by Greg Keyes
At times like this, he had to admit that Robert indeed had his moments.
Anger gathered for an instant on the cleric's brow, then smoothed away. “I understand your concern over the need for an heir. Charles, while a wonderful son, has indeed been touched by the saints, and—”
“My son will not enter into this conversation, Praifec,” William said mildly. “You stand in my house, and I forbid it.”
Hespero's face grew more stern. “Very well. I will simply inform you then, reluctantly, that I must enjoin the high Senaz of the church to consider this matter.”
“Yes, let them do that,” William said. And let them try to reverse a decision of the Comven, he thought, behind his smile. Let even the church convince that squabbling pack of lordlings they made a wrong decision. No. One of my daughters will rule, and my son, bless his soul, will continue playing with his toys and his Sefry jester until he is an old man.
He won't be your lack-wit king, Hespero. If it came to that, I'd rather leave the throne to Robert, had he any legitimate heirs.
“Saints!” a female voice interrupted. “You three aren't going to argue politics all day, are you?”
Robert was the first to react to the newcomer.
“Lesbeth!” He bounded across the floor and swept her up in a hug. She giggled as he spun her around, her red hair losing a comb and fanning out behind her. When Robert put her down, she kissed his cheek, then disentangled herself and leapt ferociously into William's arms.
“Praifec!” Robert said. “He is a blessed man who returns my beloved twin from her rustic exile!”
William held his youngest sister back to look at her. “Saint Loy, but you've grown, girl!”
“The image of Mother,” Robert added.
“You two!” Lesbeth said, taking their hands. “How I missed you both!”
“You should have sent word,” William told her. “We would have had a grand celebration!”
“I wanted to surprise you. Besides, isn't Elseny's birthday tomorrow? I wouldn't want to cast a shadow on that.”
“You could never cast a shadow, sweet sister,” Robert told her. “Come here, sit down, tell us everything.”
“We're being rude to the praifec,” Lesbeth said. “And after he was gracious enough to escort me the whole, long way. And such delightful company! Praifec, I cannot express my thanks.”
“Nor I,” William added quickly. “Praifec, forgive me if my words were sharp. Though it is early, it's been a taxing day already. But now you've brought me joy, and I'm in your debt for seeing my sister home safe and sound. I am ever the friend of the church, and will certainly demonstrate it to you.”
“It was my pleasure,” the cleric said, bowing. “And now I hope I may excuse myself. My staff is somewhat helpless without me, and I fear it will take weeks to straighten out my office. Nevertheless, I would be honored to advise you when you hold court.”
“I shall be honored to have you there. I've been too long without your wisdom, Praifec.”
The churchman nodded and withdrew.
“We must have more wine!” Robert said. “And entertainment. I want to hear about everything.” He spun on his heel. “I'll arrange it. Lesbeth, will you join me in my gallery, at half-bell?”
“Without doubt, dear brother,” she replied.
“And you, brother?”
“I will stop by. Then I must hold court, you know.”
“A pity.” Robert wagged a finger at Lesbeth. “Half-bell. Don't be late.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
Robert hurried off.
When they were alone, Lesbeth took William's hand and squeezed it. “Are you well, Wilm? You look tired.”
“I am, a bit. Nothing for you to worry about. And I'm much better, now.” He squeezed her hand back. “It's good to see you. I missed you.”
“And I missed you. How is Muriele? And the girls?”
“All well. You won't believe how Anne has grown. And Elseny, betrothed! But you'll see her at her birthday tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Her eyes flickered down, almost shyly. “Wilm, I have a secret to tell. And I must ask permission for something. But you must promise me that it won't interfere with Elseny's birthday. Will you promise?”
“Of course. Not something serious, I hope.”
Her eyes sparkled strangely. “It is, I think. At least I hope so.”
Muriele Dare, the queen of Crotheny, stepped back from the peephole. Whatever Lesbeth had to say to William, Muriele would let the siblings speak in private.
Quietly, she padded down the narrow passage, gliding on the smooth stone beneath her stockinged feet, through a secret red-oak panel and the small room beyond, down the stair behind the statue of Saint Brena, and finally to the locked and concealed door to her own chambers.
There, in near darkness, she took a moment for a few deep breaths.
“You've been in the walls again.”
Muriele started at the female voice. Across the room, she made out a gowned shadow.
“Erren.”
“Why have you started doing my job? I'm the spy. You're the queen.”
“I was bored, you were elsewhere, and I knew the praifec had returned. I wanted to know what he would say.”
“Well?”
“Nothing particularly interesting. He reacted as we expected to my daughters being named as heirs. On the other hand, have you heard anything about Hanzish troops in Saltmark?”
“Nothing so definite,” Erren said. “But there is much happening in Hansa. They will take action soon.”
“Action of what sort?”
“Crotheny will be at war within the year, I'm certain of it,” Erren replied. “But there are nearer things I fear more. Rumors abound among the coven-trained.”
Muriele paused at that. Erren was a very special sort of assassin, trained by the church to serve noble families.
“You fear for our lives?” she said. “Would Hansa be so bold as to use coven-trained to murder us?”
“No—and yes. No, they will not employ my sisters, for that would incur the wrath of the church. But there are others who will kill for kings, and the mood in Hansa is that there is in Crotheny a king needing killing. That I know.” She paused. “But something else is in the wind. Talk of new kinds of murder, of encrotacnia and shinecraft unknown to the coven-trained. Some say perhaps assassins from Hadam or some other foreign place are responsible. Across the sea they may have unfamiliar skills.”
“And you have cause to fear that these new killers will be turned against my family?”
“I fear it,” Erren said. Her tone held no uncertainty.
Muriele crossed the room. “Then take whatever precautions you deem necessary, especially with the children,” she said. “Is that all you can tell me now?”
“Yes.”
“Then light some of the candles and send for mulled wine. The passages are chilly today.”
“We could ascend to your sunroom. The sun is warm outside.”
“I prefer to remain here, for the moment.”
“As it pleases you.”
Erren went into the antechamber, whispered to the serving girl there, and returned with a burning taper. Its light was kind to her face, painting away the years better than blush. She looked almost like a girl, her features delicate beneath the dark, straight hair. Only a few streaks of silver gave it the lie.
She lit the taper near the writing desk, and as the light in the room doubled, crow's feet appeared, spindling out from her eyes, and other lines of age reluctantly revealed themselves, beneath her chin, in the skin of her neck and forehead.
A corner of Muriele's room appeared, as well. The portrait of her father, on the wall, his eyes stern yet kind, flecked with gilt by the painter, not nearly as warm as they were in person.
Erren lit a third candle, and a red couch appeared from shadow, a table, a sewing kit, the corner of Muriele's bed— not the one she shared with the king, that was in their marriage room—but h
er bed, cut from the white cedar of the Lierish uplands and canopied with black cloth and silver stars, the bed of her childhood, where she had slipped each night into dream.
The fourth candle chased all of the shadows under things, where they belonged.
“How old are you, Erren?” Muriele asked. “Exactly?”
Erren cocked her head. “How nice of you to ask. Will you ask how many children I have, as well?”
“I've known you since you left the coven. I was eight. How old were you?”
“Twenty. Now do your sums.”
“I'm thirty-eight,” Muriele replied. “That makes you fifty.”
“Fifty it is,” Erren replied.
“You don't look it.”
Erren shrugged. “Age has less to hold over one if one is never a great beauty to begin with.”
Muriele frowned. “I never considered you plain.”
“You are a poor authority in such matters. You often claim not to know you are beautiful, and yet your beauty has been famous since you were thirteen. How can one be surrounded by such admiration and not succumb?”
Muriele smiled wryly. “One cannot, as I'm sure you know, cousin. One can, however, cultivate the appearance of modesty. If the appearance is kept up long enough, who knows but that it might one day become true? And here age helps, for as you say, passing time steals beauty, and when one is sufficiently old, false modesty must become real modesty.”
“Excuse me, Majesty, Lady Erren,” a small voice said from the curtained doorway. It was Unna, her maid, a petite girl with honey-mud hair. “Your wine?”
“Bring it in, Unna.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
The girl placed the pitcher in the center of a small table, and a cup on either side. The scents of orange blossom and clove rose in steam.
“How old are you, Unna?” Muriele asked.
“Eleven, Your Majesty.”
“A sweet age. Even my Anne was sweet at that age, in her way.”
The maid bowed.
“You may go, Unna.”
“Thank you, Majesty.”
Erren poured some wine and tasted it. After a moment she nodded and poured some for Muriele.
“What is all of this about age?” Erren asked. “Have you been watching your husband and his mistresses again? I should never have shown you the passages to his room.”
“I have never done such!”
“I have. Poor puffing, panting, pungent man. He cannot keep pace with the young Alis Berrye at all.”
Muriele covered her ears. “I do not hear this!”
“And to make matters worse, Lady Gramme has begun to complain about his attentions to Alis.”
Muriele dropped her hands. “What! The old whore complaining about the new one?”
“What do you expect?” Erren asked.
Muriele exhaled a shallow laugh. “My poor, philandering William. It's almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. Do you suppose I should start my own fuss again? About Gramme's bastards?”
“It might make things more interesting. Alis wears his body thin, Lady Gramme chews his ears off, and you do away with what remains. It shouldn't be difficult.”
Muriele shrugged. “I could task him. But he seems … For a moment, watching him in the Hall of Doves today, I thought he might collapse. He looked more than weary, he looked as if he had seen death's shadow. And if a war really is coming with Hansa … No. Better I be the one that he can count on.”
“You've always been that,” Erren pointed out. “Ambria Gramme wants to be queen, and is spectacularly unsuited for it. Alis and the lesser young ones are hoping for a … shall we say, pensioned? … position such as Gramme enjoys. But you—you are queen. You aren't maneuvering for anything.”
Muriele felt the humor rush from her face. She looked down at her wine, at the light of the nearest candle wriggling in it like a fish.
“Would it were true,” she murmured. “But I do want something of him, the bastard.”
“Love?” Erren scoffed. “At your age?”
“We had it once. Not when we married, no, but later. There was a time when we were madly in love, don't you think?”
Erren nodded reluctantly. “He still loves you,” she admitted.
“More than he loves Gramme, you think?”
“More deeply.”
“But less carnally.”
“I think he feels guilty when he comes to you, and so does so less often.”
Muriele plucked a small smile from somewhere. “I mean for him to feel guilty.”
Erren arched her eyebrows. “Have you ever thought of taking a lover?”
“How do you know I haven't?”
Erren rolled her eyes. “Please. Don't insult me again. You have already made note of my advanced age. That's quite enough for one night.”
“Oh, very well. Yes, I have considered it. I consider it still.”
“But will not do it.”
“Considering, I think, is more fun than doing, in such cases.”
Erren took a sip of wine and leaned forward. “Who have you considered? Tell me. The young baron from Breu-n'Avele?”
“No. Enough of that,” Muriele said, her cheeks warming. “You tell me. What mischief did my daughters find today?”
Erren sighed and squared her shoulders. “Fastia was a perfect princess. Elseny giggled a lot with her maids, and they made some rather improbable speculation as to what her wedding night will be like.”
“Oh, dear. It's time to talk to her, I suppose.”
“Fastia can do that.”
“Fastia does too much of what I ought to do already. What
else? Anne?” “We … lost Anne again.”
“Of course. What do you think she's up to? Is it a man?”
“A month ago, no. She was just sneaking off, as usual. Riding, getting drunk. Now, I'm not so sure. I think she may have met someone.”
“I must speak to her, too, then.” She sighed. “I should not have let things go this far. She will have a difficult time, when she is married.”
“She need not marry,” Erren said softly. “She is the youngest. You might send her to Sister Secula, at least for a few years. Soon, your house will need a new …” She trailed off.
“A new you? Do you plan to die?”
“No. But in a few years, my more … difficult tasks will be beyond me.”
“But Anne, an assassin?”
“She already has many of the talents. After all, she can elude me. Even if she never takes the vow, the skills are always useful. The discipline will do her good, and Sister Secula will keep her well away from young men, of that I can assure you.”
Muriele nodded. “I must think on it. I'm not convinced something so drastic is needed.”
Erren nodded. “She has always been your favorite, Anne.”
“Does it show?”
“To some. I know it. Fastia does. Anne certainly does not.”
“Good. She should not.” She paused. “She will hate me if I send her away.”
“For a time. But not forever.”
Muriele closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the chair. “Ah. I hate these things,” she whispered. “I will think on it, Erren. I will think on it close.”
“And so now what? More wine?”
“No. You were right. Let's go to the sunroom and play nines.” She smiled again. “Invite Alis Berrye. I want to watch her squirm a bit.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TOR SCATH
STEPHEN DARIGE COMPOSED A TREATISE in his head as he rode along, entitled Observations on the Quaint and Vulgar Behaviors of the Common Holter-Beast.
This pricker-backed woodland creature is foul in temper, mood, and odor, and on no account should it be approached by men of good or refined sensibility. Politeness angers it, civility enrages it, and reasonableness evokes furious behavior, like that of a bear that, while stealing honey, finds a bee lodged up his—
“Stop your horse a moment,” the holter sai
d gruffly.
It communicates mostly in grunts, growls, and trumpeting farts. Of these, the last are the most intelligible, though none could be confused with speech—
“I said, stop him.” Aspar had halted his own mounts and those with the captives, as well.
“Why?”
Then Stephen could see why. The holter was clearly listening to something, or for something.
“What is it?”
“If you'll keep quiet, maybe I'll find out.”
Stephen strained his own ears, but heard nothing but wind hissing through leaves and branches chattering together. “I don't hear anything.”
“Me neither,” Pol, one of the men who had kidnapped Stephen, grunted.
“Shut up, you,” Aspar White said to Pol, kicking his own horse to a trot. “Come on. I want to make Tor Scath before sundown.”
“Tor Scath? What's that?” Stephen asked.
“The place I want to reach before sundown,” the holter replied.
“Someplace y'can bugger a bear?” Pol asked.
For that Pol got a cuff and after a brief stop a gag in his mouth.
Stephen liked horses, he really did. Some of his fondest memories were of the horse he'd had as a child, Finder, and of rides across his father's estates with his friends, pretending they were the knights of Virgenya, storming the fortresses of the Skasloi.
He liked horses when they ran, the rushing of it. He liked it when they walked sedately.
Trotting, he hated. It hurt.
They alternated between walk and trot for the next two bells. By that time, further inspired by the jolting ride, Stephen had added several pages to his treatise.
He'd also begun to hear something, as the holter predicted, and to wish he hadn't. The forest was growing dark, and he was already imagining movement in every shadow. Now the shadows had voices, hollow with distance, throaty ululations that worried at the edge of hearing and then vanished. He tried to ignore them, concentrating on the fourth chapter of his treatise, “The Very Annoying Personal Habits of the Holter-Beast,” but the sounds crept deeper and deeper into his head, becoming a howling or baying that sounded unearthly.
“Holter—what is that?” he asked.
