Briar King

by Keyes, Greg

  “Your Majesty, this is Neil MeqVren, a young man of many talents and great deeds. Neil, this is His Majesty William II of Crotheny.”

  Neil remembered to drop to one knee and bowed so low his head nearly hit the ground. “Your Majesty,” he managed to croak.

  “Rise up, young man,” the king said.

  Neil came to his feet.

  “He’s a likely looking lad,” the king said. “Squire, you say? This the fellow I’ve heard so much about, the lad from the battle of Darkling Mere?”

  “It is, Sire.”

  “Well, Neil MeqVren. We’ll have some talks about you, I expect.”

  “But not now,” a prim-looking young woman said, sidling up on the back of a delicate-looking bay. She nodded to Neil, and he felt an odd sense that they had met before. Something about her hazel eyes was familiar, or almost so. She was a severe beauty, with high cheekbones and glossy hair several shades browner than chestnut.

  “This day is for Elseny, and none other,” the woman went on. “But I’ll wish a good day to you—Neil MeqVren, is it?”

  It took Neil an open-mouthed moment or two to realize she was presenting her hand. He took it, albeit belatedly, and kissed the royal signet ring.

  “Your Majesty,” he said. For this was surely the queen.

  A laugh trickled through the group, at that, and Neil realized he had made a mistake.

  “This is my daughter Fastia, now of the house Tighern,” the king said.

  “Hush your laughing, all of you,” Fastia said sternly. “This man is our guest. Besides, it’s clear he knows royal quality when he sees it, at least.” Her smile was brief, more of a twitch, really.

  At about that moment, another young woman came flying into Sir Fail’s arms. He whirled her around and she shrieked delightedly.

  “Elseny, what a sight you are!” the old man said, when he managed to step back from her.

  Neil had to agree. She was younger than Fastia— seventeen, or thereabouts—and her hair was raven black, not brown. Where Fastia had a hardness to her beauty, this one had eyes as wide and guileless as a child.

  “It’s so perfect to see you today, Granuncle Fail! You came for my birthday!”

  “That part was the work of the saints,” Fail said. “Surely they smile on you.”

  “And who is this young fellow you’ve brought us?” Elseny asked. “Everyone has met him but me!”

  “This is my charge, Neil MeqVren.”

  Neil’s face grew warmer and warmer at all of the attention.

  Elseny was clad outlandishly in a colorful silk gown elaborately embroidered with flowers and twining vines, and she wore what looked for all the world like insect wings sprouting from the back. Her hair was taken up in complicated tiers, and each level had a different sort of flower arranged in it: hundreds of tiny violets on the first, red clover next, pale green saflilies, to a crown of white lotus.

  Like Fastia, she offered her hand. “Granuncle,” she said, as Neil kissed her ring. “Really! Today I’m not Elseny, you should know! I am Meresven, the queen of the Phay.”

  “Oh my! I should have known. Of course you are.”

  “Have you come to be knighted?” Elseny asked Neil, quite suddenly.

  “Ah—it is my greatest desire, Princess—I mean, Your Majesty.”

  “Well. Come to my court, and I will certainly make you a knight of Elphin.” She fluttered her eyes and then, quite swiftly, seemed to forget him, turning back to Fail and taking his arm. “And now, Uncle,” she said. “You must tell me how my cousins in Liery fare! Do they ask after me? Have you heard I am engaged?”

  “And here is my son, Charles,” the king said, once it was clear Neil’s introduction to Elseny was done.

  Neil had noticed Charles peripherally when they first rode up. He had seen such men before, grown adult in length and breadth but with the manner of a child. The eyes were the sign—roving, curious, oddly vacant.

  At the moment, Charles was talking to a man clothed from neck to foot in garish robes that looked as if fifteen different garments had been torn, mixed, and patched back together. On his head sat an improbably broad-brimmed, floppy hat hung with silver bells that jangled as he walked along. It was so large, in fact, the fellow resembled a walking hat.

  “Charles?” the king repeated.

  Charles was a large man with curly red hair. Neil felt a little chill when the saint-touched stare found him.

  “Hello,” Charles said. “Who are you?” He sounded like a child.

  “I’m Neil MeqVren, my lord,” Neil said, bowing.

  “I’m the prince,” the young man said.

  “That is clear, my lord.”

  “It’s my sister’s birthday, today.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “This is Hound Hat, my jester. He’s Sefry.”

  A face peered up at him from beneath the hat, a face whiter than ivory with eyes of pale copper. Neil stared, amazed. He had never seen a Sefry before. It was said they would not venture upon the sea.

  “Good day to you,” Neil said, nodding to the Sefry, not knowing what else to say.

  The Sefry put on a malicious little smile. He began to sing and caper a little, the huge hat wobbling.

  “Good day to you, sir!

  Or not-a-sir

  For I can see

  No rose on thee

  Pray, in your land

  Or far-off strand

  Do you perhaps

  Take knightly naps

  In pens where pigs and horses craps?

  Is that what marks the warrior there?

  Tell us, traveler, ease our care!”

  The jester’s song brought howls of laughter from the crowd. The loudest was Charles, who slapped the Sefry on the back in his delight. That sent the jester flying. He tumbled crazily, grasping the corners of his huge hat and rolling into a ball. When he came near someone on foot, they kicked at him, and he tumbled off in another direction, hooting. Within instants, an impromptu game of football, led by the crown prince, had distracted everyone from Neil, but his ears still burned from their laughter. Even the king, Fastia, and Elseny had laughed at him, though thankfully Sir Fail had merely rolled his eyes.

  Neil tightened his mouth, locking a reply to the jester inside of it. He didn’t want to shame Sir Fail with the tongue that had brought him trouble more than once.

  “Don’t mind Hound Hat,” Fastia told him. “He mocks everyone he can. It’s his vocation, you understand. Here, walk alongside me. I will continue your education on the court. ‘Tis plain you need one.”

  “Thank you, lady.”

  “We’re missing a sister—my youngest, Anne. She’s sulking down that way—see, that’s her with the strawberry hair? And, look, here comes my mother, the queen.”

  Neil followed her gaze.

  She no longer wore a cowl, but Neil knew her in an instant, by her eyes, and by her faint smile of recognition. And now he understood why Fastia and Elseny had seemed so familiar. They were their mother’s daughters.

  “So, you roused old Fail,” the queen said.

  “Majesty. Yes, Majesty.” This time, he did knock his head against the grass.

  “You’ve met already?” Fastia asked.

  “I went to the chapel of Saint Lier,” the queen said. “This young man was there, praying like a poet. They teach prayer like that only on the islands. I knew he must be with Fail.”

  “Your Majesty, please forgive any impertinence I might have—”

  The king interrupted Neil. “You went without an escort? To the docks?”

  “My guard was near, and Erren just outside, and I was hooded. Disguised, as it were.”

  “It was foolish, Muriele, especially in these times.”

  “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

  “Worried? I did not know. That’s what worries, after the fact. From now on you will not go about without escort. Please.” He seemed to realize that his voice had turned sharp, and calmed it. “We’ll discuss it
later,” he said. “I don’t want to welcome Fail and his young guest with a family quarrel.”

  “Speaking of quarrels,” Queen Muriele said, “I hope you will all excuse me a moment. I see someone with whom I need to speak. Young MeqVren, I apologize for my deception, but it was worth it to see your face, just now.” She looked over at her husband. “I’m going only so far as over there,” she said, “if you wanted to know.”

  Neil was glad she had switched the object of her conversation so quickly, for he had nothing at all to reply. He felt guilty for something he could not name.

  “It had to be Fastia,” Anne told Austra as the two girls walked their horses up the violet-spangled Sleeve. The air was thick with spring perfumes, but Anne was too agitated to enjoy them.

  “Fastia is usually more direct,” Austra disagreed. “She would have questioned you about the rose, not taunted you with it.”

  “Not if she already knew everything.”

  “She doesn’t know everything,” Austra said. “She can’t.”

  “Who did it, then? Lesbeth?”

  “She has changed,”Austra pointed out. “Become more political. Maybe she’s changed as much as Fastia has, but we just don’t know it yet.”

  Anne considered that for a moment, shifting her seat a bit. She despised riding sidesaddle—or slidesaddle, as it ought to be called. She always felt as if she was just about to slip off. If she and Austra were alone, she would switch in an instant to a more natural mode of riding, underskirts be damned.

  But they weren’t alone. Half the nobles in the kingdom were riding up the gently rising field.

  “I can’t believe that. Lesbeth wouldn’t betray me any more than you would.”

  “You suspect me?” Austra asked indignantly.

  “Hush, you stupid girl. Of course not. That’s what I just said.”

  “Oh. Well, who, then? Who has a key to your rooms? Only Fastia.”

  “Maybe she forgot to lock the door.”

  “I doubt that,” Austra said. “I do, too. Still—”

  “Your mother.”

  “That’s true. Mother certainly has a key. But—”

  “No. Here comes your mother.”

  Anne looked up and, with a sudden dismayed prickling, realized it was true. Muriele Dare née de Liery, Queen of Crotheny, was trotting her black Vitellian mare away from her retinue and toward Anne and Austra.

  “Good morning, Austra,” Muriele said.

  “Morning, Your Majesty.”

  “I wonder if I might ride with my daughter for a few mo ments. Alone.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty!” Austra immediately switched her reins and trotted off, leaving only an apologetic and worried glance. If Anne was in trouble, odds were good that Austra was, too.

  “You girls seem agitated about something this morning,” Muriele observed. “And you aren’t riding with the royal party.”

  “I had a bad dream,” Anne told her. It was part of the truth, at least. “And no one told us we had to ride with the royal party.”

  “That’s a shame about the dream. I’ll have Fastia bring you some fennage tea tonight. It’s said to keep Black Mary away.”

  Anne shrugged.

  “I think there’s more to it than bad dreams, however. Fastia believes there is a deeper cause in your agitation.”

  “Fastia doesn’t like me,” Anne replied.

  “On the contrary. Your sister loves you, as well you know. She just doesn’t approve of you all of the time, as well she shouldn’t.”

  “All sorts of people disapprove of me,” Anne muttered.

  Her mother searched her with her jade-green gaze. “You are a princess, Anne. You have yet to take that seriously. In childhood, it is forgiven—for a time. But you’ve entered into your marriageable years, and it is well past time for you to give up childish behavior. Your father and I were both terribly embarrassed by the incident with the greft of Austgarth—”

  “He was a disgusting old man. You can’t expect me—”

  “He is a gentleman, and more, his allegiance is of the utmost importance to us. You find the well-being of your fa-ther’s kingdom disgusting? Do you know how many of your ancestors have perished for this country?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair? We are not like normal people, Anne. Many of our choices are made for us by our birth.”

  “Lesbeth is marrying for love!”

  Muriele shook her head. “Ah, this is what I feared, and what Fastia feared, as well. Hers is a fortunate match, but Lesbeth knows no more of love than you do.”

  “Oh, yes, Mother, as if you know the slightest thing about love!” Anne exploded. “All of Eslen knows Father spends more time with the lady Gramme than ever he did in your chambers.”

  Her mother could move quickly, at times. Anne never saw the slap coming until her face was already stinging from it.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Muriele said, her voice low, flat, and as dangerous as Anne had ever heard it.

  Tears welled in Anne’s eyes and her throat swelled. I will not cry, she told herself.

  “Now. Listen to me. There are three young men here today, all comely after a fashion. Are you listening? They are Wingaln Kathson of Avlham, William Fullham of the Winston Baronet, and Duncath MeqAvhan. Any of them would be a good match. None of them are disgusting old men. I expect you to entertain each, do you understand? They have come solely to meet you.”

  Anne rode in sullen silence.

  “Do you understand?” Muriele repeated.

  “Yes. How will I know them?”

  “You will be introduced, never fear. It is arranged.”

  “Very well. I understand.”

  “Anne, this is all for your own good.”

  “How fortunate that someone should know what is good for me.”

  “Don’t be a brat. This is your sister’s birthday. Put on a happy face—if not for me, then for her. And for my sake, let us have an end to our arguments, please?” Muriele smiled the cold little smile that Anne never trusted.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  But inside, despite the slap that still burned her face, Anne’s heart felt lighter. Her mother didn’t know about Roderick.

  But someone knew, didn’t they? Someone had found her rose.

  For a moment, she wondered if it had to do with Roderick at all. He hadn’t been in the dream.

  “What’s this?” a male voice piped in, from the side. “The two loveliest women in the kingdom, riding without escort?”

  Anne and Muriele both turned to greet the newcomer.

  “Hello, Robert,” Muriele said.

  “Good morning, dear sister-in-law. How lovely you are! The dawn was slow today, fearing to compare with you.”

  “How nice of you to say,” Muriele replied.

  Ignoring her cool tone, Robert switched his attentions to Anne. “And you, my dear niece. What a stunning creature you’ve become. I fear this birthday party might become a slaughterground of young knights jousting over you, if we don’t provide restraint.”

  Anne almost blushed. Uncle Robert was a handsome man, fit, wide shouldered, slim waisted. He was dark, for a Dare, with black eyes and a small mustache and beard that perfectly fit his sardonic manner.

  “Best worry about Elseny,” Anne replied. “She’s far the more beautiful, and it is, after all, her birthday.”

  Robert trotted his horse over and took Anne’s hand. “Lady,” he said, “my brother has three beautiful daughters, and you are in no way the least of them. If some man has said this, tell me his name and I shall see the ravens pecking at his eyes before nightfall.”

  “Robert,” Muriele said, a hint of irritation in her voice, “do not flatter my daughter so unmercifully. It’s not good for her.”

  “I speak only the truth, Muriele dear. If it sounds flattering, well, I hope I will be forgiven for it. But really, where is your bodyguard?”

  “There,” Muriele said, waving her hand to w
here the king and his retinue made their way along. “I wanted to speak to my daughter alone, but they are there, and quite alert, I assure you.”

  “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything. You seemed serious.”

  “Actually,” Anne replied—brightly, she hoped—“we were talking about Lesbeth’s upcoming wedding. Isn’t it exciting?” Too late, she saw the warning in her mother’s eyes.

  “What’s that?” Robert’s voice suddenly had a certain coldness to it.

  “Lesbeth,” Anne said, a little less certainly. “She asked Father’s permission last night.”

  Robert smiled briefly, but his forehead was creased. “How odd that she didn’t ask mine. Goodness! It seems the joke has been on me!”

  “She was going to tell you today,” Muriele said.

  “Well. Perhaps I’d best go find her and give her the opportunity. If you will excuse me, ladies.”

  “Of course,” Muriele said.

  “Remind Lesbeth that she promised to see me today!” Anne shouted, as her uncle rode off.

  They continued silently for a moment or two.

  “You should perhaps be more careful about what you let drop,” Muriele said. But somehow she didn’t sound angry any longer.

  “I—the whole castle knows by now. I thought she would have told her own brother.”

  “Robert has always been very protective of Lesbeth. They are, after all, twins.”

  “Yes. That’s why I thought he would know.”

  “It doesn’t always work like that.”

  “I see it doesn’t. May I ride with Austra, now?”

  “You should join the royal party. Your granuncle Fail is here—Oh, it looks like he’s ridden off with your father. Very well, you may be standoffish if you wish. Tonight you must be sociable, however. And you must be agreeable at your sister’s festival.” She pulled her reins and started off. She cast back over her shoulder. “And stay proper on your horse, you hear me? Today of all days.”

  The Sleeve curved and rose gradually to the top of Tom Woth, a broad-topped hill that looked down on the reaches of the city east, and upon its twin, Tom Cast west. There was erected an open-sided pavilion of brilliant yellow silk, flying the banner of the bee and the thistle, the imaginary standard of Elphin.

  An enormous floral maze surrounded the pavilion. Its walls consisted of close-planted sunflowers and pearly nodding-heads. Up and about those substantial stalks crept scarlet trumpet vines, morning glories, and blossoming sweet peas. Courtiers were already dismounting and making their way into the labyrinth, laughing and giggling. From someplace in the maze a delicate music played on hautboy, croth, great harp, and bells.