The Born Queen

by Greg Keyes

  This is a mistake, the woman said.

  Maybe. But it’s my mistake. I make my own decisions.

  The only answer to that was a derisive chuckle. Then the heat was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A STORM IN HANSA

  NEIL UNBUCKLED his breastplate and, wincing, eased it down to the floor. He gazed at his murky reflection on its untarnished surface and sighed.

  A tap came at the door of his tiny room.

  “You’re welcome in,” he said.

  The door pushed open, and Alis stood there, looking pretty in a yellow gown.

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t seem very happy,” she noticed. “Let me guess: You’re disappointed he ran like a dog.”

  “He withdrew,” Neil replied.

  “You were chasing him,” Alis chortled.

  Neil shrugged, which hurt. “I’m sad for him.”

  “But didn’t you mean that to happen? Wasn’t it all bluff on your part?”

  “I wasn’t bluffing,” Neil said. “He wouldn’t have believed me if I was bluffing. There’s nothing more frightening to a man who wants to live than an opponent who doesn’t.”

  “Ah. So you don’t want to live?”

  “My sword arm is bad, and my other is worse. The skill in my head has no way to my hands, and I won’t win a fight again by being the better swordsman. Not caring is the only weapon I have left. I won’t kill myself, mind you. But my next foe may not flinch, and that will be that.”

  “You aren’t fully healed yet.”

  He smiled grimly. “No. But I don’t think it will be much better when I am.”

  “Well, cheer up. Today you’ve won, and in the best way. Humiliating Sir Alareik is better than killing him. The story is already growing; they say it was your face that broke his will, that your eyes were burning like the sun, that one was as large as a dinner plate and none could gaze straight at you, as if you were Saint Loy made flesh. They say no mere mortal could have stood against you.”

  “If they couldn’t look at me, how did they see that my eye was as big as a dinner plate?”

  “Now you’re looking for hair on an egg,” she said. “Rather than that, you ought to go father a few children; I think you’ll find plenty of offers tonight. And since you didn’t get any exercise in the fight…”

  Neil sighed and began working at doffing the rest of the armor.

  “I didn’t mean me, of course,” Alis said.

  “Is there anything else, Lady Berrye?”

  She folded her arms and leaned on the door frame. “Sir Neil, you haven’t yet seen your twenty-second winter. It’s too early to act the broken old man.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Lady Berrye,” Neil said. “I promise you, I’m fine.”

  “I’m going,” she said. “I tried. And I did come to tell you something: We’ll delay here another day and leave at cock’s crow tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be ready.”

  The road got a little better as they moved deeper into Hansa, creeping over low hills, along broad fields of wheat guarded by scattered farmers’ steadings. Men in the fields watched them go by without much expression, but they passed a pair of little flaxen-haired girls who giggled and waved and then ran off to hide behind an abandoned granary. Muriele could still see them peeking from there until they were out of sight.

  “This could almost be the Midenlands,” Muriele mused to Alis.

  “Farmers are pretty much farmers,” Alis said, “whether they speak Hansan or Almannish.”

  “I wonder if they even care if there is a war or who wins it.”

  Alis stared at her. “Are you joking?”

  “No. You just said farmers are farmers. Their lives will be much the same whoever taxes them.”

  “Oh, yes, true, but in the meantime—during the war—their fields will be plundered and their daughters raped, and it could be either side doing it. Their sons will be pressed into service if they are needed, and they will die bridging moats with their bodies, since they have no skill at arms. They may not care who wages or wins a war, but they will certainly not want one coming through here.”

  “An army of Crotheny would not behave so,” Muriele said.

  “It would, I promise you. It has.”

  Muriele was shocked by the conviction in her voice.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  Alis turned away. “Never mind,” she said. “This is a boorish subject. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “You didn’t. I did. And as I am the queen and you are my servant, indulge me.”

  Alis fumbled at her reins and studied her horse’s mane.

  “It’s an old memory,” she said. “I was only five. We were poor, you understand. My father couldn’t even afford to keep our mansion in repair; some rooms you couldn’t even go in, the floors were so rotted. The river had shifted course before I was born, and half of our fields had gone to marsh. We only had five families living on the land. I can’t remember any of their names except Sally, because she was my nursemaid. I think she must have been about twelve. I remember she had red hair and her hands were rough. She sang funny songs to me, but I can’t really remember them.

  “One day a lot of strange men showed up. Some stayed in the house, and some camped in the fields. I remember my father arguing with them, but I just thought it was all very exciting. Then one day when we were at Sally’s house, she told me we were going to play a hiding game in the barn. She was acting funny, and it scared me a little. She got me up in the loft and told me not to make any noise. Then some men came in and made her take her clothes off.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t know what was happening, what they were doing, but I could tell it hurt her, and I didn’t say anything. After they left, she cried for the rest of the day. I told my father about it. He kissed me and asked if they had touched me, and when I said no, he cried. Then he said there was nothing to be done about it. He said that we were at war.”

  “The Causy rebellion.”

  “Yes.”

  “But Causy’s men were brutes.”

  “The men at our house weren’t Causy’s men; they were knights and men-at-arms sent from Eslen. I found that out later, of course, and about all the other things those men did when they were living on our land. Not long after that I was taken off to the coven.”

  “William hadn’t been king long when that happened,” Muriele said.

  “Doesn’t matter who the king is. Armies have to eat. The men in them are off to fight and probably die, and it makes them—different.”

  “You can’t be excusing them.”

  “No. I hope the men who did that to Sally died in agony. I’m making no excuse; I’m just stating it as a fact.”

  “All men aren’t like that.”

  “Of course not. But one in a hundred is plenty, and there’s more than that,” Alis replied.

  That afternoon, they saw ahead of them towering cloud castles flickering with incandescence. There was no sound, and Muriele felt breathless at the beauty of it. From time to time crooked blue-white lines leaped between the clouds or to the earth, but most of the fire seemed to be in the hearts of the thunderheads. Alis seemed as rapt as she.

  So much beauty in the world when one had time to notice it. Why was that almost always on a journey of some sort?

  Unperturbed by the fire in the north, the sun went his way toward the wood in the west, but before he reached it, a different sort of spectacle appeared before them. It looked at first like a cloud of dust, but soon enough Muriele could make out the banners and the red glint of evening sun on armor.

  She remembered the little girls from that morning and felt spiders on her back.

  “How many would you guess, Sir Neil?” she asked the knight as the army drew nearer. They had a good vantage from the top of a hill overlooking a long, shallow valley. Aradal had unfurled his banner, and she could
make out an advance party on horse riding to meet them.

  Neil pointed to marching men, who walked four abreast in a column that seemed to stretch for a league.

  “You see the banners?” he asked.

  She did. They were hard to miss, as each of them was several kingsyards square. The nearest depicted a large horned fish. The other two were too far away to quite make out their figuring.

  “For each of those banners there are a thousand men, or near. That’s an entire harji.”

  “Harji?”

  “The Hansan army isn’t organized like ours,” Neil explained. “In Crotheny, lords raise their knights, and knights bring retainers, footmen, levy peasants if need be. Men are organized by their natural leaders.”

  “But not so in Hansa?”

  “The horse is arranged that way, but not the marching army. That’s divided into units: A hundred men are a wairdu. Ten wairdu make a hansa. Three or four hansa make up a harji, much like a Church legif.”

  “Sounds organized,” Alis remarked.

  “It is,” Neil replied.

  “But if a hansa is a thousand men, why is the country named so?”

  “I never wondered about that,” Neil answered. “Perhaps Lord Aradal can tell you.”

  Muriele hailed him, and the Hansan lord trotted his horse over.

  “Your Majesty?”

  “We were wondering why your country is named after a thousand men.”

  He looked briefly puzzled, then smiled. “I see. It’s got to do with our history. The hansa is more than a thousand men; it is a sacred thing, a brotherhood, a saint-blessed guild. There was a time before the wairdu or the harji, but we always had the hansa. It’s the foundation of our kingdom, and it’s said that when we first conquered this land, we did it with a single hansa.”

  “It will take more than that to conquer Crotheny,” Muriele informed him.

  “Aye. But we have more than that, as you see.”

  The outriders were nearly on them now. The leader was a knight in the livery of the Reiksbaurg, a writhing waurm and a sword. His helm was plumed with horsehair. He had about twenty men with him.

  When he drew up, he lifted off his helmet, revealing a young man with high cheekbones, pale golden hair, and eyes as green as moss.

  Aradal was already off his horse and going down on his knee.

  “Your Highness,” he said.

  “Rise, please, Aradal, and introduce me,” the newcomer said.

  Aradal straightened. “Queen Mother Muriele Dare of Crotheny, I am pleased to present to you His Royal Majesty Prince Berimund Fram Reiksbaurg.”

  “My suitor,” Muriele said.

  “A most unsuccessful suitor,” the young man replied. “It is most unflattering to be rebuffed not once but several times, and now that I look upon you in person, I am doubly, no, triply dismayed. Your beauty may be legendary, but even legend does you no justice.”

  Muriele tried to look flattered and abashed, but the boy was half her age and the speech sounded practiced rather than sincere.

  “With that golden tongue you should have pressed your suit in person rather than through envoys,” she replied. “Although to be honest, even Saint Adhen could not have persuaded me out of my mourning.”

  Berimund smiled briefly. “I hope to marry a woman as steadfast as you, lady. I should like to be mourned.”

  The prince reddened a little, and a shy look crept across his face. He suddenly looked very young.

  “Let’s hope no one mourns you for a long time,” Muriele said.

  He nodded.

  “Blood and duty command me to tell you something else, Berimund. This host you lead—I hope it is not bound for my country.”

  “It is bound for our border,” Berimund said, “but I am not leading it. I have been sent here, lady, to escort you to Kaithbaurg.”

  “That’s sweet, but I already have an able escort,” Muriele told him.

  “The king, my father, was quite adamant about it. Aradal is needed elsewhere.”

  “Your Majesty—” Aradal began, but the prince interrupted him, his voice suddenly harsher.

  “Aradal, if I wish you to speak, I will ask you to. My man Ilvhar will give you instructions. I will escort the queen from here.”

  He turned back to her. “Your men will be guided back to the border unharmed, I promise you.”

  “My men? They will stay with me.”

  He shook his head. “You may keep your maid and a single bodyguard, but the rest of your escort must return home.”

  “This is outrageous,” Muriele said. “I was assured that the old covenant would be maintained.”

  “Aradal had no right to make such assurances,” the prince said. “Your country has been declared a heretic nation by the holy Church. The old covenants no longer apply.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  For an instant the uncomfortable boy showed again in his eyes, but then his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “I won’t argue about this, lady.” He nodded at Neil. “And I don’t expect an argument from your man, either.”

  “You’re taking me prisoner and you don’t expect an argument?”

  “You wanted to talk to my father, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. To try to talk him out of this war.”

  “Well, the war is begun, and your daughter began it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She slaughtered five hundred holy warriors of the Church, sent by the Fratrex Prismo to keep the peace. The Church is our staunch ally. If it is attacked, so are we. Furthermore, we have news that she is preparing to assault our peacemakers in Copenwis. So we find ourselves in a state of war. You, Your Majesty, represent an invading force, and I would be fully justified in removing all of your men-in-arms from the fray. Instead, I’m doing the honorable thing and allowing them to return to Crotheny.”

  “And if I wish to return with them?”

  Berimund opened his mouth, closed it, and seemed to think for a moment.

  “My father told me to intercept your embassy and bring you to him on his terms. If there is no longer an embassy—if you no longer wish to meet with him—then I will take you to the border. He did not expressly tell me to take you prisoner.”

  “But you imagine that was his intent? That if I do go, I will be hostage?”

  Berimund sighed and looked away. “One might imagine that, yes.”

  Muriele took a long breath, remembering the endless days in the Wolfcoat Tower, where Robert had kept her.

  “You have some honor, Prince Berimund,” she allowed. “If I go with you, I would ask for your protection.”

  He paused at that, seemed to study something in his head, then nodded.” You have it, lady, if that’s really what you want.”

  “It is.”

  “Very well. Your knight may keep his harness, for now, if I have his word he will not attack unprovoked.”

  He eyed Neil, who looked to her. She nodded.

  “I so swear by the saints my people swear by,” the knight said.

  “Thank you,” Berimund said. He turned to Aradal. “Take the rest of these men back to the border. They are not to be harmed or disarmed.”

  He nodded at Muriele. “When you are ready, lady, we will ride on to Kaithbaurg.”

  Muriele felt her hair stir. The wind from the storm had reached them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A HEART FOUND CHANGED

  CAZIO DID NOT have pleasant memories of Castle Dunmrogh. A stone’s throw from it he had watched helplessly as men and women were nailed to posts and disemboweled, and those doing it had meant to hang him. If it hadn’t been for Anne and her strange powers, he probably would have died there. He very nearly had, anyway.

  Even without that recollection to color things, he still wouldn’t have been happy. What was Anne up to? Was she being honest with him—did she really need him here—or was this punishment for opposing her?

  He remembered Anne stepping into the
clearing that night, regal and powerful.

  Terrifying, actually. And since then he had many times felt that power and terror. It was hard to think of her as the nymph he had met swimming in a pool back in Vitellio.

  Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe that Anne was gone.

  And maybe he didn’t care to serve the new Anne anymore.

  He sighed, gazing up the hill at the gray walls and three-towered keep.

  “What do I know about running a castle, anyway?” he murmured in his native tongue.

  “We’re here to help you with that, sir,” Captain Esley replied in the same language.

  Cazio turned to the fellow, the leader of the men Anne had put under his charge. He was short, with a steel-streaked black beard and hairy caterpillar eyebrows shadowing dark eyes.

  “A nineday on the road and you don’t bother to tell me you speak my language?”

  “I don’t speak it so well,” Esley said. “But I fought for the Meddisso of Curhavia when I was a young man and remember some.”

  “Listen, if you heard me say anything uncomplimentary about the queen—”

  “I wouldn’t have been listening to anything like that.”

  “Good. Good man. Viro deno.”

  Esley smiled, then jerked his chin toward the castle. “Looks in pretty good shape. Unless the Church sends half a legif to fight us, we ought to be able to hold, depending on the local forces.”

  “So we’ll go introduce ourselves, I suppose,” Cazio said.

  “I’m sure they remember you, sir.”

  They didn’t, or at least the outer gate guards didn’t, so they sent for a member of the household to examine the royal letter before letting him across the moat with a hundred fifty men. Cazio didn’t blame them.

  After the wait stretched into almost a bell, Cazio rested himself in the shade of a pear tree and closed his eyes.

  He woke with Esley tapping his shoulder. “Someone’s finally come, sir.”

  “Ah,” Cazio replied, raising himself up against the trunk of the tree. “Who have we here?”

  It was an older man in an embroidered saffron doublet and red hose. He had a tuft of gray beard on his chin and a well-weathered face. He wore a floppy little hat the same color as his hose.