Beneath the Keep

by Erika Johansen

  “You can’t help them!” he shouted in Carroll’s ear.

  “Let me go!” Carroll cried, struggling against Christian’s iron grip.

  “You can’t help them!” Christian repeated, shaking him. “They touched the dress! You can only die yourself!”

  Carroll heard him this time; he stopped struggling and merely stood there, as though paralyzed. Still, he was the bravest of Elyssa’s Guard, for the rest had already backed away from the Queen, from the screaming men who fell to their knees and tore at their own flesh. The sight of that, all of them rending themselves at once, was so bad that even Christian, who had seen a thousand deaths in the ring, could not watch. He kept his eyes fixed on the Queen, and so only he saw Brenna kneel beside her and peel the Queen’s hand away from her sapphire, taking the jewel in her own fist.

  “To the Princess!” Barty shouted. “Damn you all, snap out of it! To Elyssa!”

  Christian whirled to see that Bowler and Webb, blinded in agony, had wandered dangerously close to the Princess, their hands outstretched. Christian drew his sword and moved in with the rest, forming a double ring around Elyssa. Kibb was on one side of Christian, Carroll on the other, and without discussion they pointed their swords outward, creating a ring of sharp points. Barty joined them a moment later, his face hard and set, shedding his gloves before he drew his sword.

  Even for Christian, the next five minutes were very bad. Guards stumbled back and forth without direction, mindless, their howls echoing between the walls of the ballroom. Some called for their mothers, some screamed apologies to unseen ghosts. Eben died first, weeping as he buried the point of his own dagger in his belly. Brand bashed his own brains out, running himself into the wall again and again until his features were unrecognizable, and that was when Christian knew that it wasn’t the poison, that no poison could do what he was seeing here. Bowler wandered up to the point of Christian’s sword and then fell before him, clawing at his own throat, apparently intent on tearing it out. His fingers seized in death, their tips bloody and ruined, and he toppled to the floor.

  Beside Christian, Kibb doubled over and began to vomit. Christian too felt sick, but he could not afford to entertain it. He was too busy watching Thorne . . . Thorne and his witch, who now held the Queen’s sapphire tightly in one hand, her eyes closed, a small smile playing across her lips.

  Chapter 25

  ON THE BATTLEMENTS

  One should not lose heart at the onset of darkness. Being afraid is the first requirement of heroism, and certainly the only requirement of being brave.

  —Greive the Madman

  If there had been longer nights in the history of the world, Aislinn could not imagine them. Hours might have passed, or years, she could not say. The world had shrunken to the width of the castle roof, nothing but the loading and reloading of the enormous barrel that stood at the edge of the battlements . . . that, and the much trickier act of dumping it over. Aislinn had taken several burns now, blistered red patches on her arms and hands, and a dreadful welt on her left bicep. They had no doctor, but Lady Andrews’s horse doctor had defected along with the rest of her servants, and he was able enough at surgery. Aislinn did not deceive herself about that welt, which would surely fester if left untreated. She would have to go and see the would-be surgeon.

  If we live that long, she thought. The night must be almost over; a quick glance behind her showed an almost imperceptible lightening on the edges of the eastern horizon. But the force below would not relent with the light. Eamon had fled on Sunday, taking his kinsmen, and the army had first attacked on Tuesday, but Aislinn had no idea which day was dawning now.

  Boom.

  The infantry had begun ramming the back gate again. The steady vibration came straight up through the stone to thrum beneath Aislinn’s feet. Between archers and oil, they had done very well, killing perhaps a third of the massed force below. But there were always more of them waiting out there in the darkness. They had not brought siege towers—not yet, anyway, Aislinn thought darkly—but they had a seemingly limitless supply of skilled climbers who tried constantly to scale the wall. Some ten feet beneath her, Aislinn heard an outraged cry as one of the parents hauled a child away from the window.

  They want to watch, she thought. Of course they do. It had never occurred to Aislinn to think much about the fate of the children in this business; they were simply baggage, almost like provisions that the parents had brought along. Aislinn wondered when she had become so cold . . . she, who used to sing Bailey and Jory their bedtime songs and cuddle them before sleep.

  All of your people are dead, and you wonder what has happened to you? They’re dead, Aislinn, and now you’re dead too.

  “Aislinn!” Liam shouted, jarring her back to the battlement. He was wheeling the smoking barrel down the wall. In the end they had only been able to assemble four braziers on the roof, one for each wall, but Liam had found several wheeled platforms, which allowed them to move the barrels up and down the parapets, finding the points where the attackers had massed. Now, peeking over the edge, Aislinn saw the long shadow of the ram far beneath them, soldiers covering it like ants.

  “Ready?”

  Aislinn reached down and grabbed the base of the barrel, wincing as her burned fingers made contact.

  “One, two, three!” Liam shouted, and Aislinn heaved with all of her strength, ignoring the agony in her palms, the sickening feeling of blisters bursting. As the oil crashed down, a chorus of voices howled in agony below them.

  But they keep on coming, Aislinn thought bitterly. We’re fighting for something; we have a reason to die. What are they dying for?

  She couldn’t imagine. Burned and bleeding men lay strewn across the hilltop at the base of the castle, but Aislinn suddenly realized that she had not seen any arrows launched from the lower windows in some time. They had finally run out. Eamon might have had some idea of a substitute, but Eamon was gone, fled while Aislinn slept. His cowardice had won out.

  I don’t mind dying, Aislinn thought, tightening the cloth around the wound on her arm. They had made a good fight of it, and she didn’t mind dying, but she hated losing. She thought of Lady Andrews, once again riding her acres with her crop, and bared her teeth.

  “Oil!” Liam called to the two men manning the brazier. “How long?”

  “Ten minutes maybe!” one of them shouted back. “We’re running low!”

  “Volley!” someone cried from a window below. “Volley from the east! Get down!”

  Aislinn dove for the base of the eastern battlement. Her burned arm thudded against the stone, and the pain was bad enough to make her emit a tiny shriek through her clenched teeth. For a moment black spots danced in front of her vision, and then she heard the clatter of arrows landing around them. Across the roof, someone began to scream. Aislinn looked up and saw that the sky was now a delicate pinkish violet over her head.

  Dawn, she thought. But it comes too late for us.

  “Riders!” one of the lookouts shouted. “Riders from the west!”

  No, Aislinn thought bleakly. No more. I’m too tired.

  But her mind came back at her, furious.

  You got these people into this. Get up!

  Aislinn rolled, carefully avoiding her burned arm, and darted to crouch behind the western wall. Peeking over the edge, she saw a vast shadow emerging from the mist that covered the fields.

  “Reinforcements,” Liam remarked, appearing at her shoulder. “Because we weren’t overmatched enough.”

  Aislinn chuckled sourly. The sun was rising behind her, and now the light had spilled over the battlements to bathe the western slope, the fields of Lady Andrews’s acreage . . . square plots, rectangular plots, the wide spread of ground that ruled a tenant’s life, determined his future.

  But we were free, Aislinn thought. Even for a few months, we were free.

  “Aislinn,” Liam mu
rmured, his eye fixed to his spyglass. “Look.”

  Aislinn pulled her own spyglass from her skirts and socked it into her left eye, focusing on the approaching army. There was a line of horsemen in front, at least fifty riders, all heavily armored, but they were nothing to the infantry behind: thousands of dark-clad men.

  It’s over, she thought. This is how it ends.

  But now one of the horsemen unfurled a banner, letting it fly in the brisk morning breeze. It whipped and snapped, and in the growing light, Aislinn saw an enormous orange circle, balanced on a flat field of blue: the sun, rising over water. And now, looking more closely, she saw that the infantry behind the flag were not soldiers, or even mercenaries, for they were dressed in rags. There were women down there, and children, and they carried not steel but iron and tin . . . pitchforks and scythes, the desperate tools of farmers.

  Of rebels.

  “Great God,” Aislinn whispered.

  And now a howl of fear echoed throughout the Tear battalions, for the leader of the horsemen had pushed back his hood, revealing a face so evil, so hideous, that even Aislinn gave a small shriek as she glimpsed it through her spyglass. Then she realized who he must be.

  “Kelsea!” the leader cried, his voice carrying clearly in the morning air. “For Kelsea, and the better world!”

  He raised his sword, and the line of horsemen roared in response as they charged, galloping forward into the massed might of the Tear army at the foot of the wall. Aislinn dropped her spyglass, feeling more laughter bubble in her throat, but honest laughter this time. Her arm was agony, and her blistered palms housed a hive of live bees, but Aislinn suddenly felt wonderful, as elated as that night when they had first taken this castle, marching in celebration . . . when it was all victory, and no blood had yet been shed.

  “Liam! Liam!” she shouted in his ear, trying to make herself heard over the sudden clash of battle below. “It’s them, Liam! It’s the Blue Horizon!”

  Book III

  Chapter 26

  THE TERRIBLE PRESENT

  If contemporaries were reluctant to discuss Arlen Thorne, then they were even more reluctant to discuss his witch. Ask which head of the dragon was more fearsome, and there you have your answer.

  —The Early History of the Tearling, as told by Merwinian

  Queen Arla twitched, her entire body shuddering on the bed. In the three months she had been asleep, her body had thinned until she seemed little more than paper. Brenna placed a gentle hand on the Queen’s chest, just above the sapphire, and whispered inaudibly.

  “What is she doing to her?” Barty asked.

  “Removing the evil spirits that disturb the Queen’s sleep,” Thorne replied. “Brenna is a gifted healer.”

  With some relief, Niya saw that Barty believed this nonsense no more than she did. He turned to Elyssa, as though seeking arbitration, but Elyssa was not watching her mother at all, only admiring the sleeves of her new blue velvet dress: a gift from Mortmesne. The entire Guard had cautioned against accepting the dress, but Elyssa had overruled them, for the garment was expertly cut for pregnancy, rounded in the abdomen to accommodate the Princess’s growing belly. Elyssa was not completely without caution, however, for she had ordered a hapless Keep servant to touch the dress before she wore it. As the bewildered girl plunged her hands into the deep velvet, her eyes closing in pleasure at the richness of the material, Niya’s stomach had turned over. Elyssa, the old Elyssa, would never have done such a thing, thrown another woman into the pit to save herself, and so Niya had her final confirmation: the woman in the blue dress was no longer Elyssa, but someone else. All of them had underestimated the witch, from Barty on down, and now it was too late.

  The Queen twitched again. Brenna made the same motions of calming her, but Niya could see the wild jumping motion beneath the Queen’s closed eyelids. The Queen had been asleep for three months now, but it was not an easy sleep, for she moaned from time to time, her features twisting in pain. Initially, Niya had suspected the witch, but she could make no sense of that suspicion. Thorne could have no quarrel with Arla, for they charted parallel courses. Thorne’s role in the Gadds Fire had never come out publicly, but Niya knew of it, as did anyone with the right amount of gold to spread around the Arvath. Were Arla conscious, she might have knighted Thorne for his deeds.

  But Elyssa had done Arla one better, for Thorne now sat at her right hand. Niya chanced a quick glance at the blue-clad figure on the far side of the bed and found Elyssa smiling at her, such a malicious smile that Niya was sure Elyssa could read her thoughts. She tried to look away but could not, suddenly assaulted by the image that had taunted her for weeks: the Fetch wreathed in flame, his skin blackening and charring, his mouth wide in agony. Slick, feverish sweat broke out on Niya’s forehead.

  “Highness, the riots,” Barty said, his voice urgent under the low tones of sickroom diplomacy. “We must make a decision today.”

  Elyssa turned to him. The image in Niya’s mind mercifully faded.

  “What is the situation at the storehouse?” Thorne asked.

  Barty did not reply; none of the guards liked to answer Thorne. But Elyssa waved to Barty to answer the question, and so he did, though his mouth curled in distaste.

  “More than two hundred looters. Colonel Bermond says the doors of the storehouse are still holding, but not for long. They’ll be in before nightfall, but Bermond is looking beyond that. The Crown holds five storehouses in the Hollow, and Cleary thinks they’ll soon be after them all.”

  “How many battalions do we have down there now?” Thorne asked.

  Once again Barty hesitated, and once again Elyssa made a sound of exasperation and signaled him to speak.

  “Four battalions. That’s all Cleary says he can spare, with Essex and his contingent spread over the Almont as well.”

  “Shouldn’t Essex have been back weeks ago?” Elyssa asked.

  “Yes, Highness. Cleary says he’s sent another battalion to investigate the delay.”

  Elyssa and Thorne turned to look at each other for a long moment. Niya didn’t like these looks; she felt sure that the two of them were communicating somehow, speaking in silence. Barty’s face had tightened; he didn’t like it either.

  “Tell Cleary to send in all four battalions,” Elyssa said finally. “Any man found with his hand on Crown property will lose that hand.”

  Barty turned pale. “Cleary will take that order literally, Highness.”

  “Good.”

  “Majesty,” Coryn finally ventured, stepping closer to Elyssa. “The Queen needs proper medical attention. I beg you once again to let me summon a doctor.”

  “Coryn, I tired of this discussion months ago. Brenna has the situation well in hand.”

  “Majesty,” Coryn murmured, then fell silent again, shooting a helpless look at Barty, who stood beside him. But Barty looked equally miserable. Niya found herself sorry for both of them, all of them. Most of the older guards had died the night of the Queen’s party, but Elyssa had not replaced any of them. Despite the veteran presences of Barty and old Vincent the swordmaster, the Guard seemed so young now . . . too young to sort out what to do, let alone do it.

  With a start, Niya realized that she was swaying on the spot. She was dizzy; she had not eaten breakfast that morning, or dinner the night before. It had once been her custom to dine with Elyssa, but those days were over; this new Elyssa wanted Niya nearby no more than she wanted to be there. She closed her eyes, trying to regain some hold on her balance.

  A hand grasped her elbow, steadying her, and Niya looked up and saw Mace. His face was as impassive as ever, but in the next minute he had pulled one of his extraordinary feats of legerdemain, producing an apple from nowhere. He pressed it into Niya’s hand, then stared at her, frowning, until she took a bite.

  Who are you? Niya wondered. She asked herself this question constantly, but she knew
better than to ask Mace himself. His past was like a wrapped box; one might not know the contents, but one could see the contours, spiked corners and vicious edges. He was a gifted fighter; one day he had showed Niya a clever trick of disabling a man with one hand pinned behind her back, and in return, she had showed him one of the entrances to the tunnels that beehived the walls of the Queen’s Wing. Mace’s clear delight in the discovery had baffled her; he had begun exploring the tunnels on his own and had already found several more entrances that even Niya had not known about. She didn’t know where he found the time, not until Dyer enlightened her one day: Mace had a comfortable bed in the guard quarters, just like everyone else, but as far as the Guard could tell, he did not sleep.

  The Queen had finally quieted now, her chest rising and falling in relaxed, natural breathing, and Brenna straightened with a satisfied expression on her face. Niya supposed the witch was keeping Arla alive, in some fashion or other, for Barty said she should have died. The Queen breathed—though she did not wake, or eat, or give any other signs of life—and the Christians among the Guard hailed that as a miracle, but Niya was no Christian, and she did not trust miracles. Elyssa had poisoned her mother, and beneath Thorne’s expressionless face lay triumph, a sick triumph that only Niya—and perhaps Mace—could see. She sensed something terrible at work in this room.

  “Highness,” Elston said, poking his head around the door. “They’re ready downstairs.”

  “Excellent,” Elyssa replied, dropping the sleeve of her dress and turning back to them. Though the dress was cunningly tailored, nothing could hide the swell of her belly, now six months along. In her first rage of betrayal after the night of the party, Niya had thought of killing Elyssa; she was still Blue Horizon, after all, no matter how many of her companions were dead, and she had spent her adult life slaughtering anyone who stood in the way of the better world. But there had been no opportunity, for in the wake of the Queen’s poisoning, Barty had tightened Elyssa’s security to an impassable degree.