by Dave Duncan
“You don’t want to hear more,” he rasped. “It gets worse.”
She nodded. “Mm!”
“You’ll hate me and send me away.”
“No.”
“The murderer grew up big for his age, but his brother was bigger, and more beautiful, and more clever, and was a help to their father and had not killed their mother. One day, he and his friends went collecting birds’ eggs on the cliff, like boys do, and the murderer followed them, like younger brothers do. The one place where the older boys dared not go was the cliff where the gannets nested, because gannets lay only one egg in a nest and defend it fiercely. Instead, the big boys challenged the murderer to climb up there to show he was big enough and brave enough to be their friend. So he did. It was very hard. His hands and knees and toes got cut and bloody, he slipped and scraped himself, and the gannets flew at him, screaming. But he got a gannet’s egg and he brought it back down to the shelf where the other boys were and showed them his prize. Then his brother struck his hand so the egg flew up into the air and fell and broke.
“And they all laughed.
“So he jumped and pushed his brother, who was bigger but was taken by surprise and went over backward and fell, spinning and screaming all the way down into the rocks and the sea.”
She was weeping now, dribbling tears on Dog’s chest.
“Blubbering already? It gets worse.”
“Go on.” She had wanted to know, wanted him to trust her, but she had not expected anything half so terrible as this.
“The blacksmith went into red rage, because the murderer had killed both his wife and his best son. He called the murderer an animal and said he was not fit to live with people. He riveted an iron collar around his neck and chained him naked with the dogs and threw food on the ground for him. He beat him every night. He punched him in the face, knocking teeth out. He thrashed him and kicked him and jerked his chain until his throat swelled and he could hardly breathe. But one day the blacksmith had been drinking more than usual and passed out in the middle of the beating, so the animal was able to wrap the chain around his neck and choke him to death.”
“Oh, spirits! Oh, Dog, Dog!” She tried to kiss him, to stroke him, to do anything to ease his pain, but he turned his face away.
And still the awful words spilled out. “The animal thought he would starve there, then, because he was still chained, or perhaps he would eat the blacksmith’s body, and eat the dogs also and then starve, but before he got hungry enough to begin—about two days—a neighbor heard the dogs howling and came to see. He released the animal and found him clothes and told him to run away.”
The wrecked voice fell silent. Only the surf and the wind…
“Oh, Dog, Dog…None of that was your fault, love!” She was almost choking. “Your father put the seed in your mother. If the baby was too big it was his fault, not yours. Your brother hit you first and what followed was an accident. Any father who would treat a son like that deserved what happened.”
He knew all that, and had always known it, and it was not enough. She slid a hand down to confirm what she had just realized.
“It’s back,” she said. “You’re a man again.”
“An animal.”
“A man. My man.”
“You still want me?” he snarled. “After what I just told you?”
“Oh, love, more than ever!”
It was a memorable lovemaking. It was revelation, two people discovering things about love itself. On top of three days’ riding it was a penance, but she would not have missed it for all the crown jewels of Skyrria.
“You not asleep yet?” he grumbled.
She started, because she had indeed been asleep or very close to it. Sometimes a Blade’s immunity to sleep could be very annoying. “No, dear. Go ahead. Do it again.”
“Don’t be stupid, woman.”
“Just hold me, then.” He had no choice, really. They were very cramped, sticky and sticking together….
“You know conjury?”
Again she jerked awake. “Little, very little…”
“If conjurers can see the future, why can’t they see the past?”
“Hmm?”
“They can talk to the dead, can’t they?”
Mother, brother, father? She wanted to say, Some claim to be able to summon the dead and make them speak—but only for a little while and never more than once. None say they bring dead back to life. It was easier just to mumble a sort-of Yes sound. So sleepy…
His voice kept coming back and fading away. “So if they can talk to the dead, why can’t they warn the dead? Seconds matter more than years do. One instant can change your whole life forever.”
Hmm? “How…know which instant?”
“Sixthmoon 350…worked it out…need to go back there, just minute or two…warn my da to keep away from my ma next month…just tell him no good will come of it….”
No Dog would come of it, which didn’t bear thinking on, but she was too much asleep to say so.
28
Although time is my own dominant virtual and I have had the benefit of four years’ Oakendown training, I am endlessly amazed at [Malinda’s] innate mastery of that element. From the sureness of her steps in the ballroom to the unwearying patience of a hunter, her control never falters, and did not fail her even in that long, suspenseful summer of 369…
SISTER MOMENT, CONFIDENTIAL REPORT TO MOTHER SUPERIOR
The next week was pure bliss. With Dog at her side Malinda explored her childhood haunts, greeting and being greeted by old friends, all very respectful now. The other Blades ran around like puppies, exploring caves and secret places, coming to understand that the inhabitants were her allies and a whole army would never find their ward in Ness Royal if she did not want to be found. She was happier than she had ever been. Dog still never laughed or smiled, but when she asked him he would say he loved her and was happy, too.
Even crabby Sir Thierry was quite cooperative. Sometime between the evening of her arrival and the following morning, which was the first time she met him sober, he had acquired an obvious terror of her Blades, especially Dog. What pressure might have been applied she preferred not to inquire, but it was not impossible that he had been required to count to forty-nine while being dangled by his ankle over a sea cliff. He did complain shrilly that he needed funds to reopen Kingstead, but she told him to apply to the Treasury and be patient. Although she had brought plenty of money with her, she was not about to subsidize Granville’s government with gold Lord Roland had so kindly embezzled for her private use.
The reopening happened anyway. Rooms were cleaned and aired, bushes and trees pruned. Ness Royal unfolded like a dawn daisy, with fathers hastily teaching sons how to groom horses or wait on table, mothers showing daughters how the gentry’s beds should be made—and perhaps also telling of other ways royal gold traveled during the good times. It was better not to ask too many questions.
Time was the enemy. “So brief!” Malinda whispered on her third or fourth night in that oversnug bed. “Granville will marry me off. We must net every butterfly of happiness.”
“Scratch every fleabite of lust,” Dog mumbled while chewing her left ear.
“Don’t be horrid. Worse—how long can we trust that ring of yours? How can we get it conjured again?”
He munched her neck gently. “No need worry. Asked the Chancellor ’bout that before we left Greymere.”
“You did what?” How public could a secret romance become?
“Durendal. Asked him. Said babies not good idea. Gave me bagful of them. A year’s supply, he said, no matter how potent I was.” Content in a Blade’s certainty that no man could be potenter, Dog continued his explorations.
At the end of that first week, the Black Riders arrived and pitched tents in the remains of the Gatehouse. By then Audley had recruited a corps of sentries to give advance warning of any hostile move, but Marshal Souris seemed to have no such intentions. He sent a letter requesting an audience and accepted Audle
y’s conditions without argument.
Malinda received him in state. The hall in Kingstead was cramped and dowdy and gloomy at the best of times, but she laid on the best show she could. A pretentiously gilded chair that had belonged to her mother was dusted off and set up at the far end from the door. Malinda herself stood in front of it, where dust-sparkled sunbeams slanting down through the highest windows would illuminate her. She was attended by Audley and Winter and half a dozen local girls dressed up as ladies-in-waiting; they stood in the shadows, where their attire would not seem too unconvincing. Dog and Abel guarded the door.
The Marshal arrived alone, as had been agreed, and was allowed to keep his sword. He clumped along the length of the hall with his helmet under his arm and his spurs jingling. He made the requisite three bows and was permitted to kiss Her Grace’s fingers, all according to protocol. With his long nose and bristly mustache, the little man was still very much Mouse Rampant as he glowered at the two smirking Blades he had perhaps been ordered to kill on the road.
“The Council of Regency has instructed me to guard your person, my lady, and that means guarding your residence.” Something in his manner suggested a steel-lined crypt might be a good, safe place in which to store princesses.
“I am honored to have a warrior of your reputation caring for me, Marshal. I cannot believe there is danger on the island that my Guard cannot handle, but we shall rely on you to keep the entrance secure.”
His nose, she thought, twitched. His eyes certainly glittered. “On this side of the bridge you should be perfectly safe.”
“Others may not be—although I do try to keep my Blades under control, of course.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Should any matter require my presence back on the mainland, rest assured that I shall notify you well in advance, Marshal. I rely on you to keep unwanted intruders away.”
He nodded and—almost—smiled. “Your Highness is most gracious.”
They understood each other perfectly. Thus was a deal struck. Thus was a boundary drawn.
Three days later, Arabel arrived with Sister Moment and maids of honor Dove, Ruby, and Alys, plus about a dozen servants. The reunion of Lady Arabel and Widow de Fait was a memorable impact that should have been accompanied by peals of thunder. They had been close friends nine years ago and had a lot of catching up to do.
A man vaguely described as a distant cousin paid a brief visit to Sir Thierry, who was thereafter assumed to be a spy in the pay of the Dark Chamber. The inquisitors might be reporting to the Lord Protector or just gathering information for their own devious purposes, as they were wont to do.
The Blades had their own network. It was astonishing how swiftly news filtered north, how Kingstead so often knew things before the Gatehouse did. Cloth, nails, spices, wine…the list of goods the Nessians needed to acquire in Fishport was endless, so that never a day passed without some woman on a donkey or an ambling youth being sent to fetch something from the village. An elderly couple of quality had recently purchased a home there; the old gentleman still wore a cat’s-eye sword.
The Duke and Duchess of Brinton lived about half a day’s ride from Ness Royal, and early in Fifthmoon they came to visit. Although Malinda had always regarded him as a soporific old bore and her as a prude, she was immensely grateful for this show of support. Of course, he did have a couple of aging Blades whispering in his ears, but it was also true that prudes did not approve of bastards running countries.
“I expect the Parliamentary writ will be dropped soon,” the Duke huffed. He was big, in the Ranulf fashion; his head resembled a well-weathered tombstone coated with whiskery patches of lichen. “You planning to take your seat, Cousin?”
The idea had never occurred to her. “The last time I checked, Uncle, I was a woman.”
“You’re the senior peer of the realm! Obviously you don’t see women in the Commons.” He chuckled ponderously at the thought. “But there have been some in the Lords. The Countess of Mornicade, now—”
“I don’t think we need discuss her,” his wife said sharply. She sat erect and unyielding; her face always looked starched.
“It might be interesting,” Malinda said ambiguously. “The Council has ordered me to remain here. If I have the right to attend Parliament, then it probably does not have the right to keep me away.” It might be an interesting challenge, and she would send word to Snake and Roland suggesting it.
“You will journey south with us,” said the Duchess. “We’ll call for you on the way.”
“You are very kind.”
The Brintons must have spread the word, because never a week went by after that without some local notables dropping in to pay their respects and check on her well-being. The upper layers of Chivian society did not like the way the Lord Protector was progressively replacing the aristocrats on the Council with his lowborn henchmen, although his shining armor still shone bright enough in commoners’ eyes.
Repairs to the Gatehouse were completed. One of the apprentices employed bore a striking resemblance to Sir Abel, and this curious coincidence might help explain how Commander Audley came to own a duplicate set of all the keys.
Later in Fifthmoon came word the King’s health continued to give concern, that negotiations for the Princess’s marriage were advancing on several fronts (how many husbands did she need?), and that Snake’s Court of Conjury had been disbanded, so the traitor enchanters had won the Monster War by default.
Sixthmoon brought summer heat but still no invitation to her own wedding—although she heard unofficially that King Radgar had offered astonishingly generous peace terms for a second chance at her. Even Granville had scorned that offer. Prince Courtney had been closely questioned by the Council and was now confined in the Bastion. Poor Courtney! All his life he had been a penniless parasite on the body politic, and when he finally received his due in titles and honors he had the misfortune to run into a human landslide like Granville. Was he just a dust bunny on the steps of the throne being swept aside, or were his problems intended as a warning to her?
Dian, who had now been a widow longer than a wife, was frequently seen in the company of Sir Winter. She claimed she had found a way to stop him biting his nails.
Malinda invited Sir Souris to dinner. Butcher he might be, but he was also amusing company. They talked of horses, harvest prospects, foreign campaigns, and other safe topics.
Seventhmoon brought bad news of Baelish raiding and several private Blades being attacked by mobs or found murdered in ditches. The Council had ordered the Royal Guard confined to Beaufort “for its own protection.” It was universally agreed that Parliament, when it met, would suppress the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades completely.
A pompous Grandon merchant who was also Consul General for Dimencio came to pay his respects to the Princess, bringing an artist to sketch her. Dimencio, as he tactfully reminded Her Grace, who had never heard of it, was a minor principality in southeastern Eurania, known for its olive oil and smoked fish. His Highness the Prince had recently been bereaved and was anxious to foster relations with Chivial, et cetera. His age? Oh, about fifty, the consul thought…Yes, several children already…
“You may convey my deepest appreciation to His Highness,” Malinda said, “for his interest and also convey my regrets. As heir apparent I will neither marry nor leave Chivial without the express permission of Parliament. Perhaps you would also be so good as to make this decision known around the diplomatic community?”
This defense had been suggested by Durendal. It should, he had written, knock the shoes off Granville’s sneaky marriage plans.
By Eighthmoon the Baelish raiding had increased, there was unrest in Wylderland again, and it was common knowledge that the government could not pay its bills. An election writ had been issued.
Just before dawn on the first day of Ninthmoon, Malinda was awakened by knuckles beating on her bedroom door.
29
Come, and if thou but
Canst be here by Dawn surely Nightfall will see thee crowned sovereign Lord; yet if thou Canst not then Flee now, for by Sunset shalt thou be dubbed Traitor, Felon, and all Men raised against thee.
DURENDAL TO RANULF, ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF ARBOR
“Who’s there?” Dog was not, of course, because the bed was too small for both of them. He frequently returned around dawn “to see if there was anything she needed,” but he had not done so yet.
“Dian and men. Emergency.”
Malinda lurched out of bed, kicked the rug over the trapdoor, clutched a robe around herself, and unbolted the door, all in pretty much a single movement. In came Dian and Audley, supporting between them a slender, shabbily dressed youth. His head lolled as if he were barely conscious, but he groaned when they laid him on the bed. His clothes were nondescript, and it took Malinda a moment in the dim light to notice the cat’s-eye pommel on his sword and then recognize the haggard and unshaven face of Sir Marlon, one of the Guard youngsters.
“Don’t think he’s wounded,” Audley said, “just exhausted.” Winter and Dog had arrived, Dog filling the doorway so Winter could not get past. The eastern sky was brightening over the sea. “I’ve never seen a horse worse used.”
“Spirits!” Malinda said. “What in fire is going on?” But she knew. Of course she knew. Marlon was one of the best horsemen in the Guard. It made sense to send Marlon.
“Marlon!” Audley said, bending over the boy. “Her Highness is here. Malinda is here.”
She pushed him aside and knelt. “Sir Marlon? What message did you bring me?” She remembered Lord Roland telling of her betrothal to Radgar and Dominic bringing a lethal message to her mother, here in Kingstead. Messages brought by Blades were never good news.
His eyes opened, but they wandered. “Princess?”
“I’m here. Tell me and then you can sleep—rest, I mean.”
“Come,” he mumbled. “Dominic…Roland…”
“The King, Marlon! What of the King?”
