by Greg Keyes
“There is.”
“Sceat.”
The crone shook her head. “There always has been, but behind a wall, of sorts. A breach has formed in it. Follow the valley down, through the thorn hollows. You'll find him there.”
“There is no such valley,” Aspar said stubbornly. “You can't hide such a thing. But suppose there was. Suppose pigs are rutting geese, and everything you say is true. Supposing all of that—why should I do what Mother Cilth wants me to accomplish? What good will it do?”
Mother Gastya's eyes seemed to shiver like distant lightning. “Because then you will believe, Aspar White. Only seeing him will do that. And to do what you must, you must first believe, in the deepest cistern of your blood.”
Aspar rubbed his forehead with his hand. “I hate Sefry,” he murmured. “I hate you all. Why me? Why do I have to do this?”
She shrugged. “You see with eyes both Sefry and Human.”
“Why should that make a difference?”
“It will make a difference. Human breath he shall draw, and Human soul charge him; but his gaze shall have Sefry quick and see the colors of night. So the prophecy goes.”
“Prophecy? Grim damn you, I—” He stopped short at the echo of a voice. “What's that?”
“The outcasts. They're coming for you.”
“I thought you said they couldn't find us.”
“No. I said they would, at the proper time. That time is near. But they will not find you. Only me. Take my boat, and let the current carry you downstream. In time, you will see light, and steer toward it.”
“Why can't you go?”
“The light will end me, and there are things I must do first.”
“Fend will kill you.”
Gastya croaked softly at that and placed her hand briefly on Aspar's. With a terrible chill, he neither saw nor felt flesh on her fingers, only cold, gray bone. “Go on,” Mother Gastya said. “But take this.” The bones of her hand opened and dropped a small, waxy sphere into his palm. “This draws the poison out. You may not be well yet. If you sicken again, clutch it to the wound.”
Aspar took the sphere, staring at the hand. “Come on, Winna,” he murmured.
“Y-yes.”
“The boat is there,” Gastya said, lifting her chin to point. “Do not dally. Find him.”
Aspar didn't answer. A shiver kept scurrying up and down his back like a mouse in a pipe. He was afraid his voice would quiver if he spoke. He took Winna's hand, and they went to find the boat.
But once the water had taken the gondola past the carved stone posts that marked the Hisli shrine, and into a low-roofed tunnel, away from Mother Gastya and her hollow, pitted voice, Winna squeezed his fingers.
“Was she, Aspar? Was she dead?”
“I don't know,” he murmured. “The Sefry claim—they say their shinecrafting can do such things. I've never believed it. Never.”
“But you do now.”
“It could have been a glamour. Probably it was a glamour.”
A long time later, it seemed, strange sounds came down the tunnel. It might have been screams, but whose Aspar could not say.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PLANS FOR AN OUTING
“MAJESTY!” THE GUARD PROTESTED. “You cannot— I mean, it's—”
Muriele glared up at the tall, weak-chinned fellow. He had a carefully trimmed mustache and was immaculate in the pale-and-blue livery of the house Gramme. Muriele couldn't remember his name, nor did she really try.
“Cannot what?” she snapped. “Am I your queen or not?”
The man flinched, bowed, and bowed again, as he had been doing from their first encounter. “Yes, Majesty, of course, but—”
“And is not the lady Gramme my subject, and a guest in my husband's house?”
“Yes, Majesty, quite, but—”
“But what? These are my rooms, sir, despite that your mistress lives in them. Out of my way, that I may enter. Unless you know some reason I should not.”
“Please, Majesty. The widow Gramme is … entertaining.”
“Entertaining? Surely she would have to be entertaining the king himself, if you are to put aside my wishes. Are you, sir, prepared to tell me that the lady Gramme is entertaining my husband?”
For a long moment, the young knight stood there, trying out various movements of his lips but never quite making a sound. He looked from Muriele, to Erren, to the young knight Neil MeqVren, who stood with hand on the hilt of his weapon. Then he sighed. “No, Majesty. I am not prepared to tell you that.”
“Very well, then. Open that door.”
A moment later she was striding into the suite. Adlainn Selgrene—Gramme's lady-in-waiting—dropped her needlework and gave a little shriek as Muriele marched toward the bedchamber, but at a hard glance from Erren, the small blonde fell quite silent.
Muriele paused at the double doors and spoke to Neil and Erren without looking at them.
“Stay outside for a moment,” she said. “Give them time to get proper.” Then she took the handle and shoved the doors open.
The lady Gramme and William II were a pink tangle of limbs on her enormous bed. People look rather stupid in the act of sex, Muriele thought, oddly detached. Helpless and stupid, like babies without the charm.
“By the saints!” Muriele said, deadpan. “Whatever are you doing with my husband, Lady Gramme?”
Gramme shrieked in an outrage altogether free of fear, and the king gave a kind of bullish bellow, but they both scrambled under cover in short order.
“Muriele, what in the name of the saints—” William shouted, his face ruddy.
“How dare you break into my rooms—” Gramme howled, pushing at her tangled ash-blonde curls with one hand and drawing the coverlet up with the other.
“Shut up, the both of you,” Muriele shouted. “You especially, Lady Gramme. That everyone knows about … this … does not make it legal to the church. My husband may be above holy sanction, but I assure you, you are not, nor will he—in these times—stand in my way if I wish to press for it.”
“Muriele—”
“No, hush, William. War is afoot, yes? With whose family would you rather risk a rift? Mine, with its matchless fleet and its legions of knights? Or this whore's, whose father commands forty skinny nags mounted by oafs wearing pots for helms?”
Gramme understood the threat more quickly than William.
Her mouth clamped shut very quickly indeed, though she was near tears with anger.
William, biting his lip, also relented. “What do you want, Muriele?” he asked tiredly.
“Your attention, husband. I'm told I'm to be escorted by barge to Cal Azroth. I don't remember deciding that I wanted to go there. And I don't remember being asked.”
“I am still your husband. I am still king. Need I ask permission to make my wife safe? You were nearly killed!”
“Your concern is noted. Is that what you came to Lady Gramme to discuss? Your deep worry and concern for my welfare?”
William ignored the dig. “It's not safe for you in Eslen, Muriele. That much is plain. It will be much easier to guard you at Cal Azroth. It's what the place was built for.”
“Move the whole court, there, then, not just me.”
“Impractical. I must be here, near the fleet. But Fastia, Anne, Elseny, and Charles will accompany you. I will not risk my children, either, with assassins abroad.”
“I refuse this protection. Send the children if you will.”
William's face tightened. “Erren, speak to your mistress.”
From the corner of her eye Muriele noticed that Erren and Sir Neil had taken the moment she asked of them and finally entered the chamber.
“She already knows my mind, Majesty,” Erren replied.
“Lady Erren, you, at least, must have the sense to know this is for the best.”
Erren bowed politely. “Yes, Majesty. If you say so, Majesty.”
“Well, I do say so!” William suddenly leapt out of the bed and d
ragged a robe up from the floor. He threw it over his shoulders.
“Muriele,” he grated, “join me in Lady Gramme's sunroom. Immediately. The rest of you remain here. I am your king, damn you all, and never forget it!”
William leaned on the casement of the window and regarded the sunset. He did not look at Muriele when he spoke.
“That was childish, Muriele, childish and destructive. What sort of word might spread in the court now? Did you really want Lady Gramme to think I tell you nothing? Do you want her to spread that around?”
Muriele choked back tears. “You do tell me nothing, damn you. If I don't have your ear, why should anyone think I do? I'd rather be thought of as spurned than stupid, husband.”
William turned a shockingly weary gaze on her. “This is not the usual course of our lives,” he protested. “When all is normal, I do confide in you and seek your opinion. I kept this quiet because I knew you would not want to go, and I need you to go. You are correct, war looms everywhere, and they have already tried to kill you once. I don't even know how they did it. I'll wager hard that your deadly old Erren doesn't know, either.”
“Then what makes you think Cal Azroth will be safer for me?”
“Because of all our manses, it is best built for defending against assassins, against craft and art and the winged, evil dead or whatever else might come along. It has a full garrison, so even if they send an army after you, you may be safe. You know the place, Muriele. Won't you see reason?”
“It's easier to see something in the plain light, than when it creeps behind you in the dark. I don't like hearing my fate through rumor. Even four years ago, you would not have treated me so. Now it is commonplace. Are Gramme's whispers growing strong in your skull? Do you really conceive of replacing me as queen?”
Something came over William's face, then, something she had not seen for some time. He turned away again, unable to meet her gaze.
“All kings have mistresses, Muriele. Your own father did.”
“That never answers my question.”
He turned back to her. “You are my queen, my wife, and I think my friend.”
“We once were friends,” she said, more softly, a little confused.
“I can't let you be killed. It's as simple as that. I can live without Ambria, or Alis, or any of those others. Without you …” His hands dropped helplessly at his sides. “Being king is hard enough, without you asking me to be better as a man. You've never asked that of me. You've never even mentioned my mistresses. Why now, of all times, when things are worst and weakest, do you choose to … to … erupt in this manner?”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “I don't know. I suppose because this is the first time I've felt truly unwanted. After I was nearly murdered, you came to me. You were tender, as you were of old. And then, poof ! Nothing. As if in that one night you could take my terror away. And now to send me off, like a child, without even talking to me? Intolerable.”
He cast his head down. “Tonight. Can't we talk tonight, when we have cooled a bit?”
“You want me to come to our bed when you still have her stink on you? When I know for certain? What do you think of me? That I have no pride at all? I'm a de Liery, damn you, Wilm!”
She knew she was going to cry, then, if she didn't leave quickly. “I'll go. Not for myself, but if my children will be safer at Cal Azroth, I'll take them there. Never mind your ridic—” She couldn't finish. She turned and walked swiftly down the stairs, through the bedchamber.
“Erren. Sir Neil. To me, now.”
Her shoulders were shaking by the time she reached the hall. By the time they came to the Depren Stairs, the tears had started.
Neil paced slowly in the anteroom, wondering what he ought to do. Only a few hours ago, he had begun his service as the sole member of the Lier Guard. The queen had hardly said two words to him, and before he knew it he was off to confront his sovereign lord—the same king who had just given him the rose!—in a state of undress with his mistress.
Now the queen had shut herself in her bedroom, and the lady Erren with her.
The other knights assigned to the queen were confined to the halls. Only Neil was allowed in the apartment. He supposed he might stick his head out and ask them what he ought to do, but Vargus wasn't there, or even Sir James, and he did not know the rest.
A door creaked, and he turned, hand on the pommel of Crow.
It was the lady Erren.
“Take ease, young chever,” she said, in Lierish. “The queen sends her apologies. She's been—as you've seen, I think—too distracted to properly welcome you to her staff.”
“That's no matter,” Neil replied. “This is so great an honor for me, I cannot even begin to say. But …”
“But you have questions, yes? Ask them of me.”
“Thank you, Lady. Mostly, it's this—what exactly are my duties?”
Erren smiled sternly. “That's simple enough. You protect the queen. Not me, not her daughters, not her husband, not the crown prince—but the queen. Always and only, your eye is to her safety. If you can save the king's life by allowing the queen to be stung by a bee, you are to let the king perish. Is that simple enough?”
“It is. Quite simple.”
“You have command of yourself, in that case. No order will you be given, no task or errand can keep you from her side. It matters not who gives it. Act always as you think best.”
“And the other knights? The Craftsmen?”
“They are not under your command, if that is what you mean. Nor are you under theirs. The queen commands this household, and I am the chief of her staff. You obey the queen's command, then mine, then the king's, in that order. If at any time you feel any command jeopardizes the queen, you shall ignore it.” She paused. “But be certain. I'll have no cocksure young man second-guessing every order I give. You are not the strategist, here. You are the watchdog. You are the sword. Do you understand the difference?”
“I do, Lady.”
“Very well, then. In time, we will assemble a real Lier Guard, and you will be its captain. Until then, things stand as I've put them before you. Do you have other questions? About what just happened, for instance?”
“No question that is meet, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it is a question I would put to the king, if it were not impertinent,” Neil said softly.
A mixed look of alarm and approval flashed across the lady Erren's face. She placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Love her,” she said, “but do not fall in love with her. She counts on you for her life, and I would not want you to be dispassionate about that. But fall in love with her, and she is as good as dead. You might as well thrust the knife in yourself. You understand?”
Neil stiffened. “I know my place, Lady.”
“I'm sure you do. That's not what I'm talking about.”
“I know what you're talking about, Lady Erren. I may be young, but I'm not a fool.”
“If I thought you were, you would not be here,” Erren said softly. “And if I ever think you are, you will vanish quite quickly, be assured.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “There. Welcome to the staff. I must go out for a time.”
“In that case, Lady, shouldn't I be in her room? That is, if she is not in your sight, shouldn't she be in mine?”
“An excellent point,” Erren replied. “Let me prepare her. I will return shortly enough. I have news to deliver to the archgreffess Fastia. Let her have the unpleasant task of carrying it further.”
“Cal Azroth?” Anne blurted. “I can't go to Cal Azroth! Not now!”
Fastia gave Anne a peculiar look. “Whatever do you mean by that, Anne? What particular thing keeps you here at this particular moment?”
Anne felt something in her belly drop away. “That's not what I meant,” she said quickly. “I just don't want to go, that's all. Cal Azroth is a boring place.”
Fastia's suspicious gaze lingered for a moment. Then sh
e shrugged. “Anne, let me explain the facts to you. Fact the first: our mother was nearly murdered. Fact the second: Father and Erren and everyone else who ought to know fear that you, or I, or any of us might be next. We're all going where we can be protected. Fact the third: you are going to Cal Azroth. This is not an evening chapel or a sewing lesson you can skip by dressing as a boy and leading the Royal Horse on a merry chase. If need be, you will be tied hand and foot until the barge is well under way.”
Anne opened her mouth to begin an angry protest, but Fastia held her finger to her lips. “A moment,” the older woman said. “Let me say more. Mother needs us, Anne. Do you think she wants to go into exile any more than we do? When she heard, she stormed to Father and railed against it. But Father needs to know we are safe, and Mother needs her children. Needs you, Anne.”
Anne closed her mouth. Fastia had a way of making everything sound true. And if Erren was involved—well, Erren had a way of finding things out, if she put effort into it. And Erren most certainly should not find out about Roderick.
“Very well,” Anne replied. “I see this is important. When do we leave?”
“On the morrow. And tell no one, you understand? Too many people already know where we're bound.”
Anne nodded. “Austra will go, of course?”
“Of course.”
Fastia took Anne's chin in her hand. “You look tired, Anne. Have you been sleeping well?”
“I've had Black Marys,” Anne admitted. “I—” She had a sudden, powerful urge to tell Fastia about her experience in the maze. But if the praifec himself told her not to worry, there was no point in it. It would only be one more thing Fastia would think was wrong with her.
“Yes?” Fastia prompted. “What sort of Black Marys?”
“Silly things,” Anne lied.
“If they keep up, you must tell me about them. Dreams can be important, you know.”
“I know. But these are just … silly.”
“Not if they make you unwell.”
Anne forced a smile. “Well, there will be plenty of time to discuss this at Cal Azroth, I should think. There's nothing else to do there.”
