Briar King

by Keyes, Greg

  “No,” she said, a small smile brightening her face. “The only thing your opinion lacks is the jaded view from the towers of the highborn. Thank the saints for you, Neil MeqVren. You put me in my place.”

  “Majesty, I never meant to—”

  “Hush. I’m done brooding, thanks to you. Let’s speak of this no more, but go down and make merry. It’s the eve of Fiussanal, you know.”

  Memory flashed, of a blue dress and a face glancing up at him, and eagerness and trepidation exchanged blows on the battlefield of his heart.

  But when they reached the horz, Fastia was nowhere to be seen.

  Night gentled upon the fortress, and by the toll of the eighth bell the preparations for Fiussanal were done and even the excited Elseny was quiet in her chambers awaiting sleep.

  Sleep eluded Neil, however. The memory of Fastia by moonlight haunted him, but something besides that nagged him. Perhaps it was the queen’s talk of the host of ancient dead around Cal Azroth that drew him back outside, to the rampart of the tower in which she had her apartments. From there he would notice any who might come and go into the royal residence, and so prosecute his duty. But he could also gaze over the haunted, moonlit plain, studying it for any wisps of mist or light that might remark some sign of ghosts.

  After the tenth bell tolled, his eyelids were finally drooping and the moon was setting on the horizon. Neil was considering a return to his quarters when, with a faint thrill, at the corner of his eye he detected motion.

  Staring straight on, he saw nothing at first, but from the periphery of his vision he made out several figures moving swiftly toward the castle.

  He did not think they were ghosts.

  He descended the tower as far as the battlements, hoping for a better view and to alert the watch. What he had seen could have been anything—a pack of wild dogs, a Sefry band, messengers from the court—but his watchword was suspicion.

  He saw no better from the battlements, but in the courtyard below them he noticed something that raised his hackles. Two human figures lay there unmoving. The moon was not yet risen, so he couldn’t make out who they were, but the positions in which they lay made him doubt they were merely asleep from too much drink.

  He hesitated only long enough to wonder if he should put on the rest of his armor. He wore his leather gambeson and a light chain hauberk, and donning the plate would take far too long. Grimly, heart pounding, he started toward the stair, keeping his steps light.

  Down in the courtyard, he found his worst fears realized; the massive double gate stood open, and he could see stars beyond. Now, too, he could see the insignia of the Royal Footguard on the fallen men, and the pools of blood that pronounced them dead.

  A man he hadn’t seen from above lay crumpled against the base of the stairs. He was still alive, though his breath wheezed strangely. Neil approached carefully, gaze sweeping the compound. To the right of the open gate stood a second portal, still closed, beyond which lay the causeway leading to the garrison. To his left was the queen’s tower. When he detected no one, and no movement in either direction, he turned his attention to the injured man.

  With a start, he saw it was Sir James Cathmayl. His throat was cut, and he was trying futilely to stop the flow of his life’s blood with his own two hands. His eyes fastened on Neil, and he tried to say something. No sound emerged, only more blood, but the downed knight gestured at something behind Neil, and his dying eyes glittered bright warning.

  Neil flung himself to the right, and steel smote the cobbles where he’d knelt. He turned and brought Crow to guard.

  A man stood there, a fully armored knight. “Death has found you,” the knight told him.

  “Death has found me many times,” Neil replied. “I’ve always sent her away hungry.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted, “Alarm! The gate is breached, and enemies are within!”

  The knight laughed and stepped closer, but didn’t raise his weapon, and with a thrill of astonishment, Neil saw it was Vargus Farre.

  “Traitor,” Neil rasped, leaping forward, scything Crow in a hard blow down.

  The knight merely retreated, now bringing his weapon to guard.

  “Don’t you feel it, Sir Knight?” Vargus asked. There was something wrong with his accent, with the way he spoke, and despite the fact that the man wore Sir Vargus’ face, Neil suddenly doubted it was really the man he knew at all.

  “Don’t you?” Sir Vargus repeated. “Death arriving in you?”

  “What is this, Sir Vargus, or whatever you be? For whom have you opened the gate?”

  “You’ll feel it soon.”

  And suddenly, Neil did. Something struck him like flame between the eyes, but a flame that ate out from within. He heard a voice that wasn’t his, inside his ears, felt a will not his own scratching within his skull. With a shriek he fell to his knees, Crow clattering beside him.

  The knight who could not be Sir Vargus laughed again, and something behind Neil’s lips bubbled a sardonic reply.

  CHAPTER NINE

  NIGHT VISITORS

  “WELL, THAT WAS RATHER DULL,” Anne muttered, lighting a taper to illuminate the tower room she shared with Austra.

  “Really?” Austra said, her voice somehow faraway sounding. “I found it entertaining enough.”

  “I would go so far as to call it quaint,” Anne replied.

  “Quaint,” Austra repeated, nodding. She went to the window and looked out at the night. Anne sighed and began changing out of her dress.

  “It was nice to wear a gown again, at least,” she said, “even one in such questionable taste.” She held the empty dress up before her, then, shrugging, folded it carefully. She pulled her coarse sleeping shift over her head.

  “It’s back to lessons tomorrow,” she said, trying to distract herself from the lingering disappointment that Cazio hadn’t been Roderick, and the uneasy feelings the shameless Vitellian had stirred in her. “We’re learning the uses of alvwort, I hear, which I’m much looking forward to.”

  “Uh-huh,” Austra murmured.

  Anne turned a suspicious glance on her friend.

  “We’re also having a lesson on changing babies into puppies, and the reverse.”

  “Good,” Austra said, nodding. “That will be interesting.”

  “Saints, what’s wrong with you?” Anne demanded of her friend. “You aren’t even listening to me.”

  Austra turned guiltily from the window.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just sleepy.”

  “You don’t look sleepy. You look positively excitable.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Austra insisted. “I’m sleepy.”

  “Yes? Then what’s got you so interested outside?”

  “Nothing. It’s just pretty, tonight.”

  “There’s no moon. You can’t see anything.”

  “I can see plenty,”Austra replied. “Maybe I’ll see Roderick riding up.”

  “Austra Laesdauter, are you making fun of me?”

  “No, I’m not. I hope for your sake he does come. You still love him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this what’s-his-name—”

  “Cazio?”

  “Yes, that’s it. How did you meet him? You said you would tell me.”

  Anne considered that. “This is one of those secrets, Austra,” she said finally. “One of our sacred ones.”

  Austra placed her hand on her heart. “By Genya Dare, I’ll keep this secret.”

  Anne explained how she’d found her way out of the cave and met Cazio, still leaving out any mention of the mysterious woman and her newfound senses. She felt ashamed for that, but something still warned her it was prudent.

  “So you see,” Anne concluded, “whatever impression Cazio made tonight, at heart he is an ill-mannered rogue.”

  “A handsome one, though,” Austra said.

  Anne opened her mouth, closed it, and then laughed. “You’re taken with him,” she said.

 
“What?”Austra’s face scrunched in dismay. “No, I’m not.”

  Anne folded her arms and looked skeptically down one shoulder. “You stayed behind me a bit,” she said. “What happened? What did he say to you?”

  Austra blushed deeply enough that it was visible even by candlelight. “It’s as you say,” she said, looking toward the corner of the room as if she had lost something there. “He is an errant rogue.”

  “Austra, tell me what happened.”

  “You’ll be angry,” Austra said.

  “I’ll be angry only if you keep so secretive and phayshot. Tell me!”

  “Well—he gave me a bit of a kiss, I think.”

  “You think?” Anne asked. “What do you mean, you think? He either kissed you or he didn’t.”

  “He kissed me then,” Austra said, a bit defiantly.

  “You are taken with him,” Anne accused again.

  “I don’t even know him.”

  “The fickleness of the man!” Anne exploded. “First he’s doting on me, then twelve heartbeats later he’s slavering over you. What could you see in such a faithless heart?”

  “Nothing!” Austra said. “Only …”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, it was nice. The kiss. He kisses well.”

  “I wouldn’t know how he kisses. I wouldn’t want to.”

  “You shouldn’t. You have Roderick for that. Anyway, I’m sure neither of us will ever see Casnar da Chiovattio again.”

  “If the saints are kind.”

  Austra shrugged and turned back to the window. “Oh!” she said.

  “What is it? Is he down there?” Anne said. “That would be typical of him, to follow us back here and bother us.”

  “No, no,” Austra averred. “Not unless he brought friends. Look at all the torches.”

  “What? Let me see.”

  Anne shouldered her way into the window, and saw that Austra was right. A long glowworm of lights was approaching the coven. Anne heard the snorting of horses and the sound of hooves.

  “Who could that be, at this hour?” Anne wondered.

  “A Sefry caravan, perhaps,” Austra offered. “They travel in darkness.”

  “Maybe,” Anne replied dubiously.

  At that moment, the coven bells began to peal the signal to gather.

  “I suppose we’re going to find out,” Anne said.

  Sister Casita met them in the courtyard at the foot of the stairs, where other sleepy girls were already beginning to converge, murmuring in irritation and confusion at being wakened so soon after bed.

  “Go to the wine cellar,” Casita said, gesturing in the general direction with a willow wand. “Remain there until you are told to return to your rooms.”

  “What’s going on?” Anne asked. “We saw riders approaching from the tower.”

  “Hush, Sister Ivexa. Keep quiet and do as you’re told. Go to the wine cellar.”

  “I’m going nowhere until I know what’s wrong,” Anne insisted.

  Before Anne could dodge, Sister Casita switched her across the mouth with her wand. Anne tried to cry out, but found her lips frozen together.

  “Obey me,” Casita said, to all of the girls assembled there.

  Seeing what had happened to Anne, no one else dared question her. Anne, furious and frightened, nevertheless went with the rest of the girls toward the cellar.

  The sacaum Sister Casita had laid on Anne’s lips wore off a few moments later, leaving only an odd tingling in her jaws. By then she and Austra had reached the head of the stairs that led below the coven, but rather than descending them with the rest of the girls, Anne pulled Austra into a side corridor.

  “Come on,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Up on the wall. I’m going to find out what the matter is.”

  “Are you mad? Haven’t you learned not to disobey yet?”

  “We’ll keep hidden. But I’m going to find out. Something is wrong. I think the coven is under attack.”

  “Why would anyone attack a coven?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m not going into the wine cellar.”

  “Anne—”

  “Go with the rest if you like,” Anne said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  She turned and walked off. After a moment she heard a sigh and the soft swish of Austra following her.

  They wound past the kitchen and the herb garden beyond, to where the small arbor of grapevines sent tendrils out to climb the cracked stone. There, Anne remembered, was a narrow stair that led to the top of the wall that surrounded the coven. It was steep and crumbly, and she slipped twice, but soon enough they had reached the top and the walkway there. She began softly moving toward the front gate, Austra behind her. Once, they heard running feet and ducked into the shadows of a tower as a robed figure entered it. Anne listened to the muted sound of footsteps ascending its heights, then scurried past.

  The large court inside the front gate was filled with dark-robed figures, the greatest part of the members of the Cerian order. Sister Secula wasn’t with them; she stood on the wall above the gate, along with Sisters Savitor and Curnax, looking down at whoever was there. Anne could hear that she was talking, but couldn’t make out the words. She crept ever nearer, Austra still following, and together they discovered an outjutting section of the bastion from which they could see both Sister Secula and the men who had arrived outside the gate.

  “Saints!” Anne murmured.

  In the torchlight she made out about thirty riders, handsomely mounted on warhorses and clad in full plate. None of them, however, bore standards—not even their leader, who wore armor gilded at the edges and sat his horse about two yards in front of the rest. He had his visor pushed up, but Anne couldn’t discern his features at the distance. He was talking to Sister Secula—or, rather, she was talking to him.

  “… the matter,” the mestra was saying. “We are under the protection of the church and the meddisso. If you do not heed me, the consequences will be dire. Now, go.” Her voice was taut with command, and even though her words weren’t directed at Anne, they made her wince. She wouldn’t want to be that knight, whoever he was.

  The knight, however, seemed unimpressed. “That I may not, lady,” he shouted up. Behind him, spurs rattled and horses stamped. The smell of burning tar from torches wafted over the wall. The whole scene was unreal, dreamlike.

  “I am sworn to this,” the knight continued. “Send her out, and we can be done with this business. Make whatever complaints you wish.”

  “You think because you come as cowards, bearing no standard or emblem, we will not find who you are?” Sister Secula returned. “Go. You will get nothing here save the curses of the saints.”

  “The saints are with us, Sister,” the knight replied matter-of-factly. “Our cause has no blemish, and I do not fear any shinecraft you may loose on me. I warn you once more. Send me down Anne Dare, or you will force me to incivility.”

  “Anne!” Austra gasped.

  Anne took Austra’s hand, her heart picking up a few beats. The world seemed to whirl as everything that was happening realigned itself.

  This was about her.

  “I warn you once more,” Secula told the knight. “Trespass is beyond bearing. No man may set foot in this coven.”

  Anne couldn’t see the mestra’s face, but she could imagine it, and wondered if the nameless knight was actually meeting her gaze.

  “I regret what I must do,” the man said. “But you have forced me to it.”

  He gestured, and the ranks of his cavalry parted, and through it came ten archers and as many men bearing a wooden beam clad at one end in a head of steel. The archers trained their weapons on the sisters on the wall.

  “Open the gate,” the knight said. “For the love of the saints, open it and let us in.”

  For answer, Sister Secula spread her fingers, and Anne felt a sudden prickling across her skin, a sensation akin to and yet different from facing a fire. Something dark spun o
ut from the mestra’s fingertips, like a spiderweb but more gossamer and insubstantial. It drifted onto the men below. When it touched the tallest, they shrieked and threw hands up to their eyes. Anne saw blood spurting from between their fingers, and her belly tightened in horror. She had heard rumors of the encrotacnic sacaums, though she had never quite believed in them.

  In response the knight lifted up his arms and shouted, and again Anne felt a surge of force, this one passing through her like a cold shock. The mestra’s sacaum shredded, floated up on the night air, and vanished.

  “So,” Secula said. “Now you show your face, brother. Now I know the truth.”

  “A truth perhaps,” the knight said. “This matter is beyond your understanding, Mestra.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I may not.” He gestured, and his men surged forward; the ram crashed against the gate. At the same moment, the knight’s hands flashed white, the air crackled with sudden thunder, and blue fire twisted in a helix from below the wall. Anne couldn’t see the gate from the side that was struck, but she could see it from the courtyard side, and gasped as the fire crackled through its seams like the reaching tendrils of a vine.

  On the second blow, the gate collapsed, and the knight rode through, his men behind him.

  Anne couldn’t feel her body anymore. She felt detached, outside, a presence as frail as a specter witnessing what followed.

  The sisters tightened into a bunch and spoke dark words, and knights fell, tearing off their helms to reveal faces gone azure. They bit off their tongues and crushed their own teeth as their jaws spasmed, weeping green tears as they crossed the waters of death.

  The leader strode unaffected through the unseen veil of slaughter. His heavy sword lifted, and in an instant one of the nuns was headless, her body sinking to its knees slowly as her neck seemed to stretch up and out, blooming like a red orchid. The bloody sword came back, and back, hewing into the sisters of Cer. At first the women held their line, and warriors continued to fall like ants marching into a fire, but suddenly the sisters broke before the murdering blade. Arrows whistled up into the battlements, where Sister Secula was raining black sleet that fell through armor as if it wasn’t there. Savitor and Curnax collapsed, staring at the arrows standing in them. Sister Secula grimly clapped her hands and seemed to slip into a shadow that wasn’t there. Then the shadow wasn’t there, either.