The Crimson Queen

by Alec Hutson

  Senacus felt his legs weaken at the High Seneschal’s words. To hear the head of his order say that he would have ordered his death . . . the shame was overwhelming.

  “But your fate is not in my hands.”

  “Who decides my fate?” Senacus whispered, reaching out to steady himself on the table’s edge.

  “Ama, of course,” the High Seneschal replied, “through his chosen, the High Mendicant.”

  “Ama has spoken to him of me?”

  The High Seneschal’s lip curled. “Of you? No. But of someone you have met. Our bright lord visited the High Mendicant in his dreams last night. He said that the boy you let slip through your fingers has strength unlike any other, that if Cleansed he could become the greatest of the Pure, the greatest since Tethys himself cast down the Warlock King. The High Mendicant was gifted a vision that showed the boy as the shining general in the coming war against this demoness, this Crimson Queen and her profane school of wizards, and that he could be the man who finally expunges the taint of sorcery from these lands and returns purity to the world.”

  “Why me . . .”

  “Because you have met the boy. You know what he looks like, you have spoken to him and tasted his scent. Now your holy task is to find this Keilan and bring him back to Menekar.”

  “But he must be in Dymoria soon, if he is not already. The queen and her sorcerers will sense me, or any paladin that approaches within a hundred leagues of Herath.”

  The High Seneschal placed a thin golden box on the table. “You underestimate the power of our lord.” He snapped open the latches and withdrew from a bed of velvet what looked like a yellowing finger-bone. It dangled from a shimmering silver chain, seemingly fused with the delicate links. “Do you know the story of Tethys’s final assault on the Selthari Palace?”

  Senacus found he could not tear his gaze from the slowly twisting bone. “Yes.”

  “Then you remember how the Warlock King in his desperation opened a rift into the Void, and a demon of fell power slipped through?”

  “I do.”

  “Tethys slew the beast, of course, but the Tractate tells us that he lost three fingers to the creature’s slavering jaws.”

  Senacus gasped and quickly sketched the circle of Ama in the air in front of him. “That is from Tethys’s hand?”

  The High Seneschal nodded solemnly. “It is. It is one of the greatest treasures of our order.” He undid the chain’s clasp and slipped it around his own neck, so that the bone lay upon the gleaming white scales of his cuirass.

  Senacus could not stifle a small cry. The silvery luster of the High Seneschal’s eyes faded, watery blue pupils emerging. The faint aura that enveloped every paladin of Ama wavered and was gone.

  “The bone takes away our strength?”

  The High Seneschal turned to try and find his reflection in the bronze sunburst fixed to the wall behind him. “It hides it, from both men and sorcerers. But if you use the gifts of Ama then the charm is broken.”

  “Truly it is a mighty weapon against sorcerers.”

  The High Seneschal removed the chain and laid it again in its golden box, the light instantly flaring once more in his eyes. “It is. And invaluable. In centuries past we had three; now this is the only one that remains. You must not let an enemy claim it.”

  “I will guard it with my life. But . . . but how can I approach the boy to spirit him away? He will be held in Saltstone, protected by stout walls and a thousand warriors.”

  “He will help you,” The High Seneschal said, gesturing to the silent, watchful man in black.

  “And who is he?” Senacus turned to face the stranger. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Demian,” the man said. His words seemed to have been shriven of any accent. Senacus could not tell if he hailed from Menekar or Gryx or Ver Anath.

  “And you can help in rescuing this boy?”

  Demian smiled without humor. “A rescue? Is that what you would call it?”

  Confused, Senacus looked at the High Seneschal again. “Who is this? Why is he here, privy to our order’s secrets? He is not one of us.”

  The High Seneschal cleared his throat and shifted. For the first time he did not seem so absolute in his convictions. “He is not. He is . . . kith’ketan.”

  Instinctively, Senacus’s hand went to his sword’s hilt. “Shadowblade!”

  The High Seneschal held up his own hand. “Calm, brother. Ama’s ways are mysterious. The High Mendicant saw this man in his dreams, and our bright lord told him that he was our ally in the coming war. And now he appears to us, as Ama foretold.”

  “But he is an assassin!”

  The shadowblade’s thin lips quirked. “We are both killers.”

  Senacus drew himself up taller. “I kill those who would befoul the world and prey on innocent souls.”

  “Yes,” Demian said mildly, “those children you sent back, the ones that spilled their blood upon your blazing altar, they were truly befouling the world with their presence.”

  “Enough!” commanded the High Seneschal, rising again to his feet. “Brother, are you so arrogant that you would question the ways of the Creator Himself?”

  Senacus ducked his head. “No, forgive me. My thoughts have been clouded lately.”

  “Indeed,” said the High Seneschal, sliding the gold box across the table. “Go to Herath. Find this boy and return with him, bring him into the light and give the faithful of Ama a new champion. You leave on the morrow.”

  “The most important thing to remember when dining with a prince,” Vhelan said as they approached an imposing set of doors, one of white wood and carved with a sun, the other of gleaming black and inscribed by a crescent moon, “is always to laugh at his jests.”

  “Unless, of course, he doesn’t smile at his own wit,” Nel added, plucking irritably at the lacy fringe of her dress’s neckline. She had been fidgeting since they had left their quarters, clearly uncomfortable in the finery she wore. “Because that means it might not have been intended as a joke. It’s embarrassing, being the only one laughing at a formal dinner. Vhelan can tell you all about it, actually.”

  The sorcerer scowled. “How was I to know the padarasha’s father had just died?”

  “The mourning wreaths? The black veils? The hundred-horse funeral procession we had seen when entering the city?”

  “Could have been for anyone,” Vhelan muttered. He glanced over at his knife as she let out a little growl of frustration and tugged at her clothes. “Comfortable?”

  Nel shot him a withering look. She wore a slim-fitting blue dress of some expensive fabric, trimmed with lace, her shoulders and arms bare. Her short black hair had been brushed down, and someone had even applied faint purple blush to her cheekbones, which matched the glittering jewels she wore around her neck – the same jewels they had found in the hidden sanctum beneath Uthmala. She looked like a beautiful noble lady, Keilan thought.

  She looked miserable.

  “Comfortable? In this? Do you know how hard it was to find someplace for my daggers?”

  Garmond, in his formal seeker robes of deep forest green, stumbled and nearly fell. “You are bringing weapons to a dinner with a prince? What if the guards find them?”

  Nel snorted. “If they can find where I’ve hidden them, they deserve to be stabbed.”

  Vhelan sighed. “You can take the girl out of the Warrens . . .”

  “Please. I have noticed little difference between eating in a thieves’ den or around a royal dinner table. Nicer table-settings, maybe – the quality of the company is about the same.”

  “Quiet,” the sorcerer commanded as they arrived at the doors to the banquet hall. The guardsman outside was garbed in silver and black livery, a silver tree emblazoned on his tabard. He raised his long ceremonial pike and struck the stone floor twice, and at the ringing sound the doors s
wung open smoothly.

  Keilan’s breath caught when he saw what awaited within.

  “Remarkable,” Seeker Garmond murmured, “the legends do not do it justice.”

  The circular room was vast, a hundred steps deep, at least, lit by a dozen huge iron braziers. Keilan couldn’t guess what burned within, as the flames were blue-tinged and gave off surprisingly little smoke. What shimmering coils there were twisted upwards and vanished through the circle cut out of the high domed ceiling; through the haze Keilan could see the faint sparkle of stars. The room’s curving walls were covered with long tapestries, scenes from the most famous stories of the north picked out in bright glimmering thread. There was Isabel reclining on the banks of the tumbling Serpent, being wooed by the River Prince in his vestments of foam and weeds. And there was the seventh son of the cursed lord of Pendreal, raising his lance high as the great dragon spread its wings above him, the tragic knight intent on avenging his six lost brothers. The artistry of the tapestries was remarkable, unlike any he had seen before, but it was not what awed Keilan now.

  The Tree of Vis filled the center of the room, soaring toward the hole in the domed roof, great roots rippling into a patch of brown earth. Its bark gleamed silver, while the leaves bowing its limbs shimmered white and ghostly, almost translucent. Also speckling the branches were small dark shapes; as Keilan watched one hopped from its perch and fluttered higher. How many stories and great quests had started with a prophecy given by the oracular birds of Vis? He felt as if he was moving through a dream, and at any moment he might wake in his bed back in his village.

  A table shaped like a horseshoe wrapped partway around the tree, and at its bend stood Prince Lynn, smiling and beckoning them forward. He gestured toward the empty chairs on his right; the ones on his left were already occupied by three people Keilan had not yet met. When they had seated – Vhelan beside the prince, then Garmond, Nel, and finally Keilan – the prince made the introductions.

  “My friends from distant lands, please let me introduce three of the most distinguished citizens of my city. First we have the Lady Meredith, my beloved paramour.” The tall, graceful woman next to the prince inclined her long neck, the yellow stones set into her silver tiara flashing as they caught the firelight. Hers was a beauty that belonged in the old tales, Keilan thought, and he felt a little thrill when her hazel eyes found his.

  “And beside her sits Ghabrial Menoth Fen-Kiva, famed poet of The Lay of Lost Starlight, among many others. We in Vis consider him the greatest living writer in the world.”

  The wiry old man blew out his drooping gray mustache and rolled his eyes.

  “Such kind words from you tonight, my prince. It makes me nervous about what we’ve all been invited here to agree to.” Nevertheless, the old poet rose smoothly and offered them a bow.

  “And the last is the head of our ancient order of librarians, Pelimanus Tarryn Voth-Anan.” The man looked like a librarian: his unlined face made guessing his age difficult, and he was deathly pale, as if he rarely saw sunlight. He was dressed in long brown robes, unaccented by any trim or design, the cowl thrown back to reveal a head so hairless it reminded Keilan of a boiled egg.

  The librarian stood and also bowed, lower than the poet. “Welcome to Vis,” he said softly.

  The prince swept his other arm out, encompassing Keilan and his companions. “I’ve spoken of you all already, of course, but allow me my moment, if you please. We have so few occasions for formal dinners here in Vis.”

  “Thank the gods,” muttered the old poet and took a hearty swig from his wine glass.

  “My old friends, here we have Vhelan ri Vhelus, a magister of the second rank in the Scholia of her majesty, Cein d’Kara. Beside him is the Seeker Garmond of the Reliquary. Then this enchanting creature is Nel, sworn in the service of our good magister, and here is Keilan, not so long ago of the Shattered Kingdoms.”

  Keilan glanced over and saw Nel’s jaw tense when the prince introduced her. To his surprise, he also saw the poet Ghabrial wink across the table at her, and he suddenly wished Vhelan had convinced her to relinquish her daggers outside.

  “All of Vis welcomes you, and pledges whatever aid we may after your recent troubles.”

  Introductions finished, the prince used his silver spoon to ring a small bell placed beside his wine glass. At the sound, doors cleverly hidden along the walls swung open, and servants entered the room carrying platters heaped with a sumptuous array of foods. The first plates were vegetables and fruits, slabs of roast pumpkin glistening with butter, long green strands of morning glory drizzled with purple sauce, a tiered pyramid of tangerines and plums, and a golden horn overflowing with grapes, apples, and other fruit he did not know. Then came the meats, capons with their skin crisped a beautiful brown, filleted river eels soaked in brandy, and a great haunch of beef, the outside of which was charred black, but when it was cut into the juices ran bright red.

  Keilan had barely touched the feast before the main course arrived, a huge roast pig reclining on a great tray, which was carried in by two struggling servants. Conversations ebbed and flowed as the endless procession of food and wine continued. Garmond and the Visani librarian struck up a loud and lively discussion about the origin of wraiths, and whether they were a cursed tribe of men, as some claimed, or another species of animal altogether. The seeker seemed intrigued by one of the older legends of the north, which suggested that wraiths had once lived in cities of their own, great nests of tunnels and chambers that honeycombed some of the most forbidding peaks of the Bones. Keilan found himself imagining a horde of the creatures that had attacked their caravan creeping through the bowels of a mountain like monstrous ants, and couldn’t suppress a shudder.

  He shifted his attention from that conversation to what was being exchanged between Nel and the old poet. It seemed to be one-sided – whatever techniques employed by Ghabriel in wooing the good ladies of Vis were being wasted on the knife. She sat with a smile frozen on her face as the poet attempted foray after foray, sometimes offering up a tepid response when pressed.

  “Lovely jewels, my lady. They suit your complexion perfectly.”

  A slight nod.

  “Do you like poetry, my dear? You remind me of something I wrote in my youth, a simple little couplet about hyacinths in bloom.”

  Shrug.

  “Have you ever tried Mire black eel? A true delicacy, and some say it contains certain aphrodisiacal qualities . . . not that a man of my virility needs such charms, of course.”

  A blank stare, brimming with immense boredom.

  Finally the poet set his elbows on the table and leaned forward. When he spoke again the charming cadence to his words had vanished. “My dear, you seem ignorant of how the world works. The old and rich are attracted to youth and beauty. The young and beautiful are partial to fame and pretty baubles. I am plenty famous and have collected many expensive trifles that I am willing to share – you should be at the very least pretending interest in what I am saying.”

  A hint of a smile tugged at the edge of Nel’s mouth. “Master poet, if there’s anything I want from you I won’t waste both our time. I’ll just steal it.”

  Keilan had to pretend to cough to hide his own smile at the look of shock on the poet’s face. The expression passed quickly, though, and the old man slapped his hand beside his plate, abruptly silencing the table.

  “Ha! Did you hear that, Lyn? You need to convince her to stay here as an advisor. I think she could breathe some life into this old embalmed city.”

  The prince stood, smiling. “Lady Nel certainly has her charms. And my heart would be gladdened if all our guests could stay a while in Vis. Unfortunately, Magister Vhelan tells me that they have pressing matters in Herath.”

  “But they want something before they go?”

  The prince nodded slightly towards the poet. “Yes. I’ve already told you all about how their caravan
was ambushed on the Wending Way by a clan of wraiths. There was something else, though. The beasts seemed to be under the control of a creature that had assumed the shape of a man. During the battle it shed its human guise, revealing its monstrous nature. Magister Vhelan believes that this thing had been dispatched to slay the servants of Dymoria, but by what agency he does not know. I would let him access to the Barrow, and see if any answers can be found within.”

  For a long moment the table was silent. Then the poet crossed his arms and sighed loudly. “My prince, I knew your father, and his father before him. They would never have even considered such a thing.”

  “I know. Our time is different.”

  “Three thousand years and no one save the librarians and the line of Adreth have descended into the Barrow. Now in the span of a season we would twice allow outsiders access to our greatest secrets?” The poet turned to the head librarian, who was leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. “Pelimanus, how did the spirit take to the Crimson Queen’s visit?”

  The librarian sat forward, steepling his hands. “It was agitated. I do not know exactly what happened that day, as by the prince’s order we did not accompany her majesty into the Barrow.” Keilan thought he heard a hint of reproach in the librarian’s tone. “But I have my suspicions. I believe that the spirit refused to help the queen in whatever it was she wanted . . . so she tried to bend it to her will, and force it to give up what was hidden.”

  “And did she succeed?” It was the first time Keilan had heard the Lady Meredith speak, and her voice matched her elegant beauty.

  The librarian shrugged. “I do not know. But I would be wary about letting more strangers into the Barrow so soon. My order cannot guarantee their safety.”

  “I would not have them go alone,” said the prince. “You would be with them this time. And I could not say no to the queen or her demands, you know that. She is not a woman to be refused.”

  The librarian bowed his head in acknowledgement of the prince’s words.