The Born Queen

by Greg Keyes

  “What’s happening?” Muriele asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” he said. “I didn’t really come here to drag you back into politics. I’m here to bring you a gift.”

  “A gift?”

  “A musical gift from your own court composer.”

  Music started then, a soft chord growing louder, and she saw that Robert’s companion was playing a small thaurnharp.

  Neil sighed and backed toward the gate, hoping to keep from being surrounded.

  “Lady Berrye,” he said softly. “I can only hold them for a moment. Do what you can.”

  “I will, Sir Neil,” she said.

  “Do not die cheaply, Sir Neil,” Brinna said. “A little time should help.”

  “It will be very little,” Neil said.

  Alis laid her arm on the princess, and they suddenly became difficult to look at. He couldn’t put his gaze on them, but that was just as well, because he had a lot to pay attention to.

  The lead knight cut at him, and Neil dodged to the side so that the weapon scraped through the metal bars of the gate. Neil hit the outstretched arm with his off-weapon hand, forcing him to lose his grip on the sword. With his weapon hand he cut at the knee of the knight to his right and felt it shear through the joint, setting the man—quite understandably—to screaming. Neil suppressed a shriek of his own as his arm shot with the pain of the blow, and his fingers loosened their grip. Gasping, he lunged at the third knight, wrapped his arms around the knight’s knees, lifted him and dumped him on his head. He fell, too, rolled, and came back up. The first man had recovered his sword and was advancing on him.

  He heard horses blowing behind him and the thump of hooves.

  He hoped that Alis had gotten Brinna away.

  But then something odd happened. The knight straightened and looked past him.

  “Put that away,” a voice said. “I command here.”

  Neil turned and found Prince Berimund and about ten riders behind him. The gate was being raised.

  “But my Prince, this man was—”

  “My sister is in my care now,” Berimund said. “And so is that woman and this man.”

  “The king—”

  “You may take this up with me now or with my father later. You will not have the chance to do both.”

  The knight hesitated and then bowed. “Yes, Majesty.”

  “Come along, Sir Neil,” Berimund said. “Your queen has been asking after you.”

  They rode west into country that quickly became rugged and verdant. Berimund and his men seemed to know their way, moving through the dense forest as if they had been born there. Neil reflected that he never would have imagined this Berimund from the one he’d met on the road. This Hansan prince was more in his element, freed of the fetters of court and the restraints upon honor they created. He and his men seemed almost to be able to hear one another’s thoughts, to be the band of brothers they claimed to be in name.

  Kaithbaurg wasn’t a black fortress, and the prince of Hansa was a man with a history, friends, and scruples. He was still, of course, an enemy, but an enemy Neil would gladly call a friend if the times changed, and one he could kill or die by the hand of with a warrior’s dignity.

  Brinna he was having trouble even thinking about. She was still very much the woman he had met on the Lier Sea whose voice and expression had haunted him since he’d first opened his eyes to her. But there was something cold in her center he’d only sensed then, the thing that allowed her to poison someone and speak of it as if she had put a cat out the door.

  But if she was cold, why did she seem like white fire from the corner of his eye? Why could he still feel the heat on his hands from touching her, even through the steady drizzle of rain?

  He glanced at her and found her studying him, or thought he did. It was too dark to see her eyes beneath the eaves of the hat her brother had given her to keep the rain off.

  They rode through the day as the rain grew steadily colder and more miserable. Mists lay heavy in the trees, dying dragons dragging themselves off to watery graveyards. Berimund’s men lit torches that hissed and sputtered and trailed noxious, oily fumes but still burned, until at last they reached a stone face concealed by a sort of wickerwork grown over with vines, which Berimund shifted to reveal a stout wooden door. He stood looking at it for several long moments.

  “What’s wrong?” Neil asked.

  “It ought to be locked,” he said. “It isn’t even closed.”

  Neil was off his horse before the thought to dismount was even conscious. He drew his stolen weapon and stalked toward the door.

  “You’ll follow us, Sir Neil,” Berimund insisted. “We know this place, and you do not.”

  Two of his scouts went ahead, and then they all dismounted, tying the horses near the entrance. Stairs carved in living rock took them down.

  Not much later they debouched into a large chamber carved in antique style but furnished much like Berimund’s hall in Kaithbaurg.

  The floor was littered with the dead. He heard a sudden, sharp sob from Berimund, who flung himself at the corpses, lifting their heads, kissing them, moving from one to the next in the vain hope that one still breathed.

  Then Alis pushed past him and flew across the floor, the muddy hem of her dress dragging a snail’s trail behind her.

  Neil saw then, too, and ran after her, knowing his heart would fail.

  Muriele did not look like she was sleeping. Her lips were almost black, and even in torchlight he could make out the bluish tinge of her skin. Alis had the queen’s head cradled in her arms. Her eyes were open, her features twisted into a look of utter and desolate despair such as he had never seen.

  Something lay on the floor beside her. In a daze he reached for it and found that it was a half-withered rose.

  He rose up, choking back tears but letting the rage rise up, each breath filling him with red light. He stepped toward Berimund, who still knelt with his own, and stepped again, nearly treading on a dead man staring up at him with the same forsaken expression as Muriele.

  Berimund hadn’t done this. Berimund hadn’t known about it. But Berimund was the only enemy before him, and by the saints, the floor was going to be red.

  “No,” Brinna said. “Stop there, Neil.”

  It arrested him. He hadn’t seen her enter the chamber or follow him to Muriele’s body. Her tear-jeweled eyes caught him like iron bands.

  “Why would you cry for my queen?” he snapped.

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’m crying for you.”

  His hand trembled on the sword. “Why didn’t you see this?” he asked. “You said Robert was coming…”

  “I didn’t see this part,” she said. “I was occupied with other things.”

  “Like your own escape? You knew Berimund would be at the gate.”

  “There was nothing eldritch about that,” she said. “I heard he was in the city. I sent a message telling him of my plans. Besides you, Berimund is the only one I trust.”

  “Was it Robert?”

  “I can see your queen,” she said, her voice suddenly dreamier. “I see a man, hear a music…” She trailed off, her breath quickening, her eyes rolling back.

  “Make her stop,” Alis said. “Sir Neil, make her stop.”

  Brinna was trembling now as if an invisible giant had taken her in his hand and was shaking her.

  He gripped her by the shoulders.

  “Brinna,” he said. “Wake up. Stop seeing.”

  She didn’t appear to hear him, so he shook her harder.

  “Brinna!”

  “What are you doing to my sister?” Berimund’s raging voice shouted from across the room.

  “Brinna!”

  Blood began running from her nose.

  “Swanmay,” Neil cried in desperation. “Swanmay, return!”

  She went rigid and suddenly sighed, collapsing against him, her heart beating weakly.

  He felt the tip of a sword pri
ck his neck.

  “Put her down,” the prince commanded.

  Neil cut his eye toward the prince but kept Brinna bundled against him, feeling her heart strengthen.

  “Do as I say!” Berimund exploded, pushing hard enough that Neil felt blood start on his neck.

  “No.” Brinna’s hand came up and rested on the blade. “He saved me, Baur.” She gently pushed down on the weapon and then reached for her brother. He tugged her away from Neil and wrapped her in both arms.

  Neil just stood there, his knees feeling weak.

  Alis took his elbow and got under his arm to support him.

  “Robert did this,” she said. “I’m certain of it.”

  Neil walked back to Muriele and sank slowly to his knees, understanding finally reaching his grieving brain.

  She’s gone. He couldn’t protect her anymore. There was nothing else he could do.

  Except find Robert and cut him into so many pieces that it wouldn’t matter if he was alive or not.

  PART IV

  THE BORN QUEEN

  When walks again the Born Queen, the bones of men will clatter within them; the wombs of their women will fill with venom; every rider of the night will take her lash with hideous joy. And when at last the bones shake off their flesh, and the wombs consume their bearers, and the lash murders; when finally it is only her single voice screaming in the night—when she lacks any man or beast or ghostly thing to harrow and she must at last turn on herself—then all will be still.

  But ten times a hundred years will first pass.

  —TRANSLATED FROM THE TAFLES TACEIS OR BOOK OF MURMURS

  CHAPTER ONE

  OCCUPIED

  LEOFF CLOSED his eyes and let the form build in the ensemble of his mind. The first bass line began, a male voice, rising and falling: the roots in the soil, the long slow dreams of trees. Then, after a few measures, a second line entered as deep in pitch but in uneasy harmony with the first: leaves rotting into soil, bones decaying into dust, and in the lowest registers the meandering of rivers and weathering of mountains.

  Now the middle voice came in: Birth and growth, joy and tragedy, suffering and learning met with forgetting, the loss of senses, discorportation, disintegration…

  It wasn’t until Joven, the gardener, started shouting that Leoff understood that someone had been pounding on the outside door, probably for some time. His first reaction was impatience, but then he recalled that Joven rarely got excited and never to the point of shouting.

  He sighed and set down the quill. He was at a standstill anyway. He had the form; the instruments were his problem.

  When he answered the door, Joven proved to be more than excited; he seemed to be on the verge of panic.

  “What is it, fralet?” Leoff asked. “Come in, have some wine.”

  “It’s the enemy, Cavaor,” Joven said. “He’s here.”

  “The enemy?”

  “Hansa. They’ve besieged Haundwarpen, and about a hundred of them just rode into the estate. The duke didn’t leave many men here to guard it; I think they surrendered.”

  “I don’t understand,” Leoff said. “I thought Hansa was beaten at Poelscild.”

  “Auy. But they say Queen Anne is dead, and without her sainted power to hold them back, they’ve taken Poelscild and crossed the canal. All of Newland is in their grasp.”

  “The queen is dead? Queen Anne?”

  “Murdered, they say.”

  “That’s terrible news,” Leoff said. He hadn’t known Anne very well, but he owed her mother, Muriele, a lot. She had lost all but one of her children now. He couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling.

  Nor did he want to learn, at least not by direct experience.

  “Where are Areana and Mery?” he asked, trying to keep calm.

  “Lys went to find them. She thinks they’re in the garden.”

  Leoff nodded and took up his cane. “Get them to the cottage and stay there with them, please.”

  “Yes, Cavaor,” the old fellow said, and sprinted off as fast as he could on his aged legs.

  Leoff pushed himself up and went out to stand on the stoop. Dogs were barking everywhere, but other than that it seemed a normal day, pleasant even.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Within a bell, a knight with a red-plumed helm came riding through the gate, followed by ten horsemen and about twice that number on foot.

  The knight turned his head this way and that and, apparently satisfied he hadn’t ridden into a trap, doffed the headgear, discovering an oval-faced man of twenty-something years with auburn hair and a lighter red mustache.

  “I hait Sir Ilzereik af Aldamarka,” he said in accented but good king’s tongue. “I declare this house and its grounds spoils of war in the name of Marcomir, king of Hansa.”

  “I hait Leovigild Ackenzal,” he replied. “I’m a guest here, by leave of Duke Artwair Dare.”

  “You live alone, Fralet Ackenzal?”

  “No.”

  “Bring the others, then.”

  “I can’t do that until I have your word they will be well treated.”

  “Why do you think you’re in a position to bargain?” Ilzereik asked. “Who are you protecting? Your wife and daughters, perhaps? I could find them easily enough and do whatever I liked with them. But I am a knight of Hansa, not some thrall of your dead witch-queen. You need not beg me to behave properly in the eyes of the saints.”

  “I’m not begging,” Leoff said. He’d been afraid of men like this once. He wasn’t anymore, not for himself, anyway.

  “Your house is mine,” the knight said. “My men will sleep in the yard. You and whoever else is here will see to our needs. Do that and no harm will come to you. Is that understood?”

  “It’s understood,” Leoff said. “If that is your word as a knight of Hansa.”

  “It is,” the knight said. “Now, my man Aizmeki will go with you to find the others.”

  Aizmeki wasn’t a big man, but he looked to be made of muscle and scars and not much else. He followed Leoff wordlessly out to the garden and the little cabin there.

  Areana rushed out and hugged him. Mery just peered at the warrior as if he were some strange insect and took Leoff’s hand in her little cold one.

  The knight’s word proved good, at least for that afternoon. Although many of the Hansan warriors leered openly at Areana and some at Mery, which was disgusting, none dared do more than make a few probably crude comments in their own language, and they returned to the house in peace.

  He found Ilzereik looking through his music.

  “Who wrote this?” he asked.

  “I did.”

  “You did?” The knight peered at him a little more intently. “You’re a composer?”

  “I am.”

  “Ackenzal,” the knight mused. “I don’t recall the name.”

  “You know music?”

  “I studied a little. My father thought I should, so he kept an instructor in our hall and sent me each autumn to study at the Liuthgildrohsn.”

  “Ah. With Mestro Evensun.”

  A little smile played on the knight’s face. “You know the mestro?”

  “I do. He lectured at the college when I was apprenticed to Mestro DaPeica.”

  The smile broadened. “I have a book of DaPeica’s short works for hammarharp.”

  Leoff nodded.

  “Well,” the knight said, gesturing toward the hammarharp, “play me something of yours.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Leoff said.

  “You shouldn’t fear my criticism,” the Hansan said. “I’m not a snob. The great composers and the small, I like them all.”

  “That isn’t it,” Leoff said, holding up his hands.

  “Schithundes,” the man swore. “What happened?”

  “He was tortured,” Areana interrupted in a brittle voice. “He’s suffered much.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the knight said. “And I understand you, Frauja Ackenzal. Your husband will not suff
er at my hands, not if you all behave.”

  “I can play for you,” Mery said softly. “Areana can sing.”

  “Really?” Ilzereik looked pleased. “I would like that, barnila.”

  Leoff squeezed Mery’s hand. “Play the Poelen Suite,” Leoff said. “I think he’ll like that. And play it as written, Mery. Do you understand?”

  She nodded and went to sit at the instrument. Areana went hesitantly to join her.

  Mery put her fingers on the keys and struck down. The chord rang a little wrong, and Leoff bit his lip and prayed to the saints that she could hold back the darkness in her.

  But the second chord was pure, and from there everything proceeded smoothly. Areana’s voice was lovely, as always, and when they finished, the knight applauded.

  “I never expected to find such wonderful accommodations,” he said. “Sir, let’s have some wine. You and I will talk, fralet. For quite some time now I’ve been working a little here and there at a sort of musical telling of the Shiyikunisliuth, an epic about the tribe my family arose from. If I could play you a little of it, perhaps you might have some ideas of how I might go about fleshing it out.”

  And so their first night under occupation passed if not pleasantly, at least without disaster. When they took to their beds that night on the floor in the kitchen, Leoff prayed that the Hansan continued to be entertained enough by them to keep his men in check.

  He was breathing a little more freely three days later. Some of the men, notably a stout fellow they called Haukun, continued their leering, but Ilzereik seemed to have them under control.

  On the third afternoon, he was pretending to work on the knight’s “epic” but instead was going back over the third section of the work he was beginning to think of as a kind of requiem; he heard the door burst open and Areana shout. He tried to get up too fast, toppled his stool, and fell. He grabbed his cane and pushed himself up to find himself facing the point of a sword held by a man with closely cropped sandy hair and a missing ear. He didn’t know the fellow’s name, but it was one of Ilzereik’s men.

  “Easy, now,” the man said. “Qimeth jus hiri.” He jerked his head toward the common room.