Near him stood a tall, grey haired man, his left arm a bleeding stump, cut off by a blow that continued into his chest, slicing between two ribs to cleave his heart. With a jolt Anglewart remembered that blow. He had been so proud of the instant, powerful death he had meted out to the Earl of Enclist. That was a battle over the boundary line between Eastlands and Westlands. He had been very young.
A thought crossed his mind and he looked more closely at the other men. His vision wobbled in and out of focus, but as he looked, he remembered other blows, other enemies dropped on the field. These were men he had killed. Above them and behind them rose a shadow. He flinched, remembering. It was that Bronze Dragon that hesitated, about to eat him on the field of combat. As he wildly swung his sword, no hope of touching the beast, it had stopped, studied him. That was the first time he had seen the whirling rainbows in a Dragon’s eyes. The second time was the Blue one, the one that killed Ortrude. The Bronze Dragon had, for some reason, spared him. He claimed for years that he fought it off, but he knew it wasn’t true. It had simply turned and flown away.
So this must be the realm of the dead and he himself was dead, floating in a white nightshirt among all these men he had killed. Had he taken so many lives? He should have died on the field at Torrie’s hand, more honourable to be bleeding in this lost realm still dressed in his armour.
Torrie. Was Torrie here? No. He remembered. There had been a chance, a moment when Torrie’s ribs were exposed to his sword to be sliced like the Earl of Enclist. He had struck, wounded, but not with full speed or force. He had held back from killing his own son and Heir. Was that weakness? Perhaps he deserved to lose the Challenge.
Something caught the King’s eye, puling his mind back to the field of carnage all around him, a slight figure, standing just at the edge of the blood-soaked grass, dressed in white. He picked his way over the mutilated bodies in his path to get closer.
An invisible spear of pain plunged into his heart and her name broke from his lips. “Ortrude.” He moved more quickly to reach her, tripped over a severed leg, went down on one knee in the reddened mud. She looked at him, her face passive, eyes empty. “Ortrude!” he called to her again. Her brow creased, a scrap of attention entering her blank eyes. Faintly, she smiled, then pointed upward, into the roiling slate sky. Struggling, stumbling, Anglewart reached her. My daughter, he said, and reached out to pick her up. She melted into a smoky vapour between his hands and was gone. He dropped to his knees, threw back his head and wailed a silent cry of pure grief. Then he remembered her pointing finger, looked up.
Above the broken men and the shadow Dragon, he could see a light in the sky. Not the moon, but more like a flickering torch. Curious, he floated upward, the bloody field disappearing into mist beneath him. The thick substance must be water, because he broke the surface into light. He caught his breath, for what he entered was a bubble of pure pain. Throbbing heat ran through his limbs, stabbed into his head. He would have cried out, but couldn’t move. He opened his eyelids just a crack. There were torches dancing, coming down from the walls to attack the small fire burning in a grate against the wall. The fire drew itself together to strike back, and the King was sucked down again, into the dark water, no pain, no vision, but just before he was submerged, he heard a woman’s voice.
It was Mel. His Mel. Where was she? Was she here in the Realm of the Dead with him? Mel! Mel! He tried to call out, but she was gone. Mel, in the Realm of the Dead. But of course. He had killed her with his own hand. Poison. He had allowed Ermin to poison her. Oh Mel, my beautiful Mel, how could I have done that?
He could see her, young and shining. Once they had lain together in a field full of flowers. She knew what they were called, some sort of flower that bloomed at night, releasing its sweet scent. Ever after he could smell that fresh sweetness on her skin when he buried his face in her flesh. That was so long ago, before he was King, before Servants watched their every move, before Farrell’s birth tore her and gave her months of pain that made her shrink from his touch, before he began to look at her as a liability in his quest for Power. Fool. Power-hungry fool.
I killed her. I killed my beautiful Mel, he thought, as he floated through endless silent darkness. This isn’t just the Realm of the Dead. This is Hell. The Warrior God has sent me, deservedly, to Hell. My Lord, I regret. I would give anything—my Kingdom, all that foolish power—to have my Mel again.
Chapter 118: Melisande
“Excuse me, Lady Merrit,” the Brother assigned to Anglewart’s care this day spoke to Melisande. “His eyes are open.”
Melisande, who had been dozing in a chair beside the fire leaped to her feet and bent over the King. His eyes were indeed open, although unfocused like those of a newborn child. She picked up his hand where it lay on the blanket, squeezed it between her own. “Anglie,” she said.
He heard her. His eyes cleared a little and searched for the source of the voice. They settled on her face. “Mel?” he whispered and his lips quirked up slightly at the corner, just the smallest hint of a smile. He squeezed her hand.
Chapter 119: Keiran
“You have done us a great service,” Mother Tess said. She and Holly, the Sister who served as Librarian, sat at one of the long tables across from Keiran. Aymeric sat very still in one of the chairs by the fire, watching their exchange with curious, slightly worried eyes. Keiran sent him a reassuring smile. He had been through so much, this different brother of his. Keiran knew how much he hated anything outside of his set routine. He had done amazingly well in this new place, ready to obey whatever Keiran told him to do. The only time he fussed was when Keiran moved out of his line of sight. It was clear that, having lost his beloved brother once, he was not going to risk it happening again.
Keiran turned his attention back to Mother Tess. “We have something for you,” she said. “Holly?”
Keiran had not noticed until now that Holly had one hand behind her back. Now she drew something out from behind the folds of her dress and set it in front of him. Keiran drew in his breath. It was the most beautiful book he had ever seen, very thick and solidly bound in red leather. The Healers were famous for the quality of their books.
“This is for me?” he asked.
They both nodded. He reached out and touched it, opened the front cover, thinking of the sketchbook he had left behind at Father Mallory’s cabin. This one was larger, thicker. The parchment was clear of imperfections. On the first page was written: “Presented to Keiran, in deepest appreciation from the Healers School.” Kerian’s eyes were wide with wonder. “Thank you!”
“And now,” said Mother Tess, “What do you want to do? We would be honoured to have the two of you stay with us for a time. Perhaps Aymeric would like to work in the stables, as he did for Mother Peg and Maida? Perhaps you would like to continue exploring our library? There is much interesting artwork in it. Or we could put you to work sketching the life of this place.”
Keiran’s face darkened. “I want to find Gleve.”
“Ah yes,” Mother Tess said. “I thought you might. But where would you start?”
“Back at the bridge, where we were separated.”
“What would you do there?”
“Find the nearest houses and inns, see if anyone saw or heard anything of him.”
“And what if the soldiers took him with them, or, Goddess forbid, the Dragon?”
“Then … “ Keiran dropped his eyes to study the table. The grain of the wood swam in his vision.
“Keiran, I can see how much you love him.” Keiran could feel himself blushing, one of the disadvantages of the light skin of the Kings people, he thought. The Earth people blushed, certainly, but it wasn’t so obvious, at least not to him. He opened his mouth to say “it’s not what you think,” but he couldn’t.
“Keiran, I think if Gleve is not in the hands of the King, or the claws of the Dragons, we will hear as soon as anyone. You have a sense for our communication networks around the Realms. They are extensi
ve and swift.” Keiran nodded. Tess reached with her knotted hand to pat his. “Stay here, dear boy. If he is to be found, we will find him.” Keiran nodded, causing a drop to splash on the polished surface of the table beside the beautiful new sketchbook.
Chapter 120: Melisande
“So, he is married then?” The King sat in a large chair in front of the fire in his chamber, supported by several pillows and warmed by a blanket.
Melisande pulled up a smaller chair and sat beside him. He freed his hand from the folds of wool on his lap, reached out to her. She automatically clasped and caressed it. “Yes, he is married, to a Rodolph, no less. Mabonne let me watch from her balcony over the altar.”
“To a Rodolph. My father’s dream fulfilled.”
“Not your dream?” There was a sharp edge to her voice.
He looked at her, sadly. “No,” he said.
“Mabonne represented the Women’s Retreat House at the reception. This morning she called me in to tell me that he used that gathering to announce his intention to make war on the Dragons. He is calling all the warriors of the Realms to him.”
“Oh dear. He thinks that the advances we have made in bows, arrows and swords since we last tried to fight them will make a difference.”
“And will they?”
“No.”
“He has appointed Eldrin as his second-in-command. Torrie is young; Eldrin is barely more than a child.”
“More than a child, my dear, but you are right, too young to go into battle as second-in-command. Oh, Mel, it will be slaughter, Torrie’s reign launched in blood as mine was, and my father’s before me.” Anglewart’s face looked extremely old at this moment, ravaged by dread of the future as well as the journey he was currently making along the road of pain. Melisande squeezed his hand and reminded herself that it was a miracle that he was alive, and a credit to Marle’s amazing gift as a Healer.
He was looking at her, the light of a smile in his eyes. “And you, my pretty nurse. Perhaps you might consider marrying me?”
“I might, except I’m dead.”
“Well that’s fine,” he said. “I’m dead too.” But his smile faded. They both knew that there was no precedent for those committed to the Retreat Houses to be released again.
“At least I think Mabonne is ready to allow me to continue visiting you.”
“It will have to be enough, then.” He turned to the fire, giving her the view of his profile, so patrician, yet so vulnerable, so proud and so broken. It tore at her heart.
Chapter 121: Jessa
As soon as they were alone in their bedchamber, Jessa fixed her questioning eyes on Locheil’s face. “Must you go?”
“I have no choice. I was allied to your brother anyway, but now I am his kin through our marriage. When he calls me to arms, I must go.”
“But it’s such a stupid plan. The Dragons have killed so many fighting men, in every generation since our people came here. I know there is a better way.”
“You know there is a better way?”
Jessa stopped short. She wanted so much to tell him, but knew she must not. He was also bound to tell his ally anything he knew that could be considered military intelligence. Damn Locheil’s excessive honour! Her knowledge would just send that bloodthirsty Torrie on a campaign to seek out Liandra before she was ready.
But ready to do what? March in from the Healer’s School and announce herself as the founder of the new Order of Dragon Priestesses? Would the new King then turn around and kill her? And when would she be ready? In time to stop this useless bloodshed? And would some of the blood shed be Locheil’s? Her eyes filled. She looked down at her hands in her lap, which spilled the tears into her nose. She sniffed, hunting for a handkerchief in her sleeve.
“Oh Liandra, dearest,” Locheil said. Hearing tears in his voice, she looked up. His eyes, too, were full. They put their arms around each other then, and held on, sniffing into each other’s shoulders.
“And so I must stay here and pray for your safety, like any good royal wife,” Jessa said.
“I don’t think you have any choice either.”
A few minutes later, Jessa stiffened. “What?” said Locheil, feeling the change. He let go and held her at arm’s length, studying her face.
“Take me with you,” she said. Then she giggled, thinking that his eyebrows just might hit the ceiling.
Chapter 122: Maida
Liandra sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, clutching herself and screaming. Maida sprang up and went to her, sat beside her, held her. “They’re tearing something apart!” Liandra sobbed. “A deer, I think.” Maida squeezed her, hard. “At least it’s dead now, but they’re tearing it to shreds.”
They had discovered that Dragons, even Little Dragons, did not have to eat very often, but when they did, it was a bloody frenzy. They had tried everything they could think of to shut off Liandra’s ability to see through Roxtrianatrix’s eyes. Even when she was sound asleep or in a stupor from Maida’s sedative tea, when the Little Dragon became upset or excited, his vision broke through into hers.
Liandra leapt to her feet and blundered around the room, her eyes open but blind to what was around her. “No,” she shrieked. “Stop.” Maida tried to hold her back from running into things, but Liandra was strong in this state. By the time her panic faded and she threw herself down once more on the bed, her shins were bruised and bleeding a little from violent encounters with the furniture.
Maida sat beside her exhausted lover, rubbing Liandra’s shoulder. “How long has it been since Roxtrianatrix has spent more than a few minutes with us?” Maida asked.
They both thought back. “Weeks,” said Liandra. “I don’t know what to do. It’s like having a young son who has gone running with a gang of thieves.”
“Are you ready to think about going to the Healer’s School yet?” Maida asked.
“And be under the thumb of that crabby old woman again? There’s got to be some other way.”
Maida sighed. They had gone over this ground many times. She thought they needed to consult Rena’s journal; Liandra did not want to go.
Chapter 123: Jessa
Jessa clomped around the clearing in exaggerated imitation of a male walk. Stopping in front of Locheil, she made a great show of scratching her crotch, then cleared her throat and spit into the woods. Locheil lay back on the moss, laughing so hard he could not take in breath. Their horses watched from the trees where they were tied, ears twitching at this strange human behavior. Jessa’s too-large helmet fell down over her eyes. She pulled it off and dropped to the forest floor beside her husband. Men’s clothes felt very strange, she thought, but very freeing.
Locheil sat up, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then suddenly became serious. “Liandra, dearest, you’re funny, but I can’t let you do this.”
Jessa, too, became serious. She planted her fists on her hips. “Let me? I don’t think you can stop me. Would you put me in your father’s prison?”
“No, of course not, but, but, it’s impossible.”
“I don’t think so.”
They studied each other through a long silence. Locheil’s eyes faltered first. “I see you’re determined,” he said, followed by a sigh and another long pause, his eyes this time on the moss at his feet. When he lifted them again, it was clear to her that he had stopped resisting, at least for now. “Gerth,” he said. “I must remember to call you Gerth. And this is my faithful servant, Gerth.” He waved his arm, introducing her to the horses and suddenly began to laugh again.
“I was so afraid your father was going to ask to see the letter from Torrie,” Jessa said.
“Me too. It would have been a bit of a challenge to reproduce his seal.”
“A bit of a challenge? Try impossible.”
“’I need my dear sister by my side in these difficult times …’”
“Oh stop.”
They ate their lunch sitting on the moss. The horses lost interest and turned their attention to their h
ay. Too soon, it was time to travel again. As she packed what remained of their bread and cheese into her saddlebag, Jessa pulled something out. “One more thing,” she said, and held up a pair of shears in the lantern light.
“Oh no, must we?” Locheil objected.
“We are taking a choice that was not offered to us. I think in this, there truly is no choice.” She sat on a rock with her back to him and held out her long, shining braid of hair. He paused, then took a deep breath and closed the shears on it. It fell away in his hand. A short boy’s bob fanned out around Jessa’s ears. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Like my faithful servant, Gerth,” Locheil replied, smiling. Then he looked down at the limp braid in his hand. “Maybe I’ll take it with me, in my saddlebag.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. What if someone found it there? You could not claim to be carrying your wife’s hair. They would assume you have a mistress. Besides, you don’t have any extra space for it.”
He sighed. “You’re right, of course.”
“It will grow again,” she said.
They left her braid hanging over the branch of a tree a few steps away from the clearing, joking that they would look for it when they came back. “If the birds don’t take it for their nests,” Jessa said, and Locheil kissed her. “Won’t be able to do that with your faithful servant,” she said, “Or the rumours will be worse than a mistress.”
Jessa had insisted Locheil put a convertible saddle on her horse. He took off the lady’s horn, stowed it in the saddlebag, pulled out a stirrup and clipped it in place, the horn went back into the saddlebag. “Have you ever ridden astride?”
“I’d hardly ridden at all before you began to teach me.”
“I don’t know how you, a King’s daughter, escaped riding lessons.”
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