by Greg Keyes
"Yes, I suppose she did." Lady Graham leaned back and had another sip of tea. "What do you suppose Robert will do with the music?"
"Something very bad," Leoff said.
"I'm trying to imagine. A band of pipers marching across the battlefield? A choir of trumpets, and everyone on the defending wall dropping dead?"
"It's not impossible," Leoff replied, feeling sick. "Hard to coordinate, but someone skilled enough in arranging and composing could do it."
"Someone like yourself?"
"Yes."
"Maybe that's why you're here, so well protected. Maybe Artwair has commissioned you to write the piece again."
"I won't. He knows that. He knows I would die first."
"But Mery might remember it?"
"No."
"She is a prodigy."
"No," he repeated, almost shouting.
"Not even to save Crotheny?"
"You stay away from her," he snapped.
Lady Graham nodded and drank a bit more tea. "What about your counterchord? Could you compose a music to neutralize whatever Robert may be up to? If he is up to anything other than his own amusement?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Have you tried?"
I don't want to be tricked again. He wanted to shout. I don't want to be used again.
"You let something terrible into the world, Leovigild Ackenzal. You're responsible for that."
"Who are you?" Areana asked suddenly. "You didn't come here to talk about the custody of Mery."
The lady smiled. "I admit to practicing a bit of deception," she replied. "But I've come here to tell you certain things and to perhaps give you a bit of a slap in the face."
"Who are you?" Areana repeated, looking askance at the lady's armed guard.
"Hush, child, so I can tell your husband something important."
"Don't speak to her like that," Leoff said.
The lady set her cup down. "Don't you wonder why, since the days of the Black Jester, no one has ever discovered what you discovered?"
"Robert placed certain books at my disposal."
"Yes, my point. There are books! They describe armies being slain by choirs of eunuchs and water organs. They explain how the modes function. These books are well known to scholars. Do you think in all of this time no one else with the talent to do so has attempted what you did?"
"I hadn't thought about it," Leoff admitted.
"It didn't happen because it wasn't possible," Graham, or whoever she was, said. "The music you created can only exist when the law of death is broken, as it was during the reign of the Black Jester. As it is now."
"The law of death?"
"The thing that separates life from death, that makes them different states."
"Robert!" Leoff exploded.
"Robert wasn't the first, but before him the law was only compromised. His return from death was the breaking point, and once broken, the law is more easily violated again and again, until the boundary between quick and dead is entirely gone. And when that happens-well, that's the end of us all. Imagine the law as like a dike, holding back deadly waters. When it's first compromised, there's just a small leak. Left alone, the hole gets wider no matter what. But when vandals start poking at it with shovels, it widens very quickly, and eventually the whole thing collapses."
"Why would anyone do that?"
"Well, you might put a small hole in a dike to run a water mill, yes? And you turn a profit and need a bigger mill, a larger stream of water? There is great power in violating the law of death. Robert can be stabbed in the heart and keep walking. You can write a sinfonia that murders, and that's only the start. As the law grows weaker, those who break it grow stronger. This is especially true now, as other powers of destruction are waxing."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Your music made the hole, so to speak, considerably wider."
"But what can I do? How was the law of death mended before?"
She smiled. "I've no idea. But consider the possibility that if the right song can weaken the law-"
"Then another might strengthen it," Areana finished.
The lady stood. "Precisely."
"Wait," Leoff said. "That's not nearly enough. Why should I even believe any of this?"
"Because you do."
"No. I've been duped before. I'm not off on another fool's errand that might make everything worse."
"If that's true, there is no hope," the lady replied. "In any event, I've said what I came to say."
"Wait a moment."
"No, I shan't. Good luck to you."
And despite his further protests, she left, mounted her carriage, and was gone, leaving Leoff and Areana staring after her.
"Artwair knew she was coming," Areana said. "Perhaps he can shed some light on this."
Leoff nodded and absently realized he still had the duke's letter in his hand. He held it up, and blinked.
What had earlier appeared to be Artwair's seal was only an unmarked dab of wax.
PART I
THE UNHEALED
Even a broken sword has an edge.
- LIERISH PROVERB
CHAPTER ONE
THE QUEEN OF DEMONS
ANNE SIGHED with pleasure as ghosts brushed her bare flesh. She kept her eyes closed as they murmured softly about her, savoring their faintly chilly caresses. She inhaled the ripe perfumes of decay and for the first time in a very long time felt a deep contentment.
Anne, one of the phantoms simpered. Anne, there is no time.
A bit irritated, she opened her eyes to see three women standing before her.
No, she realized. They weren't standing at all. Feeling a weird tingle that she knew ought to be more, she turned her gaze around her to see what else there was.
She was elsewhere, of course, couched on deep, spongy moss grown on a hammock in a blackwater fen that went beyond sight in every direction. The branches of the trees above her were tatted together like the finest Safnian lace, allowing only the wispiest of diffuse light through to glisten on the dew-jeweled webs of spiders larger than her hand.
The women swayed faintly, the boughs above them creaking a bit from their weight.
One wore a black gown and a black mask, and her locks were flowing silver. The next wore forest green and a golden mask, and her red braids swayed almost to her feet. The third wore a mask of bone and a dress the color of dried blood. Her hair was brown.
Their undisguised lips and flesh were bluish-black above the coils of rope that had cinched about their necks and wrung out their lives.
The Faiths, those obtuse creatures, were dead. Should she be sad? Part of her thought so.
Anne.
She started. Was one of them still alive? But then she felt the ghosts again, tickling against her. Now she knew who the ghosts were.
Should she be frightened? Part of her thought so.
"You're dead," she observed.
"Yes," the faint voice replied. "We fought to linger here, but too much of us is gone. We had something to tell you."
"Something useful? That would be the first time."
"Pity us, Anne. We did what we could. Find our sister."
"That's right, there are four of you," Anne remembered. Was she asleep? She seemed to be having trouble recalling things.
"Yes, four. Find-ah, no. He's coming. Anne-"
But then a cold wind started in the depths of the quag, and the canopy was alive with strange dark birds, and Anne was suddenly alone with corpses.
But only for a moment. Then she felt him, as she had another time when in this place. All of her blood seemed to gather on one side of her body, and all of the branches of the forest yearned toward his invisible presence.
"Well, there you are, little queen," the voice said. "It's been too long."
"Stay back," she said. "You remember last time."
"Last time, I was weaker and you had help," the voice replied. "This is not last time."
"What do you wan
t?"
"Your company, sweet queen. Your hand in marriage."
"Who are you?"
"Your king."
"I have no king," Anne bristled. "I am queen, regent in my own right."
"Look deeper in your heart," the voice purred.
"Who are you?"
"You want my name? What do names matter when one is as we are?"
"There is no 'we,'" Anne protested. But her belly tingled, as it had when Roderick had kissed her there.
The presence moved closer, and though she could not see him, she felt as if the shadow wore a wicked smile.
"Why did you kill the Faiths?"
A deep chuckle rustled through the branches, and the water stirred into circles all about.
Then a ruddy light fell on the broken surface of the fen, and Anne felt heat behind her. With a shriek, she turned to confront him.
But it was no male thing that stood behind her; there was no mistaking that. The body that shone like a white flame was willowy but certainly female, dressed only in locks that billowed and curled like strands of liquid, living fire. Her face was so terrible in its beauty that Anne felt as if icicles had been driven through her eyes and deep into her brain. She screamed so loudly, she felt her throat was tearing.
"Hush," the woman said, and Anne felt her larynx instantly close. Then the horrible gaze went through and beyond her.
"Leave," she commanded.
"You only delay the inevitable," the male voice muttered.
"Leave," the woman repeated.
Anne felt the weight of him lessen.
"I didn't kill your friends," he said, and was gone.
Anne felt the woman's gaze on her but could not look up.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
"The Kept gave you my true name," the woman replied. "He gave you some of my old epithets-Queen of Demons, and so on."
"Yes. But I don't…" She trailed off in confusion.
"You wonder rather what I am. What I want. Why I've helped you."
"I guess so," Anne said weakly, feeling suddenly presumptuous.
"Am I demon or saint?" the woman sighed, so close that Anne could feel her breath.
"Yes," Anne barely managed.
"If there were a difference, perhaps I could tell you," she replied.
"And the man…"
"He's quite right, you know," the woman went on. "He didn't kill the Faiths. I did. For you."
"What do you mean?"
"You led me to them. You rejected them, withdrew your protection, and I ended their existence. All but the one, and I shall find her."
"But why?"
"You don't need them," she said. "You never did. They were poor councillors. And now you have me."
"I don't want you," Anne protested.
"Then say my name. Tell me to leave."
Anne swallowed.
"You won't," the woman said. "You need my help. You need all the help you can get, because he will come for you and will either make you his or destroy you. Which means you must destroy him. And that you cannot currently do. Your friends will fall first, then you."
"And if I believe you, how can I stop that?"
"Strengthen yourself every way you can. Let me teach you the ways of your power. When he comes, you will be ready, if you trust me."
"Trust you," Anne murmured, finally lifting her gaze to the woman's face.
This time it wasn't so terrifying. There was something in the set of the woman's eyes that seemed truthful.
"Give me a reason to trust you," Anne said.
A smile slit the woman's face. "You have another enemy, one you haven't noticed yet, one that even I have difficulty seeing, for he-or perhaps she-sits deep in the shadows of the Reiksbaurg Palace. Like you, he is able to look across leagues and through time. Haven't you wondered why you manage to surprise the forces of the Church but Hansa is always one step ahead of you?"
"Yes," Anne replied. "I assumed spies and traitors were involved. How can you be certain it's shinecraft?"
"Because there is a place I can never see, and that is the sign of a Hellrune," the woman replied.
"A Hellrune?"
"A Hellrune sees through the eyes of the dead, who do not know past from present. Because the law of death has been broken, that is an even more powerful gift than it once was. But you get your visions directly through the sedos power. You can be stronger: See the consequences of his visions and act against them. In time, you will even be able to command the dead to give him false visions. But before you achieve that mastery, he can do much harm. If you act as I say, you may stop him sooner."
"How is that?"
"Send an embassy to Hansa, to the court of Marcomir. Send your mother, Neil MeqVren, Alis Berrye-"
"I'll do no such thing," Anne snapped. "I just got my mother back; I won't send her into danger."
"Do you think she isn't in danger in Eslen? Try to dream about that. I promise you that you will not like what visions come."
A sick dismay was starting to grip Anne, but she tried to stay strong. "You're less use than the Faiths," she said.
"No, I'm not. Your mother is going to ask to go, anyway; she thinks there is a chance for peace. You'll know by that that I'm telling you something useful. But further, I'll tell you this: If you send your mother, the knight, and the assassin to Kaithbaurg, I foresee an excellent chance for them to end the threat of the Hellrune and thus weaken Hansa. If you do not send them, I see you weeping over your mother's body in Eslen-of-the-Dead."
"An 'excellent chance'? Why can't you see whether they kill him or not?"
"Two reasons. The first is that since you haven't decided to send them, the future is cloudy. But the deeper reason is that as I told you, I am not able to see the Hellrune. But I know the opportunity can arise. Try seeing it yourself."
"I can't direct my visions," Anne said. "They just come."
"You can direct them," the woman insisted. "Remember how once you had to be summoned here? Now you come and go as you please. It's the same. Everything you need is here, especially now that the Faiths aren't mucking around."
"Where is here?" Anne asked. "I've never understood that."
"Why, inside the sedos," she replied. "This is where the world is moved from, where the power flows from. It is given form only by those who live here. It is your kingdom now, and you can shape it as you want. Hansa, the future, the past-all are here. Grasp the reins of power. You need not take my word for anything I've just said. Discover it for yourself."
And like a fire blown out by a wind, she flickered and was gone.
Anne stood there for a moment, looking at the dead faces of the Faiths.
Was it possible? Could she really free herself from the whims of the forces around her? Could she actually steer them herself, be free of doubt, finally chart her own destiny without the meddling of untrustworthy wights?
"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" she asked the Faiths.
But their whispering was over.
"Well," she murmured. "Let's see if she's telling the truth."
And she saw, and woke with tears streaming on her face, and knew some things had to be done.
She rose to do them.
CHAPTER TWO
AN EMBASSY
WHEN NEIL MEQVREN saw the dragon banner of Hansa, his heart sped and his hand shivered for killing. Pain stitched up his side, and he couldn't keep back a gasp.
"Easy, Sir Neil," Muriele Dare said.
He tried to smile at her. In the sunlight a bit of her age was showing: wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and on the line of the chin, a few strands of silver in her black hair. Yet he had never seen her look more beautiful than now, in an emerald Safnite riding habit and embroidered black buskins. A simple rose gold circlet settled over her brow told her rank.
"Sir Neil?" she repeated.
"Majesty," he replied.
"We aren't here to fight, so stray your hand away from that sword." Her brow creased. "Perhaps you should
n't be here at all."
"I'm hale, Majesty."
"No, you aren't," she retorted. "Your wounds are still fresh."
"He's a MeqVren," Sir Fail de Liery said. "Like his father and his before. Men stubborn as an iron prow."
"I know I can't fight," Neil said. "I know I'll split open at the seams. But I still have eyes. I might see a knife in time."
"And then split open your seams," Fail grunted.
Neil shrugged, and even that hurt.
"You're not here to step between me and a knife, Sir Neil," Muriele said.
Then why am I here? he wondered silently. But he felt the tightness in his arms and legs and knew. Like the leics who had tended him, the queen mother believed he might never be able to wield a blade again. She was trying, as it were, to teach him another trade. So now, while the kingdom girded for war, Neil found himself gazing on the faces of the enemy, trying to count them.
He estimated a full Hanzish wairdu, about a hundred men, on the field between them and the white walls of Copenwis, but that would be only a fraction of their army. Copenwis was occupied, and though he could not see them, Neil knew that a sizable portion of the Hansan fleet was anchored in the harbor and along the shore of the great port. Six thousand, perhaps. Ten? Twenty? There was no way to know from here.
In his own party there were twenty, not twenty thousand. To be sure, they had nearly two thousand men behind them, but they were more than a league behind. The queen had not wanted to tempt the Hansans into battle. Not yet, anyway.
So the northerners glared at their flag of parley, and they waited. Neil heard them muttering in their windy tongue and remembered dark nights in his childhood, creeping up on Hanzish positions, hearing the same hushed language.
"Copenwis has fine walls," Sir Fail observed.
Neil nodded and glanced at his old patron. Not long ago, he'd still had a trace of black in his hair, but now it was less gray than white. He wore it long, in the fashion of the isles, bound back with a simple leather thong. His cheek was pitted from the shatters of a spear shaft, and one of his brows lifted oddly from the time a Weihand sword had all but flensed that part of his forehead from his skull. Neil had first seen him with that purple, loose flap of skin and his eye swollen shut. He'd been six and had thought he was seeing Neuden Lem Eryeint, the battle saint, come as flesh on earth. And in the years since, serving him, in his heart of hearts he still thought of Fail that way: immortal, greater than other men.
