The Blood Knight

by Greg Keyes

  “Horses?” he asked.

  “Hespero. With some sixty riders, I should say.”

  “Will he catch us?”

  “Not soon. He’ll have to stop for nightfall, just like us. And he’ll be much slower using horses.” She clapped him on the back. “Speaking of which, we’d better make camp. It’s going to get very, very cold tonight. Fortunately, I know a place.”

  The place she meant turned out to be a cave, snug, dry, and very small once the two of them, her dogs, and the kalboks were inside. Pale conjured up a small fire and used it to warm some salted meat Pernho had given them, and they had that with a beverage she called barleywine that tasted something like beer. It was pretty strong stuff, and it didn’t take much before Stephen felt light-headed.

  He found himself studying the woman’s features, and to his embarrassment, she caught him at it.

  “I, ah, should have told you before,” Stephen said, “but I think you’re beautiful.”

  Her expression didn’t change. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m the only woman for fifty leagues, and we’re sleeping unchaperoned in a cave. Imagine how flattered I am when you shower me with compliments.”

  “I…no. You don’t—” He stopped and rubbed his forehead. “Look, you must think I know something about women. I don’t.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Stephen frowned, opened his mouth, closed it. This was going nowhere. He wasn’t even sure why he’d started it.

  “How much farther do we have to go?” he asked instead.

  “Two days, maybe three, depending on how much snow we find in the next pass. That’s just to the mountain. Do you know where to go once we get there?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not certain. Kauron went to a place called Hadivaisel. It might be a town.”

  “There’s no town at Xal Slevendy,” she said. “At least—” She broke off. “ ‘Adiwara’ is a word for Sefry. The old people say there’s a Sefry rewn there.”

  “That must be it, then,” Stephen said.

  “You have some idea how to find it?”

  “None at all. Kauron said something about talking to an old Hadivar, but that supposes he’d already found the rewn, I guess. And that was a long time ago.”

  “You’ll find it,” she said firmly. “You’re meant to.”

  “But if Hespero finds us first…”

  “That will be a problem,” she acknowledged. “So you’ll have to find it quickly.”

  “Right,” he said without a lot of hope.

  He was starting to appreciate just how big mountains could be. And he remembered the exit from the rewn in the King’s Forest. Four yards away, it had been invisible. It was going to be like searching for a raindrop in a river.

  He pulled out the pages he’d copied, hoping to find a better translation. Pale watched him without comment.

  Among the pages was the loose sheet he’d found; he’d nearly forgotten it. It was very old, the characters on it faded, but he recognized the same odd mixture of letters on the epistle he’d carried and understood with growing excitement that what he held was actually a key for translating it.

  Of course, Hespero now had the epistle, but he ought to be able to recall—

  Something suddenly shivered through him.

  “What?” Pale said.

  “There was something in the chapel,” he said. “I haven’t really had time to think about it. But I swear I heard a voice. And my lamp; there was a face in it.”

  “In the lamp?”

  “In the flame,” he said.

  She looked unsurprised. “Ghosts get lost in the mountains,” she said. “The winds fetch them up into the high valleys, and they can’t get out.”

  “If this was a ghost, it was an old one. It spoke a language a thousand years dead.”

  She hesitated then. “No one knows what happened to Kauron,” she said. “Some say he never returned, that he vanished into the mountains. But some say he appeared in the chapel late one night, babbling like a man with fever, though his skin was cool. The priest who found him put him to bed, and the next morning there was no sign of him. The bed showed no trace of being slept in, and the priest was left wondering if he’d really seen him or merely had a vision or a dream.”

  “Have you ever felt anything there?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I’ve never heard anyone else report anything unusual, either. But you’re different: a Revesturi and Kauron’s heir. Maybe that’s why he spoke to you.”

  “I don’t know. Whoever—whatever—it was, it didn’t seem nice or even helpful. I felt as if it was mocking me.”

  “Well, I’ve no idea, then,” she said. “Maybe Kauron had enemies and you’ve attracted them, too. In the mountains, the past and the present aren’t distant cousins. They’re brother and sister.”

  Stephen nodded and refolded his notes.

  “Well,” he said, “I think I’ll try and get some sleep.”

  “About that.” She sighed. “I may have to give you one more chance, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because, as I said, it’s going to get awfully cold tonight.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but she closed it with a kiss that smelled pleasantly of barleywine. He kept his eyes open, wondering at how different a face looked from that close.

  She nibbled around to his ear and down the side of his throat.

  “I really don’t know much about women,” he apologized.

  “So you said. Then it’s time you had a lesson, I think. I can’t give you the ultimate lesson; this time of month you might get me with child, and we don’t want that. But there’s no point in skipping to the back of the book, is there? I think some of the early chapters can be pretty entertaining.”

  Stephen didn’t reply; anything he said was potentially the wrong thing.

  Besides, he’d pretty much lost interest in talking.

  IGNORING SIR LEAFTON’S protests, Anne hurried to the far end of the square, where the Craftsmen had been quickly building a redoubt, piling crates, planks, bricks, and stone between two buildings that together commanded most of the breadth between the two walls.

  In the few bells they’d had, they’d done a creditable job, but it wasn’t good enough. As Anne watched, a wave of armored men eight deep crashed into it, about half of them wielding pikes to keep the Craftsmen back as men with sword and shield pushed forward. Already they were spilling over the top. That quickly, Anne saw her plans crumbling.

  It would be only seconds before their line was breached.

  “Saints,” Austra shrieked, echoing Anne’s sentiments as one of her men fell, a spear driven through his mouth lapping out the back of his head like a monster’s tongue.

  “Archers!” Leafton bellowed, and suddenly a black hail fell from the roofs and upper windows of the buildings. The charge faltered as shields raised to ward off fletchéd death, and the Craftsmen’s line closed solid and surged back to the wall.

  Anne experienced a brief flash of hope, but they were still terribly outnumbered. Should she go now, while she had the chance? Take Austra and Cazio into the tunnels? At least she would avoid capture, and Artwair’s hands wouldn’t be tied by threats to her life.

  But the thought of leaving her men to die was intolerable.

  The attackers re-formed their ranks and battered at the wall again. Many fell, but they kept pushing.

  “Majesty,” Leafton said, “I beg you. Move away from here. They will break through at any moment.”

  Anne shook his arm off and closed her eyes, feeling the ringing of steel and hoarse cries of pain vibrate through her, reaching through it and beneath her for the power she needed to boil blood and marrow. If she could summon the same sort of power she had had at Khrwbh Khrwkh, she might be able to turn the tide or at least give her men respite.

  But at Khrwbh Khrwkh there had been something potent in the earth, a pocket of sickness she had been able to dr
aw to the surface, like pus in a boil. Here she sensed something similar, but it was more distant and more subtle, and lurking behind it she could feel the demon, waiting for her to open the way. Thus, a part of her faltered.

  But a sudden new tenor entered the sounds of fray, and she opened her eyes to see what had happened.

  Her heart fell when she saw that the attackers had been reinforced and were now nearly double their number, or so she thought at first.

  Then she realized that wasn’t the case at all; the newcomers weren’t armored, at least not most of them. They wore guild clothing and jessy, woolen plaid and workman’s flenne. They carried clubs and pitchforks, fishing spears, hunting bows, knives, and even a few swords, and they were cutting into her attackers from the rear.

  The Craftsmen all sang out at once and went slashing over the wall. Blood ran like rainwater down the streets of Gobelin Court.

  “The people of Eslen,” Austra breathed.

  Anne nodded. “I sent four men to spread the word. I thought I would test the theory that I have their support.” She turned to her friend and smiled. “It appears that I do, at least some of them.”

  “And why shouldn’t you?” Austra excitedly replied. “You’re their queen!”

  At sundown Anne stood at the window of Saint Ceasel’s Tower on the Fastness. It was a beautiful afternoon; the sun’s great belly was impaled on the distant towers of Thornrath, making a red mirror of the Ensae, which she could just make out between the great paps of Tom Woth and Tom Cast. She could see the Sleeve, already velvety with shadow, and far below that the vine-covered dwellings of the dead in Eslen-of-Shadows and farther out on the misty rinns. The wind was from the sea, and it smelled strong and good.

  This was her home; these were the sights and smells of her childhood. And yet it was strange now. Until a year ago this frame she looked upon—Thornrath, the rinns—contained most of the world she knew. Oh, she’d been east as far as Loiyes, but she knew now that that was a small distance. Today, in her mind’s far gaze she could see beyond the rinns to the hills and forest, across the strands and plains of Hornladh and Tero Gallé, to the South Lierish Sea, to the white hills and red roofs of Vitellio.

  Every sight, every sound, every league traveled had made her something different, and home no longer fit the way it once had.

  She turned her attention to the north, to the city. There was the palace, of course, the only thing that really stood above her now, and below was her little kingdom of Gobelin Court. Volunteers continued to arrive, and Leafton and the other Craftsmen were working quickly to make them useful. The redoubt was infinitely more secure than it had been during the first attack, and all the natural walls were now well manned.

  Robert’s men hadn’t been idle, of course. She could see them all around, a few streets away from her perimeter, building their own camps, trying to cut off aid from the outside. She’d even seen a few small siege engines rumbling down the hill, but most of the streets approaching the quarter weren’t wide enough for them.

  “Do you think they’ll attack again tonight?” she asked Leafton.

  “I doubt it. Nor, I think, will they fight in the morning. A siege is what I imagine. He’ll try and keep us contained here until we’re out of supplies.”

  “Good,” Anne said.

  “Your pardon, Majesty.”

  “I have something to do tonight,” she told him. “In the Sefry house. I will be unavailable all night, possibly into tomorrow. I am not to be disturbed, and I leave the defense of this place entirely to you.”

  “Of course, you must have your rest,” Leafton said. “But in case of an emergency—”

  “I won’t be available,” she asserted. “I’ll take four men of your choosing to guard me, but other than that, do not send anyone into the house after me. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t understand, Majesty, no.”

  “What I meant was, ‘Will you obey?’” Anne clarified.

  “Of course, Majesty.”

  “Very good. Austra, Cazio—it’s time we were going.” She laid her hand on Leafton’s arm. “You’re a capable man,” she said. “I trust you. Keep my men safe. Please.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  Anne wasn’t sure what she’d thought the entrance to the Crepling passage would look like, but she’d imagined it would be hidden, an invisible wall panel of some sort, a rotating bookcase, a hatch beneath a rug.

  It was, at least, located in the cold cellar of the building, behind racks of wine and hanging meats. But the entrance itself was just a little door set into the living rock into which the Sefry house was built. It was made of some sort of dark metal, with hinges and hasps of polished brass. Mother Uun produced a rather large key. She turned it in the lock, and the door opened almost noiselessly, revealing a descending stairway.

  Anne allowed herself a wisp of a smile. Artwair and others in her command had assured her that the city and castle of Eslen were nearly impregnable, that its poellands and massive walls could frustrate nearly any army. Yet the city had fallen more than once. She tried to remember the stratagems by which her forefathers had won Eslen and dimly recalled the lesson as one to which she had paid a bit of attention.

  Looking back on it, it seemed rather vague, the tale of that siege. There was lots of talk about bravery and bloody determination but not much detail about how William I had actually ended up in the Hall of Doves, with his sword driven into Thiuzwald Fram Reiksbaurg’s liver.

  How many times had it happened like this? A small group of women or Sefry invading the fortress through this passageway to work some sort of mischief, to open the lower gates that a larger force might enter? Mother Uun, it seemed to her, was the keeper of far too much power. The fate of a dynasty could hinge on her Sefry whims.

  But any man who sought her aid wouldn’t recall exactly what had happened, wouldn’t know how he’d gotten into the castle, wouldn’t remember how much power this lone Sefry wielded.

  But Anne would remember. She would remember, and she would do something about it. When she was queen, there would be no walking into the castle unopposed.

  With a sudden shock, Anne realized how intently Mother Uun was watching her. Could the Sefry read her thoughts?

  “Well?” she asked.

  “At the base of the stairs you will find the passage,” the Sefry explained. “Take the right-hand way, and it will take you outside the city, to the rinns. Take the left-hand way, and you will find your way into the dungeons, and from there into the castle, if you so wish. If the lower way is filled with water, you will find the valves that drain them in a small chamber to the left, just before the point where the water reaches the ceiling. They will take time to open up, of course, on the order of half a day.”

  Anne nodded. If her vision was accurate, Sir Fail’s fleet would arrive in two days. If Thornrath was in Artwair’s hand’s by then, her uncle could confront the fleet and keep the outside gates open long enough for her to exit, then lead in a larger force.

  She’d considered trying to take the palace with the men she had with her but didn’t think there would be enough of them. There were hundreds of guards in the castle. The thirty men she had left wouldn’t be enough to do more than tip her hand.

  Either way, it was probably going to be difficult getting men to follow her through a gate they couldn’t remember even while they were looking at it. But it could be done. Cazio had managed to follow her would-be-assassin, after all. And her brother, Uncle Fail, and the Craftsmen had managed somehow to leave Eslen, led by Alis Berrye, if the rumors were true.

  Yes, it could be done, and she had to take the first step: making certain the way was open.

  “Take Cazio’s hand, Austra,” Anne said. “The rest of you, link hands as well. Keep them held until I tell you to let go. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  “Very well. And now we go.”

  “Go where?” Cazio asked.

  Cazio wondered if he’d gotten d
runk without knowing it. He was aware of Austra’s hand, of the stone beneath his feet, of Anne’s face in lamplight, but he kept getting lost in the details.

  He couldn’t actually remember what he was doing or where they were. It was like walking through a terrible sort of dream. He kept thinking he was waking, only to discover that he’d only dreamed he was doing so.

  He remembered going into the Sefry house and Anne talking about something or other with the old woman. He recalled that they’d gone down to the cold cellar, which seemed peculiar.

  But that felt like a long time ago.

  Maybe it was a dream, he decided. Or maybe he was drunk.

  Maybe—He blinked. Anne was talking to someone again. Now she was shouting.

  And now he was running. But why? He slowed to look around, but Austra tugged hard on his hand and screamed for him to keep going.

  He heard unfamiliar laughter somewhere.

  He tasted blood on his lips, which seemed especially odd.

  NEIL FELT the death calm settle about him. His breathing evened, and he savored the salt air as he watched a sea eagle banking in a sky equally blue and gray. The wind gentled from the southwest, ruffling the soft new grass of the hillside like a million fingers combing verdant hair. All seemed still.

  Closing his eyes, he murmured a snatch of song.

  Mi, Etier meuf, eyoiz’etiern rem,

  Crach-toi, frennz, mi viveut-toi dein…

  “What’s that, Sir Neil?”

  He opened his eyes. The question had come from a man just about his age, a knight named Edhmon Archard, from the Greffy of Seaxeld. He had quick blue eyes, pink cheeks, and hair as white as thistledown. His armor was good plain stuff, and Neil couldn’t see a dent on it.

  Of course, his own armor was just as new. He’d found it in his tent the morning after Robert escaped, sent as a present by Elyoner Dare, who’d had his measurements taken “for clothes,” or so she had claimed. Still, Neil had the impression that in Sir Edhmon’s case, the man in the armor was as untested as the steel itself.