by Keyes, Greg
For that, Anne didn’t have a comfortable answer.
The blade darted toward Cazio, faster than he had imagined it could, cutting his cheek slightly. The pain brought everything into sharp focus, and with a shout he stamped, sidestepped, then ducked quickly back in the direction he had come from, and committed himself to a shallow fleché.
It proved an unwise commitment. Z’Acatto parried in prismo, deflecting Cazio’s attack and stepping in close, his free hand clenching in the cloth of Cazio’s tunic. In a continuation of the parry, the swordsmaster lifted the hilt of the weapon above his head, so the blade slanted down to rest its bright sharp tongue in Cazio’s navel.
“What in Lord Fufio’s name is wrong with you?” the old man barked in his face. “Where is your brain? You can’t fence with just your hands and feet!”
Z’Acatto’s breath was rancid with the wine of the night before. Cazio wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Let go of me,” Cazio demanded.
“Is that what you’ll say to your next opponent when he has you in this position, or worse?”
“I would never allow that to happen in a real fight,” Cazio asserted.
“Every time you pick up that sword it’s a real fight,” z’Acatto roared. He let go and stalked off. “You’re hopeless! I give up!”
“You’ve been saying that for ten years,” Cazio reminded him.
“And it’s been true the entire time. You’re hopeless as a dessrator.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never been beaten, except by you.”
Z’Acatto whirled to face him, eyes bulging. “Now you’re going to tell me you know more about being a dessrator than I do?” He held his sword level to the ground, pointed at Cazio. “On your guard,” he snarled.
“Z’Acatto—” Cazio began, but the older man launched himself forward, and Cazio was forced to bring his blade up. He gave ground, parried, and launched a riposte with a step-lunge, but his master caught the blade in a bind and pressed, then released in a lightning-fast disengage.
Cazio backpedaled and parried again, riposting desperately. Almost contemptuously, z’Acatto danced nimbly aside and counterattacked. Cazio avoided the deadly thrust only by hurling himself backwards, tripping as he did so, but not quite falling. Z’Acatto followed, a look in his eyes Cazio had never seen before, one that sent a sudden chill of panic down his spine.
No. I will not fear, Cazio thought, setting himself.
For a moment the two men circled each other warily, weaving into and out of striking distance. Cazio struck first, this time, a feint that turned into a draw cut aimed at his master’s arm. Z’Acatto dropped his hand away from danger, then stabbed toward Cazio’s throat. With sudden understanding Cazio realized that during his feint the older swordsman had drawn his back foot up and was lunging in much deeper than Cazio ever imagined he could.
He turned, so the point took him in his left shoulder. It sank in and hit bone, and with a cry he extended his sword arm. Z’Acatto yanked his weapon out with a twist, and in an instant the two men were touching each other on the chest with the tips of their blades.
“Shall we perform the parry of two widows?” z’Acatto growled.
“Neither of us is married,” Cazio gasped, feeling blood soak his shirt. They continued to stand that way, and for a long terrible moment, Cazio thought he would have to thrust. He could almost feel the older man’s steel in his own heart.
But z’Accato finally dropped his blade.
“Bah,” he snarled, as it rang on the stone floor. In relief, Cazio sank into a chair, clutching his shoulder.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” he said, as soon as he had caught his breath.
“I thought so, too,” z’Acatto said, his eyes still flashing with anger. Then, softer, he murmured, “Boy, you’re a fine swordsman. You’re just not a dessrator. You don’t have what it takes, in here.” He tapped his chest over the heart.
“Then teach me.”
“I’ve tried. I can’t.” He lowered his head. “Let’s bind up that wound. I need a drink. So do you.”
A short time later, they sat beneath the verandah in the courtyard, one bottle of wine already gone and another half-empty. It was almost enough for Cazio to ignore the pain in his shoulder. Around them, Orchaevia’s servants were stringing up lanterns, banners, and chains of dried flowers.
Orchaevia herself bustled up, wearing a lime-green gown embroidered with golden roses.
“Well, you two are a sight,” the countess remarked. “How do you like that year? I never considered it one of the best from the region.”
“No,” z’Acatto grumbled. “That would be the vintage from the year the baron Irpinichio became meddisso of the Seven Cities.”
“Quite right,” the countess said. “And perhaps one day your tour of my various cellars obvious and obscure will lead you to it. Though I don’t think that likely.” She turned to Cazio. “You, on the other hand, I might be able to help.”
“Countess?”
“The young ladies from the coven will be here tomorrow night.”
“What’s this?” z’Acatto said. “The last thing the boy needs is to go solid over a band of nuns. He’s already distracted enough.”
“Yes, and what do you think has him so distracted?” Orchaevia asked.
“Ridiculous,” Cazio said, waving her words away as he might a fly.
“That’s it!” z’Acatto exploded. “I remember now. It’s just like when you were chasing after that little da Brettii girl. The same stupid expression. No wonder you can’t even hold your sword.”
“There is no girl,” Cazio insisted. This was too much. He was really starting to feel put upon.
“Of course not,” Orchaevia said. “And if there were, you wouldn’t see her at my party, for the mestra of the coven forbids her charges to see men. I’ve had to hire serving girls from Trevina and send my regular servants on holiday. But … it is possible that one of the young darlings might find herself alone, in the lavender garden, if I knew what she looked like.”
Cazio nodded and drank more wine. His head was starting to swim, and he relented. “There is no girl,” he said, “but as long as you’re going to throw one my way, make her one with pale skin and red hair. A northern girl. I’ve always fancied one of those.”
Orchaevia’s smile broadened until Cazio thought it would split her head. “I shall see what can be done,” she said.
Z’Acatto finished the bottle of wine in a single long draught. “No good will come of this,” he predicted with a sigh.
CHAPTER FOUR
AN ENCOUNTER
“LADY FASTIA?” Neil gasped, in utter astonishment. She stood there in the moonlight, her long hair flowing unbound to her waist, shimmering like silk.
“I …” Fastia looked confused, then suddenly gaped and put her hand to her mouth. “Sir Neil, you’re quite unclothed.”
Realizing she was right, he grabbed a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around himself. He felt stupid for taking so long to react; what if Fastia had been an assassin, come to kill the queen?
What had she come for?
“Have you taken a wrong turn, lady? May I show you to your room?”
“No.” Fastia looked down at the floor. He noticed then that she wore a dressing gown of silk brocade over a flimsy shift of cotton. “No,” she said, “I came because … I … Elyoner gave me the key. And she— Sir Neil, I must be going mad.”
Neil knew what she meant. His heart was pounding a war-beat. Fastia’s face was perfect in the near dark, all jewels and precious ivory, a mystery of shadow that needed touching, needed more than touching. He felt a profound ache in his chest and an even more profound rush of blood throughout his body.
“The duchess, she gave us something, made a spell,” Neil said.
“Yes,” Fastia replied. “Yes.” Then she looked up boldly. “And I am also quite drunk, though I do not care.” Her brows scrunched. “Well, yes, I care, but I don’t.”
>
She moved toward him, then, or at least so it seemed, and he must have reciprocated, for in the next instant he was looking down into her face and her eyes were inches from his, her lips so near he could smell her breath. Much of him suddenly didn’t care what happened, either. Her arms were wrapped firmly about his back, and her head tilted.
He felt Elyoner’s spell overcoming him, and could think of no good reason not to surrender and kiss Fastia, feel those lips against his, and let the emotions coursing his blood have him.
But there was a reason. He knew it.
He pushed her gently back, and her eyes suddenly filled with hurt.
“You will not have me?” she asked.
“I … think I cannot,” Neil replied. Speaking the words felt like eating shattered glass. Seeing her expression was worse.
“I am a young woman,” Fastia told him softly. “I am a young woman married to an old man, an old man who does not care the least that I am a woman, much less young, though he finds his sport with those who are even younger. I am so unhappy, Sir Neil. The closest I have come to happiness has been in our conversations these last two months. I want more of it, now, while I don’t care, while Elyoner’s spell has me.”
Then she began to weep, which was unfair. It meant he had to reach for her again, to try to brush away her tears.
“Archgreffess—” he began.
“My name is Fastia. Just Fastia. At least call me Fastia.”
“Fastia, you are the daughter of my queen.”
“I know who I am,” she said, her voice suddenly angry. “Saints believe, I know who I am. Day in and day out I act my part and keep my place, like a vine trained to climb a trellis, like a dog taught to fetch slippers. I never forget myself, I never sin—” Her expression went suddenly ferocious, and she hurled herself at him. This time he was unable to resist. Her lips closed upon his. With her tears on them, they tasted like the sea. “Just this once,” she said into his lips, as they kissed. “Just this once.”
They fell fumbling to the bed, her dressing gown falling over him like wings as she kissed into his throat, and for a time there was no thought, only sensation and a crazy sort of happiness. But when much of her flesh was bare against his, and their lips had moved from neck and throat to other regions, his heart stopped him again—or at least the tiny bit he still owned.
“I cannot,” he said. “Fastia—”
She pulled away from him, sitting up. The moonlight was stronger now, and she looked like a saint hovering above him.
“I do wish it,” he said huskily. “But I cannot.”
Fastia stared down at him unreadably for several moments, and then she smiled wanly. “I know,” she said, patting his cheek. “I know. Neither can I.” She swung her leg over and gathered her clothes back about her. But she did not leave.
“May I lie with you a moment?” she asked. “By your side?”
“That you may,” he said. In truth he wished she would lie there all night.
She settled next to him and fastened her eyes on the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m terribly embarrassed. I’m really not like this. I’m never—”
“I’m the one to apologize,” he said. “The duchess warned me about her drug. I thought I was prepared to fight its effects. But that’s when I thought she was coming, and not you.”
Her face tilted toward him. “Is this true? You have feelings for me?”
“I did not know it until tonight. Or admit it.”
“Perhaps, then, it is just her spell.”
Neil smiled faintly. “Do you really believe there was a spell?” he asked. “I have my doubts.”
“So do I,” Fastia admitted. “Tomorrow we shall know, each alone. But we will be ourselves again, either way. I do not think we will speak of it.”
“Nor do I. But only know, if you were unmarried, and I of proper station—”
“Hush. If wishes were teardrops, the world would flood, Sir Neil.” Her eyes did glisten with teardrops, and they spoke no more.
In time, when her breathing became regular and quiet with sleep, Neil rose, gathered her in his arms, and started toward her chambers.
When he opened the door, he saw a figure standing in the hall.
“Lady Erren,” he said stiffly.
“Sir Neil,” she replied. “Do you need help delivering that package?”
“Think no ill of the archgreffess, Lady Erren,” Neil said. “She was not in possession of her senses. Any blame falls on me.”
Erren shrugged. “Come. Let us put her in her right bed.”
They took the sleeping Fastia down the hall and placed her there. Despite Erren, he paused to look at her dreaming face, so youthful in the light of the candle. Then the two of them quietly left.
Back in the hall, Erren examined him. “You did not do the deed,” she said. “You walked that way, but did not open the door.”
“How can you know that?” Neil asked, both astonished and somehow grateful that Erren knew the truth.
“I know,” she said. “It’s my art to know such things. Not that I would have disapproved of your bedding Fastia, Sir Neil, not as an act of itself. Saints know she needs that, needs someone like you. Maybe even needs you, specifically. I have watched this family’s philandering for most of my life, and I no longer have a moral opinion on it. But, Sir Neil, you are sworn to the queen, do you understand? You cannot be distracted by love. If you need a body to press, one can be found, and discreetly, and I will think none the worse. But you cannot be in love.” Her eyes narrowed. “Though it may be too late for that, saints pity you. But we will see. An enemy might have walked past you tonight. That mustn’t happen again.”
“I understand, Lady Erren.”
“And, Sir Neil?”
“Lady.”
“You are quite right. The only spell Elyoner used on you was suggestion, and the only physic was alcohol. In the future, remember the effects both can have, will you?”
“My lady, I will,” Neil replied, deeply ashamed.
The next day, Neil donned his armor and went down with the queen to breakfast. Elyoner was already there, a little bleary-eyed but smiling, wearing a dressing gown of gold lamé trimmed in black mink. She greeted him with a little smile, which quickly turned to an exasperated frown.
“Oh, pish, Sir Neil,” she sighed.
Neil felt naked beneath her gaze. How could she know? Did everyone know?
The queen didn’t. “What have you done to my knight, Elyoner?” Muriele demanded mildly. “What mischief have you been up to?”
“Not enough, by the looks of him,” Elyoner grumbled. Then she brightened. “Well, each day brings new hope.”
As she spoke, her servants brought platters of boiled eggs, soft white cheese and fried apples, clotted cream, scones, and persimmon marmalade. Elseny came tripping excitedly down the stairs dressed in a vivid blue gown, followed by her flaxen-haired maid Mere.
“What entertainments have you planned for us today, Aunt Elyoner?” she asked.
“Boating on the Evermere, I think,” the duchess replied, “and quoits in the orchard meadow.”
“Out of the question,” Erren said.
“Agreed,” Neil said.
“Mother!” Elseny protested. “It sounds delightful.”
Muriele sipped her tea and shook her head. “I think this time I shall defer to my keepers. I fear I have already strained them too much by bringing us here.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” Neil said.
“Yes, praise the saints,” Erren grumbled.
“But my dear,” Elyoner said, frowning. “It’s all planned! I assure you, there is no danger, here on my lands.”
“Nevertheless,” Muriele replied, “I must think of my children.”
“As you were thinking of Anne?” Elyoner asked, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“Anne is my affair, Elyoner. I did what was needed.”
“You’ve sent a perfectly wonderful, spirited girl off to be br
oken into a nag,” Elyoner retorted, “like that old killjoy jade Erren, there.”
“I have protected her from herself,” Muriele replied. “And we shall no longer talk of this.”
As they spoke, Charles and Hound Hat had descended, the prince still in his nightclothes.
“Apples!” Charles exclaimed, sounding like a child. “Aunt Elyoner, my favorite!”
“That’s right, child, I always remember,” Elyoner said. “Have as many as you want. I fear it’s the only entertainment you’ll get today.” She sighed and fingered her chin. “I suppose I could have my players do something for us, if you don’t consider that too threatening, Sir Neil. Elseny, you might do a scene with them, if you wish.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be better than nothing,” Elseny pouted. “Though the boat ride would be more dear by far.”
Audra came down the stairs, alone.
“Where is the princess Fastia?” Elyoner asked the maid.
“She is feeling unwell, Duchess,” Audra replied. “She’s asked me to fetch something from the kitchen.”
“I see. Well, the cook will make whatever she wants. And do take something for yourself, child.”
“Thank you, Duchess,” Audra replied. “It all looks wonderful.”
Neil bit into a boiled egg, relieved that he didn’t have to face Fastia yet, ashamed for feeling that way. She probably hated him for taking what advantage he had. He ate glumly as the family chattered around him and the house awoke.
A footman entered and interrupted his worries.
“There’s a rider here, Duchess,” he announced. “From Eslen.”
“Indeed? What news does he bring?”
The footman bowed. “News of war, Duchess. Liery has declared war on Saltmark.”
“It’s beginning,” Erren muttered. “Muriele—”
“Quite right,” Muriele said. “Sir Neil, inform the guard. We are returning to the safety of Cal Azroth. We depart in one hour.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Elyoner said. “You are quite safe here, I tell you. It isn’t as if Crotheny is at war.”
“It took the rider at least five days to get here,” Muriele reasoned. “This news is old. If Liery is at war, Crotheny cannot be far behind, and if we enter, so does Hansa. It is probably done as we speak. Children, have your things packed.”
