by Greg Keyes
Everything in him felt broken. He vomited, and saw that it was mostly blood. Far away he heard his name, but he hadn't time for that, for the greffyn did come out of the water, sinuous and beautiful, like something a poet might sing made flesh. He marveled that he hadn't seen it that way from the start. That he'd wounded it seemed almost a shame—except that of course it had to die.
“Come here,” Aspar told it. “There's not much left of me, but come get what's here, if you can.”
It seemed to him that it moved a little slower, this time, when it lashed at him with its great beak. It seemed he shouldn't have had time to drive the dirk into its eye, but he did.
Just like Fend, he thought, wondering where the Sefry had gone. Then the greffyn hit him with a weight like a horse in full barding. Everything went white, but he kept hold of consciousness, flexing his now-empty hands, knowing they would do him no good at all, but happy he could at least fight to the end.
But when he turned, he saw that the beast lay still. It had hit a stone piling, and its neck was crooked at an implausible angle.
Well. Easier than I thought. Grim, if that luck was sent by you, my thanks. It's good to see your foe die before you. Now if Fend would be so good as to drop dead nearby …
Aspar lay there, coughing blood, the now-familiar feel of poison deepening. He hoped Stephen would keep Winna away, but then she had enough sense not to touch his corpse anyway, didn't she?
He turned his head and saw her there, standing beside Stephen, on the other side of the canal. She was weeping. He raised his hand weakly but didn't have enough strength to call out. “Stay there, lass,” he whispered. “By Grim, stay there.” There must be poison every place the greffyn had spilled blood.
But now something else went across Winna's face, and Stephen's, as well.
A shadow fell over him, blocking the morning sun, and Aspar wearily raised his head to look once more upon the Briar King.
Stephen dropped Aspar's bow from trembling hands. He'd been trying to shoot the greffyn, but he'd feared hitting Aspar, and now, incredibly, the beast was dead.
Winna, by his side, started forward, but he held her back.
“There's nothing you can do for him,” he said. “If you go near, you'll die, too.”
“I don't care,” she said huskily. “I don't care.”
“But he would,” Stephen told her. “I'll not let you.”
She opened her mouth, probably to argue further, but then around the corner of the keep, wading up the canal, came what could only be the Briar King, dragging a train of thorns behind him. One great step brought him out of the water, and with large and purposeful strides he started toward the King's Forest.
But then he paused and lifted his nose as if scenting something, and his antlered head turned to regard the fallen figures of Aspar and the greffyn. It moved toward them purposefully.
“It's happened,” Stephen whispered. “Saints, but it's happened.” He saw in his mind's eye the scrifts and tomes he had pored over, the bits of time-shattered clues, the terrible prophecies. And he felt something, in the earth and sky, as if something were broken and sifting away, as if the world itself was bleeding.
As if the end had truly begun.
Which meant nothing much was worth doing, was it?
But he ought to try, he supposed.
He picked up the bow and shot the single remaining arrow. He didn't know if he actually hit the monster or not, but it certainly didn't notice. It stooped first upon Aspar, and vines writhed all about him. Then it left him there and moved on to the greffyn. Stephen saw him lift the slain beast in his arms, cradling it like a child, and then walk away, leaving a trail of black springlings in his footsteps.
Behind them, the stones of Cal Azroth began to slowly shatter as the vines pulled it down.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
OBSERVATIONS QUAINT AND CURIOUS
“STEPHEN DARIGE?”
Stephen glanced up at the page, who wore orange stockings and a fur-trimmed coat of black. He supposed, from his brief acquaintance with her, that this was the best the duchess of Loiyes could do in the way of mourning clothes for her servants, at least on short notice.
Observations and Speculations on the Multicolored Popinjays, he began in his head. Or, the Assorted Maladies of Royal Blood.
“My lord,” the servant repeated, “are you Stephen Darige?”
“That I am,” Stephen allowed wearily, his gaze languidly tracing the carefully manicured lawns of Glenchest. In the distance he could see Crown Prince Charles, the poor saint-touched oaf, playing a game of jackpins with his Sefry jester. Stephen had met the prince four days earlier, on their arrival at Glenchest. Charles hardly seemed aware of the butchering of his family. He hadn't been in the keep at Cal Azroth when Fend and the changelings came, but was sleeping in the stables after a day of childlike play.
The small footguard assigned to him had much to be grateful for, for they were the only survivors of the household guard that had accompanied the royals to Cal Azroth. While the fortress was rent to pieces by the unnatural thorns of the Briar King, they had easily managed to get Charles out of danger, then sent to Glenchest for help.
“Her Majesty Muriele Dare requests your presence in the Chamber of Sparrows.”
“At what bell?” Stephen asked.
“If you please, you are to follow me.”
“Ah. This instant?”
“If it please you, lord.”
“And if it doesn't?”
The page looked confused. “Lord?”
“Never mind. Show me the way, good fellow.” He wished the page would stop calling him lord, but the duchess insisted all of her guests be treated as nobility, in address at least.
He followed the boy through the hedges and up a path overarched with twined willows. He mused that while he had once enjoyed such gardens, he found them somehow claustrophobic now. He remembered the great trees of the King's Forest and had a sudden, powerful urge to be among them, even if it meant enduring Aspar White's sarcasm and disdain.
What good did I think thousand-year-old maps would be? he wondered. Sometimes it was hard to comprehend that earlier Stephen Darige, so much of him was gone now.
Faint voices touched his saint-blessed ears, intruding on his thoughts.
“… found the bodies. They were monks, as was said, but then so is this Stephen Darige. And of the same order, too.” That was Humfry Thenroesn, councilor to the duchess of Loiyes, such as he was. Stephen could smell the sour brandy of the fellow's breath on the autumn breeze, though they still hadn't even entered the manse.
“Darige risked his life for my children. He took wounds for them.” And that was the queen herself.
“So he says,” Thenroesn replied. “We have only his word for that. Perhaps he was one of the invading force, and when he saw they were losing—”
The queen interrupted. “The holter with him slew half of the remaining assassins, and the greffyn, as well.”
Thenroesn sniffed. “Again, Majesty, that is based on hearsay. It is a grave risk to trust this Darige.”
Stephen passed into the arched foyer of the manse. He noticed the walls were patterned with gilded sea serpents.
Humfry's voice grew prouder. “I have sent a rider to his eminence, Praifec Hespero,” he boasted, as if taking such initiative deserved high praise. “He will surely send someone to confirm Darige's story. Until such time, I recommend that he be incarcerated.”
There was a pause in which Stephen heard only his own footsteps, and then the queen's voice came, so chill that even at this distance Stephen shivered.
“Am I to understand that you contacted the praifec without my knowledge?” she asked.
Stephen followed the page down a long hall as Thenroesn suddenly became defensive. “Your Majesty, it is within my prerogative to—”
“Am I to understand,” the queen asked again, “that you contacted the praifec without my knowledge?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
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“Duchess, do you have a dungeon in this … this place?”
Stephen recognized the duchess of Loiyes answering. “Yes, dear Majesty.”
“Have this man placed in it, please.”
“But, Your Majesty,” Humfry Thenroesn began, then the duchess cut him off, just as Stephen came to the entrance to the chamber.
“You really should be more careful not to offend my sister-in-law, dear Humfry,” the duchess said. She turned to one of her guards. “Drey, please escort Lord Humfry to one of the danker cells.”
The queen glanced at Stephen, as he stood in the doorway, waiting to be admitted. She was as beautiful as her reputation, but her features were tightly composed. She might have been in fury, or despair, or felt nothing at all, if one had only her expression to read. Yet to Stephen's senses her voice revealed a heart in turmoil and a soul in torment.
“Dispatch a rider to intercept Lord Humfry's courier,” the queen told the duchess. “Do no harm unless needs be. Just return him here with his message.”
The duchess signed, and another of the Loiyes guard bowed and rushed off on that errand.
The queen turned her attention back to Stephen.
“Fraleth Darige. Please join us,” she said.
Stephen bowed. “Your Majesty.”
The queen sat in a modest armchair and wore a gown of black brocade with a collar that stood stiffly up her neck. The duchess, seated in a chair next to her, was also clad in black, though her neckline was less modest.
“Fraleth Darige, two of my daughters are dead. Tell me why.” To Stephen, her voice was a raw wound, despite its flat and measured tone.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “I do not know. As I told the duchess and her councilor, I discovered the plot by chance at the monastery d'Ef, when Aspar White, your holter, came to us injured. We followed Desmond Spendlove and his men to near here, where they met with Sefry outlaws and performed forbidden encrotacnia. I believe that is how they had the gates of your keep opened from the inside.”
“Explain.”
Stephen explained the rite as best he could. He expected disbelief, but the queen nodded as if she understood. “My late handmaiden, Erren, suggested as much before she was taken from me,” she said. “Is there any protection for us? Must we continually fear these changelings in our midst?”
“There are protections against encrotacnia,” Stephen said. “If Your Majesty wishes, and can provide me with a scriftorium, I can discover them, I'm certain.”
“You will have access to whatever this kingdom has,” the queen assured him. “Now, tell me. Do you see anything of Hansa in all of this?”
“Hansa, my queen?” Stephen asked, confused. “Nothing. Desmond Spendlove was from Virgenya. The Sefry owe allegiance to no nation.”
“You see no involvement of Liery, either?” she asked, very softly.
“No, Majesty.”
“Did you know the king was dead, as well? Did they speak of him?”
Stephen found his mouth was open, with nothing coming out.
“Well?”
“No, Majesty,” he managed. “No mention was ever made of the king.”
“It must have happened on the same day,” the queen said. “The rider just reached us with the news.”
“I … my deepest condolences, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you.” Her brow wrinkled and smoothed. She seemed to start to say something, think better of it, and start again. “Much strange happened at Cal Azroth. Much out of the ordinary. Your account has been passed to me, but I would like to hear it again, and your thoughts on the matter.”
Stephen told her what he could of the greffyn and the Briar King, of Aspar White's adventures and his own. He knew it all sounded incredible, but his saint-blessed memory was clear. He could not, like an ordinary person, retreat to a dreamworld where the events themselves had been a dream, where the Briar King and the greffyn had been born of terror and exhaustion, blood haze or wine.
“The accounts are mixed,” he concluded. “The greffyn was in the habit of following the Sefry, I cannot say why. I don't think they commanded it, or it them, merely that they traveled untouched by it, as did the monks. The Briar King himself was wakened and summoned by the horn, I think, and it seems he has returned to the King's Forest.”
“His trail is clear enough,” the duchess remarked. “My riders found a path of dark thorns marching to the edge of the forest.”
“The same thorns that destroyed Cal Azroth,” the queen said. “You cannot say why he came?”
Stephen winced. “As you know, I returned yesterday to Cal Azroth with knights in the service of her ladyship the duchess. The growth of the vines, at least, has subsided; they creep still, but at slower pace. As for the Briar King—and I do believe that is who we saw—the Briar King is very ancient, perhaps one of the old gods the saints were said to have defeated. He came to Cal Azroth because I summoned him there with his horn. The sedos provided the summoning, and the feinglest sacred to Fiussa became the door of his manifestation.
“Whatever he was before, he is flesh now, and walks the world.”
“You haven't answered my question,” the queen replied.
“I do not know the answer, Majesty,” Stephen said quietly. “But if the accounts we have are to be trusted, his waking forebodes evil times.” He paused. “Very evil times. Perhaps the end of everything we know.”
“So I have heard. And yet the world still exists.”
“Your pardon, Majesty,” Stephen replied. “That may be so, but I feel as if an hourglass has been turned, and when the sands run out …” He shook his head. He had nothing to finish the thought with.
The queen seemed somehow to understand, and did not press him. And yet her silence itself was a weight.
“Majesty,” he began again, “I threatened blowing the horn only to stop Desmond Spendlove completing his sorcery.” He paused, and guilt as keen as grief nearly stoppered his throat. “I did not intend to sound it, nor did I believe anything would result if I did so. I am to blame for whatever follows.”
The queen shrugged. “If Sir Neil had turned changeling, I would now be dead. That threat is ended, thanks to you. I only wish you had acted earlier, for my daughters would also be alive. As to the apparition we all saw, despite your instincts, there seemed no malice in his actions. He spared me, certainly. He left as soon as he appeared, and the destruction of Cal Azroth, I think, was just a by-blow of his coming. Keep your guilt, Stephen Darige, for when it has proven itself justified.”
Stephen bowed. “I will try to learn what I have done and right it, Majesty. I once thought I knew quite a lot. Now I think I know very little indeed.” He looked the queen directly in the eye. “But I must repeat. I speak from something deeper than instinct. Our troubles are not ended. They have just begun. The world is changed. Can you not feel it, Majesty?”
“Two of my children are dead,” the queen said, her eyes focused on some middle distance. “My husband, the emperor of Crotheny, is dead. My best friend is dead.” Her gaze suddenly stabbed into Stephen's. “The world I knew is not changed. It is dead.”
Stephen's audience was ended soon after that, and he took the opportunity to wander through the airy halls of Glenchest to the hospital that had been set up in one of the lesser-used chambers. A young knight from Liery lay there, one Neil MeqVren. His deep, regular breaths proved him asleep, taking the rest his body needed to recover from the insults dealt it.
Stephen's own bed had been empty for two days; the wound in his arm still ached and leaked frequently, but the fever in it had gone quickly.
The third bed—Aspar's—was empty, of course.
Outside he heard voices. He peeked through the door to the terrace beyond, where two figures shared a bench between a pair of potted orange trees, gazing on the rich, rolling hills of Loiyes.
He'd turned, deciding not to interrupt, when a gruff voice called his name.
“What are you skulking about for, Cape Chavel Dar
ige? Join us in the sun.”
“Yes, do,” Winna—who sat next to Aspar—said. Stephen noticed the two were holding hands.
“You've told me often how poor my skulking is,” Stephen replied. “I thought to improve it.”
“By practice? Is there no book on the subject?”
“Indeed,” Stephen said. “It's contained in a certain bestiary I know.”
Observations on the Quaint and Vulgar Behaviors of the Common Holter-Beast.
Stephen suppressed a smile. “But sometimes,” he went on, “sometimes, I've learned, a bit of practice is necessary.”
“Yah,” Aspar allowed. “Sometimes, I suppose. And some-times—not often, mind you—the learning of books may have its use.”
Stephen ambled out onto the white stone of the terrace. The air was edged with a promise of autumn, and to prove it the apple trees out on the fields wore golden crowns.
Winna rose, patted Aspar's hand, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I'll return,” she said. “I'm off to see what I can garner from the kitchen. I'll bring us back a picnic.”
“No pickled lark's tongue or gilded cockatrice balls,” As-par grunted. “Look in the servant's larder and see if you can find some honest cheese.”
When she had gone, Aspar glowered at Stephen. “What are you grinning about?”
“You blushed. When she kissed you.”
“Sceat. It's the sun, is all.”
“She's good for you, I think. She improves your disposition considerably.”
“It never needed improving.”
“So the old rooster said before ending in the pot,” Stephen replied.
“Huh,” Aspar grunted, apparently at a loss for a protracted defense.
Stephen took a seat on another bench, and a quiet grew between them, until Aspar cleared his throat.
“Why am I alive?” he asked. “The medicine Mother Gastya gave me could never have been that potent, and it was gone, besides.”
“True,” Stephen replied. “I'd hoped you would remember. Don't you?”
Aspar looked off toward the King's Forest. “He did it, didn't he?”
