by Keyes, Greg
In the deeps he heard the draugs singing, mournful and greedy, coming for him.
At least he’d killed Robert.
His eyes closed, and the wind died, and then, like a figure in a shadow play, a shape appeared against a gray background. Tall, man-shaped and yet not, antlers like a stag’s spreading from its head. The figure gestured, and William saw Eslen a smoking ruin, held in its palm. He saw the heartlands of Crotheny blasted and withered in the other outstretched hand. In its eyes, as in a fire-lit mirror, he saw war. Far, far away, William heard the keen bray of a horn.
The stag-crowned figure began to grow, not at all like a man now, but like a forest, his horns multiplying to make the branches, his body stretching and tearing into dark boughs and thorny, creeping vines. And as he grew, the dark thing spoke a single name.
Anne.
The name broke his soul from his body, and that was the end of William II, emperor of Crotheny.
Robert’s mouth worked, trying to draw air. He stared at the hilt in his breast, feeling foolish.
“Good for you, Wilm,” he muttered. “Good for you, saints damn you.” It was a strange moment to feel pride for his brother, but there it was.
“My prince!”
Robert recognized the voice of the captain of his Night-striders, but it sounded far away.
Robert didn’t look back; he couldn’t tear his gaze from the hilt of the knife. From his perspective, it stood like a tower against the sea.
Far away, he thought he heard the wild sounding of a trumpet, and then the sky fell on him.
CHAPTER SIX
THE EVE OF FIUSSANAL
ANNE, AUSTRA, AND SEREVKIS STROLLED in the gardens of the countess Orchaevia. Laughter and music suffused the twilight, blossoms of fantastic color and shape perfumed the air, and the mood was, overall, undeniably gay.
It made Anne intensely uncomfortable, and she didn’t know why.
Part of it was surely the borrowed dress; it was a bit too tight and such a bright green it nearly hurt her eyes. But the most of her discomfort was lurking anonymously in the back of her mind until Austra put a light on it with a simple observation.
“This reminds me of Elseny’s birthday,” she said. “All these flowers.”
“That’s it,” Anne muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But that was it. It was the festival of Saint Fessa—or as they called her here, Lady Fiussa. Fiussa was the patroness of flowers and vegetation, and in the early days of autumn, when Fiussa departed for her long sleep, it was customary to wish her well and pray for her to return the next spring. Thus, as at Elseny’s birthday, there were flowers everywhere, many dried in the spring to retain their color.
Austra noticed her discomfort, of course, and probed at it. “They make much of the Fiussanal here, don’t they?” she said cautiously. “Much more so than in Eslen.”
“Yes,” Anne answered distractedly, not caring to put her mouth on the bait. She hadn’t told Austra about her visions. She wasn’t sure she intended to. She’d never kept secrets from her best friend, but now that she’d started down that road it would be difficult to turn back.
Serevkis rescued her without meaning to.
“Indeed?” the Vitellian girl remarked. “How is Fiussanal celebrated in Crotheny?”
“We exchange lockets with pressed flowers,” Austra told her. “We build a feinglest in the sacred horz and drink the last of the new wine.”
“What’s a feinglest?” Serevkis asked.
“It’s a sort of wickerwork, filled with flowers,” Anne told her. “I think the custom came from Liery.”
“Ah.” Serevkis grinned. “We have that custom, I think, though we name it differently. Follow me. I think I saw the horz around here.” They walked past a rambling stand of olive trees cheery with box-shaped paper lanterns, along a wing of the triva to a small walled garden.
There, beside a gnarled, ancient oak, stood a woman made of flowers. Her eyes were red poppies, her skirt of goldenrod and orange-damsel, her fingers purple asters.
The sight of her sent an awful, sick jolt through Anne, recalling vividly the women in her visions, the black roses, the horned thing in the woods.
“Like that?” Serevkis asked. “Is that a feinglest?”
“No,” Anne said weakly. “I mean, yes, I guess it is, but in Crotheny we make cones, or tall baskets, or … never anything like that. Never anything that looks like a person.”
But she remembered that feinglest was Leirish for green woman. A hollow of anxiety deepened in her.
“Let’s leave this place,” she said. In the lantern light, it looked as if the green woman was widening her smile, as if at any moment she would take a step toward them.
“I think she’s pretty,” Austra opined.
“I’m leaving.” Anne turned and walked back toward the house and the sounds of celebration.
“Well, what’s wrong with her?” Serevkis muttered, more puzzled than angry.
Anne quickened her pace. She wanted away from the garden, out from under the night sky, the fields and trees. She wanted lantern light and people and wine. Especially wine.
As they stepped back into the huge courtyard of the mansion, the countess herself came toward them, smiling. She wore a gown embroidered to the point of tastelessness with gold and silver flowering vines.
“My dear,” she said to Anne. “That face! I hope you are enjoying yourself.”
“I am, casnara,” Anne lied. “Thank you so very much for your hospitality.”
“It’s nothing,” the woman said, beaming. “And for you, my dear, I think I may have a special surprise.”
Anne blinked. She had met the countess, of course, upon arrival when everyone else had, but couldn’t imagine how she had drawn the woman’s special attention.
“Here,” the countess said, taking her aside and whispering in her ear. “Enter my house through the largest door, and you will find a staircase on your left. Follow it up, then down the hall, where it will open into my lavender garden. There you will find a young man who very much desires your company.”
“I … a young man?”
The countess looked very pleased with herself. “By your face, you must be the one. I think you must know who I mean.”
“Thank you, Countess,” Anne said, trying to keep her expression neutral. But in her chest, her heart was doing strange things, and her mind was racing.
By now, Roderick would have received her letter. By now, he could be here. He might have heard of this fete, and impressed upon the countess his great love and need to see her, and of course this was the only time and place such a thing could happen. If he came to the coven, he would certainly be turned away. Perhaps he had already tried that, and no word had come to her.
“What was all that about?” Serevkis asked.
“Nothing,” Anne replied. “She’s asked Austra and me to do her a favor, that’s all.”
“I’ll go along,” Serevkis said.
“No!” Anne said, a bit too loudly. Several heads turned in her direction, including Sister Casita’s. “No,” she repeated more softly. “She asked that only Austra and I go.”
“How mysterious,” Serevkis said, a bit skeptically. “One would almost think something devious was going on.”
“No, nothing of the sort,” Anne insisted.
“Of what sort?” Serevkis asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” Anne said. “Come on, Austra.” She pulled her friend by the hand, toward the doorway the countess had indicated.
“What did the countess say to you?” Austra asked, after they had slipped through the portal and started up the stairs. “Wherever are we going?”
Anne turned and took Austra’s hands in her own. “I think Roderick is here,” she confided excitedly.
Austra’s eyes went saucer-shaped. “How could that be?” she asked.
“I sent him a letter, and directions.”
“What? How did you do that?”
“I’ll explain in time. But it must be him.”
They reached the end of the hall, which terminated in a wrought iron door. Beyond, leaves rustled softly in the breeze, and she could see the stars above a tiled wall. Anne felt herself nearly petrified with anticipation.
“He’s supposed to be in there,” Anne told her friend.
“Shall I wait here?” Austra asked. “To sound alarm if one of the sisters approaches?”
“No. Come in with me, until I am certain. I’ll let you know if I want you to leave.”
“Very well,” Austra said. She didn’t sound entirely happy.
Together the two girls stepped through the door. The garden was small, floored in red brick. Orange and lemon trees rose up from terra-cotta pots, and lavender grew in stone boxes making the air especially fragrant. A small fountain trickled water into a scalloped basin.
A man stood in the shadows. Anne could see his outline.
“Roderick?” she asked, almost breathless.
“I have no news from him, I’m afraid,” the man said. She knew the voice at once, and her heart fell.
“You!” she said.
Cazio stepped into the moonlight and smiled, sweeping his hat from his head. “I told you I was guesting in the country,” he said. “I must say, you look altogether different wearing clothes.”
“Anne,” Austra murmured, tugging at her sleeve. “Who is this? How do you know him?” She gave a sudden start. “And what does he mean about clothes?”
“I am Cazio Pachiomadio da Chiovattio,” Cazio said, bowing again. “And you must be the lady Fiene’s sister, so fair and graceful are you.”
“Fiene?” Austra said, confused.
“Cazio knows me by my real name, not my coven name,” Anne said, hoping Austra would catch on.
She did. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”
“Would you enchant me with your own name, lady?”
“It is Margry,” Austra improvised.
Cazio reached out, took her hand, and raised it to his lips.
“Watch him,” Anne warned her friend. “He uses honey where most use words.”
“Better honey than lemon juice,” Cazio said. He turned his head a little. “Can it be that you are annoyed with me, Lady Fiene?”
“No,” Anne admitted, finding she wasn’t. “It’s just that I thought Roderick might have come.”
“And you are disappointed. Rightly so. All went well with the dispatch of the letter, but perhaps the weather has been bad in the north. Any number of things might delay even a man who is deeply in love.”
Anne thought she caught a subtle dig in that.
“Margry,” Anne said, “could you wait in the hall and give alarm if anyone comes? I promise to explain this all to you later.”
“As you wish,” Austra said, a bit of rancor lurking in her voice.
When Austra had left the garden, Anne turned back to Cazio. “What did you want, then?” she asked bluntly.
To her surprise, he hesitated, as if searching for words, something she had not known him to do before.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “The countess offered to arrange our meeting. I suppose I just wanted to know how you were doing.”
Anne felt a bit of her guard drop away.
“I am well enough. What happened to your arm? It’s bandaged.”
“A scratch from swordplay. It was nothing.”
“Swordplay? You were in a fight?”
His voice grew jauntier. “Not much of a fight. Five bandits. They didn’t last long.”
“Really?”
Again, he hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “I got it in practice with my swordmaster. He was angry at me.”
“For what reason?”
“He thinks I’m too distracted to fence. I think he’s right.”
Anne felt an odd little warmth in her belly. “What has distracted you?” she asked innocently.
“I think you know.” His eyes were luminous in the dark, and for an instant …
“I told you, Cazio,” she said.
“Told me what?” he asked mildly. “You haven’t even told me your real name. And you complain of my honesty.”
She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I deserved that.” She looked back up at him. “My name is Anne.”
He took her hand. She meant to pull it away, but somehow failed. “I’m pleased to meet you, Anne.” And he kissed the top of her hand.
“May I have that back now?” Anne asked.
“It was always yours.”
“Did you send my letter at all?”
“Yes,” he said. “I hoped he would come. I still hope so.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes distance improves love. Sometimes it dissolves it. I think you deserve to know which has happened.”
“Roderick loves me,” Anne snapped.
“Let him prove it, then,” Cazio replied.
“Do you love me then?” Anne asked, regretting the question in the same breath that asked it.
But Cazio didn’t answer immediately. When he did, it was in that new, uncertain tone. “I do not think people fall in love so quickly.”
That sounded honest, and somehow it upset Anne more than any declaration of love ever could have.
“In that case, what do you want from me?” she asked.
“To know you better,” Cazio said softly.
Anne’s throat felt thick. “And how will you do that?” she asked, trying to sound sarcastic. “Stare up at my tower all day?”
“I might,” he replied. “If it is the only way to see you.”
“This is ridiculous,” Anne said. She glanced over her shoulder.
“We’ll be missed. We have to go.”
“When can I see you again?”
“You can’t,” Anne replied, and with that she turned and went back out of the garden.
It was hard not to look back, but she managed it.
Cazio scuffed his foot in frustration and sighed. What was wrong with him? What did he care about this skinny, sickly pale, red-mopped witch anyway?
Nothing, that’s what. This whole thing had been Orchae-via’s scheme, not his.
A slight sound alerted him, and his hand flew to the hilt of Caspator, but it was only the other girl, the yellow-haired one.
“It was nice to meet you, Casnar Chiovattio,” she said, and made a little curtsey.
Inspiration struck Cazio. “A moment, please,” he said.
“I must follow my mistress.”
“I implore you, casnara. Anne won’t miss you for a mo ment or two.” He paused. “Did you say mistress?”
“I’m her maid.”
“And also in the coven?”
“I’m there, yes.”
“And is your name really Margry?”
The girl looked behind her. “No, casnar, it isn’t. My name is Austra.”
Cazio put on what he considered to be his most effective smile. “Now there is a proper name for a winsome creature like you,” he purred.
“You shouldn’t say things like that, casnar,” the girl said, looking demurely down.
“Call me simply Cazio, if you please.” He reached for her hair. “Was this spun from gold?”
She bridled at his touch. “Please, I must go.” She started to withdraw.
“A moment.” He stepped even closer. At first he thought she would flee, but she didn’t. He drew very near and took her hand.
“This Roderick fellow, Anne’s betrothed—is he so fine?”
“Betrothed?” Austra said, her eyes widening.
Aha! Cazio thought. So not even really engaged.
“I mean, yes, they are betrothed,” Austra corrected.
Cazio let the falsehood pass. “But that wasn’t my question. Answer me, pretty Austra.”
“He is—” Her voice dropped. “I do not think him so fine. To be honest, I think you’re much nicer, though I’ve just met you.”
<
br /> “Thank you, Austra. That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s just that Anne can be … stubborn.”
“Well, let her be, then,” Cazio said. “I won’t pursue someone who has no desire to be caught.” He squeezed her hand. “Thank you for speaking to me,” he said.
“It was my pleasure, Cazio.”
He bowed, then wrinkled his brow in a show of consternation. “Oh, look,” he told her, pointing to her mouth. “You’ve something on your lip.”
“What?” She put her hand up, but he caught it, bent in quickly, and kissed her lips. She gave a little gasp and pulled back—not too violently.
“You see? There was a kiss there,” he said. “But I got it.”
He could see her white skin blush even in the faint light. Without another word she withdrew and fled down the hall after the vanished Anne.
Cazio watched her go, feeling pleased. Service hadn’t done the trick. Maybe a little jealousy would, he thought. The hunter was back on the trail. Whistling, he went to gaze at the stars.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SACRIFICE
ASPAR KNELT TO EXAMINE the horse droppings on the trail and nodded to himself.
“We’re close,” he said gruffly. “Not even a day behind ‘em. And they’ve been joined by more, maybe ten more.”
Stephen watched what the holter was doing, trying to pick out the faint signs the older man was reading. “Do you think the newcomers are Sefry? This Fend fellow and his rogues?”
Aspar’s expression darkened. “That’s what your brother said, yah? That he was going to meet Fend at Cal Azroth?”
“I’m no brother of Desmond Spendlove’s,” Stephen replied, irritated by Aspar’s tone. “Whatever he’s about is nothing to do with the church.”
“You seem mighty certain of that,” Aspar said.
“Think, Holter,” Stephen said. “The fratrex saved our lives. Would he have done that if the church was behind all this?”
Aspar straightened. “You tell me,” he said seriously.
It still took Stephen aback when the holter really wanted his opinion. He recalled Desmond, that night at the monastery, talking about how he served the church. It had felt real, that conversation, like the one pure moment of honesty he had ever had from the murderous Spendlove.
