze fixed on the man’s smoke-blue eyes.
“I don’t care,” he whispered.
Then he turned his horse and rode for his end of the list. He reached it, turned, and waited.
He patted his horse’s neck. “I don’t care,” he confided to his mount.
The horn blew, and he gave Ohfahs the heel. His left arm was starting to hurt. If he lifted or extended it, he knew it would cramp, but it worked just fine for couching a lance. As the stallion gathered speed, he let his shield fall away, concentrating only on putting the point where he wanted it.
PART II
MANIFESTATIONS OF SEVERAL SORTS
He found her there beneath the cliff
In the shallows of the sea
Her body like a white, white swan
All still and cold was she
He kissed her on her pale wet lips
And combed her bonny hair
He cut twelve golden strands of it
And strung his harp with care
The harp it sang of murder
The harp it sang of blood
It rang across the lands of fate
To the darkling western wood
—FROM “THOS TOE SOSTEREN,” A FOLKSONG OF NEWLAND, TRANSLATED INTO KING’S TONGUE BY STEPHEN DARIGE
A butterfly, as it turns out, is only a thing for making more worms.
—FROM THE AMVIONNOM OF PRESSON MANTEO
CHAPTER ONE
EMPRESS OF THE RED HALL
ANNE STOOD on the bow of the royal ferry and stared up at the walls and towers of Eslen, wondering at how alien they seemed. She had lived all but one of her seventeen winters on that hill, within that fortress. The island’s forests and greens had been her playground. Shouldn’t she feel like she was coming home?
But she didn’t. Not in the least.
When they reached the slip and the boat was secure, her horse, Faster, was brought around. She mounted it for the procession through the city but paused at the great Fastness gate, frowning at the massive stone of its construction.
“Majesty?” Cauth asked. “Is something the matter?”
Her pulse was thumping strangely in her neck, and she couldn’t seem to draw a deep breath.
“Wait,” she said. “Just wait a moment.”
She turned and looked back the way they had come, across the slow flood of the Dew River and the green fields of Newland beyond, to the malends on the distant dike turning against the blue sky. She knew that all she wanted to do was cross that water again and ride, keep riding until she was so far away that no one had ever heard of Eslen or Crotheny or Anne Dare.
Instead she turned, set her shoulders, and rode through the portal.
Crowds had collected along the Rixplaf Way, and each square was full of merriment, as if it were a holiday. They chanted her name and threw flowers before her horse, and she tried to seem pleased and smile for them, when it was the best she could do not to bolt Faster through the throngs at a dead run.
When she had returned from exile the previous spring, almost no one had recognized who she was. At the time she had been surprised and a little chagrined that so few people knew what their princess looked like. Now that anonymity was another precious thing forever lost to her.
By the time they reached the castle itself, Anne wanted nothing more than to hide in her rooms for a time, but she knew there wouldn’t be any peace there; that was where Austra would be, and she didn’t quite feel like facing her oldest friend. Better to confront her counselors and find out just what was being blamed on her absence this day.
“I’ll give an audience in the Hall of Doves,” she told Cauth. “I’d like to see Duke Fail de Liery, Duke Artwair, John Waite, Lord Bishop, and Marhgreft Sighbrand. Have them there in half a bell, would you?”
“It’s done, Majesty,” the Sefry replied.
John Waite, of course, was already waiting in the Hall of Doves when Anne arrived there. Plump, balding, pleasant of expression, John had been her father’s valet. He’d been imprisoned and apparently forgotten by Robert, which was a better fate than most of the late king’s staff had received.
“Majesty,” he said, bowing as she entered the room.
“Hello, John,” she replied.
“I understand you wanted to speak with me, Majesty.”
She nodded. “Yes, John. I was going to wait until everyone was here, but we may have something of a delay while they’re all found.” She took a seat in what once had be
en her father’s armchair, a straight-backed affair with arms carved to resemble feathered pinions. Made of white ash, it fit well in the white marble and abundant light of the Hall of Doves.
“My father trusted you more than anyone, John, and I know the two of you were close.”
“That’s very kind of you to say, Your Majesty. I miss your father a great deal.”
“I do, too,” she said. “I wish he were in this chair right now, not me. But it is me, as that’s how it is.”
“It’s what your father wanted.”
Anne almost laughed. “I’m sure he imagined Fastia here, not me. No one imagined it would be me here, I’m sure. Was I horrible to you, John?”
He smiled indulgently. “Just a bit of a prankster,” he said. “But I always knew you had a good heart.”
“I was horrible,” Anne contradicted. “And I may be horrible yet; I’m still learning. But I hope you will consider being gardoald and keybearer of the house Dare.”
The old man’s eyes widened. “Majesty—I—I haven’t the blood for that position.”
“You will when I create you lord,” she replied.
John reddened. “Your Highness, I’ve no idea what to say.”
“Say yes. You won’t thrust a knife in my back, John. I need men like that.”
He bowed deeply. “I would be most honored,” he replied.
“Good. We’ll discuss particulars later, but the first thing I’d like you to do is see to finding me some ladies-in-waiting and a female head of staff. Someone absolutely trustworthy, you understand? Someone whom I don’t have to worry about and who will not bother me much.”
John bowed again, but when he straightened, he had a puzzled expression. “Your young maid, Austra. I should consider her for head of staff.”
“No, I have other plans for her.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he nodded. “As you wish.”
“Thank you, John. Please arrange for some wine to be brought and then rejoin me here. As my gardoald, these discussions will concern you.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
She heard footsteps approaching and looked up in time to see Artwair come in.
