by Greg Keyes
The castle stood upon a low mount, and the town below was clean, trim, and very small, clearly grown up recently to service Glenchest. Its inhabitants watched the queen's party curiously as they approached.
When they drew nearer, four young girls broke from the rest, dancing excitedly up to the party. Neil's hand strayed to his sword.
“Sir Neil, stay your hand,” Fastia whispered. “Village girls pose no danger.”
For their part, the girls seemed oblivious to Neil's guarded attitude. They came right to Hurricane's withers, eyes bright and upturned. They giggled, much in the same manner as the maids had earlier.
“Sir Knight,” the eldest-looking said, a brown-haired lass who might have been thirteen. “Couldn't you give us a favor?”
Neil stared at them, confused. “Favor?” he replied.
“For my wishing chest,” the girl said demurely, casting her eyes down.
“Go ahead, Sir Neil,” Vargus urged jovially. “Give the girl a little something.”
Neil balked, feeling his face flush, but remembered the older knight's advice.
“I don't—” He broke off, befuddled. Elseny laughed.
“Here,” Sir Vargus said. “I'm a knight, as well, ladies, though not so young and pretty as this one. Would a favor from me do?”
“Oh, for me!” one of the younger girls cried, changing her attentions in an instant to Vargus. The older knight smiled and produced a knife, cutting a lock of his curly hair.
“That's for you, miss,” he said.
“Thank you, sir!” the girl said, and then ran off, holding up her prize.
“It's the custom, hereabouts,” Fastia said. “They'll wish on it and pray to Saint Erren for a love as noble as you.”
“Oh,” Neil said. He looked down at the three still eagerly waiting. “I suppose it's no harm.” He produced his little belt knife, sawed through a bit of his own hair, and handed it down to the girl. She beamed up at him, bowed, and ran off. The others followed, demanding a part of her prize. Elseny applauded. Audra and Mere looked sullen.
“As I said,” Sir James drawled, “this one has a way with the ladies.”
Neil caught movement from the corner of his eye, and to his chagrin realized he'd been distracted enough to miss the arrival of a sizable party.
It was a gaudy group emerging from the gate. There were pages dressed in yellow hose and orange frocks, footmen in silver mail—it looked like real silver, which was ridiculous— knights in baroque, flowery armor and red and blue surcoats trimmed in gold lace. In the center of all this, on a palanquin covered with a silk awning and sprouting pennants of cloth of gold and argent, reclined a woman in a voluminous gown of gold and forest green brocade, touched here and there with scarlet flowers. It spilled down the sides of the palanquin like a waterfall, in all directions, and was surely impossible to walk in. The bodice was cut precariously low and pushed dangerously high, and it seemed to Neil that any motion at all might send her breasts forth to reveal what little of them was hidden.
The face above all of this was, at first glance, almost plain. It was gently oval, with a tiny sharp nose and small lips. But the woman's eyes were cerulean and radiated an easy mischief, and her lips were painted red and bowed in a smile to match. All this somehow made her whimsically beautiful. Her hair was pale brown, caught up in a complex silver coronet.
“My aunt Elyoner, my father's sister and the duchess of Loiyes,” Fastia whispered. She leaned away, and then back. “She is a widow and an enemy of virtue, my aunt. Watch yourself with her, especially if you are alone.”
Neil nodded, thinking the duchess did not resemble her brother the king in the least.
“Muriele, my love!” the duchess said, when they were near. “What a disaster that you should come now! I'm barely fit to receive visitors. I just came out to the country a few days ago and haven't had time to properly put things in order. I hope you will forgive this drab reception! It was the best I could manage on such short notice, but I could not fail to welcome you!”
As she spoke, the pages scattered the road before them with lilies, while others offered goblets of wine and took the reins of the horses. The queen took one of the proffered cups.
“A gracious reception, as always,” she said. “It pleases to see you, Elyoner.”
The duchess coyly averted her eyes. “You are always so kind, Muriele. Please, all of you, come down off those sweaty things. I have chairs for most of you, and your guard will enjoy the walk.” She gestured at four palanquins, each with two seats. They were somewhat smaller than her own.
“Elseny, what a beauty you've become!” she continued, as the party dismounted. “And Fastia! You have color back in your cheeks. Have you finally taken my advice and found a lover?”
Fastia made a sound like a hiccup, and suddenly, for some reason, the duchess focused her eyes on Neil. “Aha!” she said. “An excellent choice.”
“I've done no such thing, Aunt Elyoner,” Fastia said, “as you ought to know.”
“Really? How sad. I take it, then, that this delicious young knight is free for sport?”
“He is Sir Neil MeqVren, captain of my Lier Guard,” Muriele said.
“How odd. I could have sworn he was guarding Fastia. But that hardly answers my question.”
With a guilty start, Neil realized that he was, indeed, nearer to Fastia than to her mother.
“Aunt Elyoner, you have no shame, truly,” Fastia said.
“Why, I never claimed to, dear. Now, come give us a kiss, and let's get out of this dreadful sunlight!”
“Please accept my apologies, once again,” the duchess said that night at supper, gesturing at the table, an enormous affair the size of some galleries. “The cupboard was rather bare, and my best cook is too ill to be troubled.”
Neil was starting to notice a pattern with the duchess. The polished oaken surface was filled from end to end with partridges in butter gravy, quail pie with currants and almonds, ten kinds of cheese, mixed herbs, steaming platters of eel stew, capons in crust of salt, three roasted suckling pigs, and a gilded bull's head. Wine had been flowing like water since they passed through the gates and fantastic gardens of Glen-chest, and Elyoner herself had taken quite a bit of it, though to no obvious effect. Servants hurried everywhere, keeping glasses full, and Neil had to be careful to keep up with what he drank.
“Your hospitality, as usual, is far more than adequate,” the queen assured her.
“Well, as long as I got you out of that dreary Cal Azroth. What a hole!”
“But a safe hole,” Erren muttered.
“Oh, yes. The attempt on Muriele's life. I got that news only a little while ago. It must have been terrible, my dear.”
“I hardly had time to notice it before Sir Neil removed the danger,” the queen replied.
“Aha!” the duchess said, waving her cup at Neil. “This is the one? I knew this young man had a quality about him. I can spot that sort of thing right away.”
“Those are kind words, Duchess,” Neil said. “But I simply did what any man in the guard would have done. It's only that I was nearer.”
“Oh, and modest, too,” the duchess said.
“He is that, and truly,” Fastia said, setting her goblet down and spilling a little wine in the process. “It's no courtly pretension, with him. Heezh—” Fastia looked surprised, and glanced at her wineglass with a bit of chagrin. Misunderstanding, a page hastened to fill it. By her slurred speech and pink cheeks, that was hardly what the usually sober Fastia needed.
Neil was the only one who seemed to notice her discomfort, perhaps because he shared it.
“Well, Sir Neil,” the duchess said, with a sly smile, “we shall have to think of some reward for you. Our sister-in-law is very dear to us, and we thank you very much indeed for preserving her life.”
Neil nodded politely.
“Now, dear Muriele, tell me every little thing about the court. Well, no, not the boring things, you know, no politics or war or ma
tters of that sort. Just the interesting things—which cocks are in which henhouses, you know. Page! Bring the brandy, will you?”
After dinner it was games in the garden—darts, tennis, hide-and-seek in the hedge maze. The duchess sent more and stronger spirits to Neil, which he sipped at and poured out when she wasn't looking. The queen took part in the games, and even seemed to be enjoying herself. So did Fastia, though she swayed unsteadily as she consumed more wine and brandy.
The duchess had changed before dinner, and now wore a black gown embroidered in silver and of more manageable length, though still scandalously revealing. She presided over the play from a little throne her servants carried from place to place.
As the sun set, she beckoned Neil over. When he drew near, her servant produced a small golden key.
“This is for you,” she said, her gaze tracing his face languidly. “I do hope you'll use it.”
“I don't understand, Duchess.”
“It is the key to a certain chamber, in the tallest tower, there. In it I think you will find a reward you will quite enjoy.”
“My lady, I must stay near the queen.”
“Foo. I will protect her. I am the lady of this house, and I command it.”
“Lady, with greatest respect, and with all of my apologies, I cannot leave my queen's side.”
“What? Will you sleep with her?”
“No, lady. But near.”
“She has Erren, when she sleeps.”
“I am very sorry,” Neil said again firmly. “But my first and only duty is to the queen.”
The duchess studied his face in fascination. “You are the virtuous one, aren't you? I thought they threw all of your sort off of the cliffs long ago.” She bit one side of her lower lip, then straightened her smile. “How exciting. It only makes the chase more worthwhile. I am young, I've plenty of time.” She frowned a bit. “Agree with me, Sir Neil. Tell me I am young.”
“You are, my lady. And beautiful.”
“Not so beautiful as some, perhaps,” she replied. “But I will tell you this, Sir Neil: I am very, very learned. I have read books—forbidden books—and I do so hate to read. But it was worth it.” She stroked his cheek and parted his lips with her finger. “You would find my studies were not in vain, I assure you.”
Neil's body was already convinced, and he had to swallow before answering. “Duty,” he managed.
She laughed, a trilling, beautiful sound. “Yes, we shall see about that,” she said. “You will take some breaking, but every horse can be ridden.” She dimpled. “Suppose I told you I could have something put in your drink, something that would drive you mad with desire?”
“Then I should have to stop drinking,” Neil said.
“Suppose I told you you already drank it?”
Neil's mouth dropped. He did feel flushed, and certain parts of him were very much attentive. He could smell the flowery fragrance on the duchess, and his eyes were drawn more and more to the precipitous cleavage she exposed.
“May I be excused, lady?” Neil said.
“Of course, my dear,” she replied. She took his hand and stroked it, sending a jolt through his body. “A little jumpy, are you?” She released his hand. “I'll see you later, Sir Neil. Hopefully all of you.”
Later that night, once he was certain the queen's suite was secure, Neil retired to a small chamber outside of her receiving room, and there removed his armor, gambeson, and underclothes. He splashed cold water from the basin on his face and then sat on the bed, trying to control his breathing, which was still a bit irregular. He was almost certain now that the duchess had somehow bewitched him. It was as if lightning were flashing in his head, and each bright eruption illuminating an imagined feminine limb or curve. He knew that in the next room the queen was undressing, and it disgusted him that he could not keep that fact from his mind. He lay on the bed, summoning memories of battle and death, of anything to divert his thoughts from lust. Failing, he rose and exercised, padding silently in his small chamber, working through the motions of sword practice with his open hands, as he had first learned them.
Finally, sweating and knowing he needed sleep to be alert, he sat back on the bed and put his head in his hands.
He almost missed the slight creak of the door under the pounding of his pulse, but his body was limbered and ready, and in a swift instant he had his sword in hand and at guard.
“Sir Neil, it is me,” a woman's voice whispered.
Slowly he lowered the sword, trying to make out the vague shadow in the doorway. He knew it must be the duchess, and his blood roared even more loudly in his ears.
She stepped a little farther in, so that the moonlight through the window touched her face, and he beheld with a start that it was Fastia.
CHAPTER TWO
TRACKS
ASPAR KNELT BY THE STILL-SMOKING ASHES of the campfire and growled in the back of his throat.
“What's wrong?” Stephen asked.
The holter didn't look at the boy but stood and surveyed the clearing again. “They didn't try to hide their sign,” he grunted. “They didn't even stop the embers smoking. They led us right here.”
“Maybe they don't imagine we're following them. It's been nearly a month.”
Indeed, they'd left d'Ef in the hottest days of Sestemen, but they were now well into the month of Seftmen. The leaves were already touched with autumn color, even here in the lowlands, where pasture and farmland cut up the King's Forest. Aspar simply hadn't been able to keep the pace needed to catch the monks early on. He was stronger now, though he still didn't feel quite himself.
“They know we're after them,” he said. “Make no mistake.” He fitted an arrow to his bow, one of the four that remained. The others had broken in hunting.
“You think—” Stephen began, but in that moment Aspar smelled the ambush. Two men were racing from the trees behind them. Stripped to the waist, they were heavily tattooed on their shoulders and chests, and they bore broadswords. They were running faster than men ought to be able to run.
“That's Desmond's men!” Stephen shouted. “Or two of them.”
“Mount,” Aspar shouted, leaping onto Ogre and digging in his heels. The big horse jolted into motion. The men split, one headed toward Stephen and one keeping a course toward Aspar.
Aspar stood in his stirrups and turned, sighting down a shaft at the one attacking Stephen. Ogre wasn't quite settled into a stride, but Aspar couldn't wait. He released the dart.
The arrow flew true, or almost so, striking the monk in the kidney. He fell, giving Stephen time to get up on Angel, but came back to his feet with absurd speed.
Meanwhile, incredibly, the other monk was gaining on Ogre. Grimacing, Aspar fitted another arrow to his bow and shot it, but just as he did so Ogre leapt a downed log and his shot went high and wide.
Now he was down to two arrows.
He yanked on his reins, spun the horse around, and aimed him right at his pursuer, staring down the shaft at him. He saw the man's face, set and determined, and as mad as one of the Raver's berserks. He aimed for the heart.
At the last instant, the monk threw himself aside, so the arrow buried itself in sod. He cut viciously at Ogre's legs as he tumbled past, but the horse avoided the blow by whiskers. They thundered by, back toward Stephen, whose wounded attacker was nearly on him. He was bleeding freely, but that seemed only to have slowed him a little. Fortunately, he was so intent on the boy that he didn't notice Ogre until it was too late, until the beast's forehooves had crushed his skull.
Aspar wheeled again, taking out his last arrow and leaping down from the beast.
“Ogre, qalyast!” he shouted.
Ogre immediately charged the monk, who set himself grimly to meet the horse. In that instant of relative stillness, Aspar shot him in the center of the chest.
The monk spun with the blow, avoiding Ogre as he did so, and ran past the horse toward Aspar. Cursing, Aspar turned and lifted the dead man's sword. It wasn't a weapon he k
new a lot about—he wished he had his dirk and ax—but he held it at guard and waited. Behind him, he heard Stephen drop to the ground.
The monk was on him, then, cutting fast and hard toward Aspar's head. Aspar gave ground, but not enough, and had to bring the heavy weapon up to parry. His shoulder jarred as if he'd just stopped thirty stone falling from a tower. Stephen came in from the right, swinging his farm tool, but the swordsman turned and neatly hacked through the wooden shaft. As-par swung clumsily, and the monk danced aside, feinted, and cut. Aspar leapt inside the swing, dropped his own weapon, grabbed the sword arm with his left hand, and punched the monk in the throat. He felt cartilage crush, but his opponent kneed him viciously in the chest, hurling him back and to the ground, empty of breath. The monk staggered forward, lifting his sword, just as Ogre hit him from behind. He fell, and Ogre kept stamping him until his hooves were red and the corpse wasn't twitching.
“They could have killed us if they'd been a little smarter,” As-par said, when he got his wind back. “They were overconfident. Should have ignored us and gone straight for Ogre.”
“Contemptuous is more like it,” Stephen replied. “Those were two of the pettiest of Spendlove's bunch—Topan and Aligern. Spendlove himself would never be so stupid.”
“Yah. I maunt he sent the men he could most afford to lose. Even if they'd got only one of us, it would have been a bargain. He should've given 'em bows.”
“Those who walk the faneway of Saint Mamres are forbidden to use bows,” Stephen remembered.
“Well. Thank Saint Mamres in your prayers, then.”
They stripped the corpses, and to Aspar's satisfaction found a fighting dirk not unlike his own lost one. They also found a few silver tierns and enough dried meat and bread for a day, all welcome additions to Aspar and Stephen's meager possessions.
“I reckon that leaves about six of them,” he mused, “and however many Fend brings. Let's hope they keep sending them two at a time like this, so we can keep evening the odds.”
