by Tad Williams
* * *
• • •
Sir Jurgen met her on the stairs. “Your carriage is ready, Majesty. That is the only way out. Very few of the crowd are at the eastern end of the palace where the gate from the carriage house lets out. A dozen of my men are waiting there to protect you when it opens. Your team has been chosen from the best grasslander horses in all Nabban. No one will be able to catch us once we are through the gate.”
“Thank you,” she said, “but there is still business to be done. Come with me.”
“But Majesty . . . !”
“Come with me.”
She made her way up to the third floor of the Sancellan’s residence, site of the duke’s apartments as well as those of the rest of his close family and advisors.
“Do you mean to take Duchess Canthia with you?” Jurgen said, a little out of breath from climbing in his heavy armor.
“Perhaps. But there is another matter to be seen to first.” She led him down the corridor and stopped in front of a door. “I wish to enter.”
“But the door is locked and I have no key,” said Jurgen. Outside the crowd seemed to have grown louder: she could hear screams of rage wafting in through the narrow windows at the end of the hallway. They sounded like nothing human.
“Then I suggest you improvise,” she said.
Jurgen stared at the door for a moment, then began kicking it with the flat of his boot. A moment later Miri heard someone shouting in alarm inside, but she only waved to Jurgen to keep at it. After half a dozen kicks the lock gave and the door sagged inward a short distance, showing a gap along the frame where the latch had been.
“I wish to go inside,” she said. “Or to bring someone out, at least. There will be scant use for that door soon, or I badly miss my guess. Break it in.”
Several more hard kicks from Jurgen and the door at last lurched and crookedly swung open, like a bird’s broken wing. Miri saw Lord Envalles huddled in the corner of his bedchamber, eyes wide with terror.
“Majesty!” he said, half fearful, half relieved. “What is it? What do you want with me?”
“To show you something,” she said. “Jurgen, bring him out here.”
The guard captain grabbed the old man by the elbow and forced him out into the passage. Miri was already on her way to the window at the end. “Here, kind old Uncle Envalles. Have a look at what you have done.”
“Do not throw me down, Majesty!” Envalles was weeping now as Jurgen wrestled him toward the glass. “I only tried to do what was best for Nabban!”
“You are not even a good liar,” she said, and grabbed the back of his neck, which was cold and damp with perspiration. “Look at what you’ve done, old man. Look!”
And as she held his head before the window, Miriamele also saw what was happening below, and her heart seemed to freeze solid in her chest. The outer walls, built largely for show, had been breached. Some in the crowd had brought ladders and had clearly climbed the walls in too many places at once for the duke and his men to stop them. The gardens were full of people, many carrying torches, almost all carrying wooden clubs or hay forks or other makeshift weapons, but she saw that the leaders who were shouting them on were better armed, many with swords and battle axes that no ordinary villain would own. To her momentary relief, she saw Saluceris’ blue plume still waving. He and his men had put their backs to the gate that led to the inner courtyard, but they were only a hundred or so, struggling to keep a much larger throng at bay.
“Oh my sweet Aedon, save us!” cried Envalles. “What is happening?”
“That is your nephew out there, fighting for his life. Because of you. But you did not do this on your own, did you?”
“I did nothing!” Envalles nearly shrieked. “Only what I was told! I had no idea, no notion . . . !” He was panting like a terrified dog.
“Then who did? Who told you to lock Saluceris in the crypt? Answer me, or by God I will throw you out this window. And the fall will not be enough to kill you, unless you are lucky. You will lie there helpless, with your bones broken, until the mob notices you.”
“I did not know anyone would die! He told me it was only to keep one side from gaining an advantage!” Envalles turned toward her, eyes red. “He said it was necessary!”
“Who? Who said that?”
“Lord Pasevalles!” He burst into tears again, jaw trembling. “Please do not kill me, Majesty. I thought I was—”
“Pasevalles?” The cold heaviness in her chest became something else, an icy abyss that seemed to have no bottom. “Do you mean the Lord Chancellor of the High Throne?”
“God save me, I did not know! I thought I was doing what was wanted—I was to be rewarded, given my due . . . !”
Sickened and terrified, Miriamele let go of his neck and stumbled back from the window.
“Majesty?” Sir Jurgen said in a voice ragged with shock. “Is it . . . does he speak the truth?”
Miriamele could only press her hands to her temples. Her thoughts stampeded through her head, running into one another until she could scarcely think. Why? Pasevalles? Could it be true? Why would he do such a thing?
And what else has he done? The new thought was like icy water splashed over her. Oh, sweet Ransomer, what terrible serpent have we held in our bosom?
She was light-headed, and did not speak until the worst of the dizziness had passed. “Hold him,” she told Jurgen. “Hold him here. I will be back.”
“But Majesty, you must get out of this place!” Jurgen reached out a hand as if to restrain her but she slapped it away.
“I know! And I will. But if this poison came from our court, I have to do what I can to keep it from spreading.”
She turned and hurried back up the corridor, passing Envalles’s shattered door, then raced to the end of the hall where she turned again, counting the doors until she reached the ducal bedchamber. The door was locked, so she pounded on it and shouted, “Open! It is the queen! Canthia, open the door!”
It was not the duchess who came at last but the young Wrannawoman, Canthia’s companion and nurse. She fell back from the doorway murmuring apologies as Miriamele entered, but Miri ignored her and hurried through the anteroom to the chamber beyond. Canthia sat on the bed, her infant daughter clutched in her arms. The little boy, Blasis, was stretched on the floor at her feet, looking at a richly illustrated copy of the Book of Aedon. He glanced up in curiosity at Miri’s entrance, and for a moment she thought she had walked out of a dream and back into a world that made sense. But she knew this dream of normality was not hers, nor was it one that could be trusted.
“Go!” she cried. “Down to the stables, now. Take only what you are wearing.”
“Majesty, what do you mean?” Instead of rising, Canthia leaned away, shielding little Serasina as though it were Miriamele who was the threat.
“Do you not hear me? Get up and hurry down to the stables. By Elysia, Mother of God, we have no time, Canthia. If you want to save your children’s lives, get up!”
“But my husband—”
“The duke’s fate is in God’s hands.” Miri took the baby from Canthia—the duchess resisted only a little, but she seemed unable to understand what was happening. The nurse had followed her into the bedchamber, so Miri handed her the baby, who was awake and beginning to cry at the sudden noise. “Jesa—that is your name, am I right? Take the infant and hurry. Do you know where the stables are?” The girl nodded. “Wait for the duchess—she is coming, too, with the little boy. Then down the stairs and do not pause.”
The dark-skinned girl turned, taking time only to pick up a sack that lay behind the door, then hastened from the bedchamber with the baby in her arms. Miri pulled at one of the little boy’s arms until he got to his feet, then pushed him after the nurse. “Go, Blasis. Follow your sister.” As he went, Miri turned back to the duchess. “How many times must I say this?
Get up! You will have to join me in my coach.”
Canthia was still staring at her, as though Miri spoke a language she had never heard. “We must wait for Saluceris—”
Her patience strained beyond all reason, Miri slapped her face. Canthia’s head swung back, then she lifted her hand to her cheek and stared at the queen, wide eyes filling with tears. “You cannot wait a moment longer, woman.” Miri grabbed her wrist, set her feet, and pulled until Canthia had to rise or be yanked to the floor. Miri got behind her and pushed her out into the anteroom, where the nurse waited with Blasis and the baby. The little boy looked fiercely at Miri.
“Where is Papa?” he demanded.
“He is coming when he can. For now, you must protect your mama and your little sister. That is your duty, Blasis. That is what a knight would do.”
Miri turned to Canthia. “I am coming after you, Duchess. If we are separated, you must take my carriage and leave. The driver will carry you to Erkynland. You will be safe there. Tell my husband—and only my husband, do you hear me—that I said Pasevalles is a traitor. He must be arrested immediately.” But if they were separated and Miri herself was not there to affirm Canthia’s words, Pasevalles might be able to convince Simon that the duchess was mistaken, or even that she had lost her mind and made up the accusation out of her own fancy.
Oh, husband, if only I could talk to you now as the Sithi talk, heart to heart despite the distance!
An idea came to her: she took her golden wedding ring from her finger and pressed it into Canthia’s palm. “Keep this safe. When you see the king, give this to him and tell him what I said about Pasevalles.”
The duchess stared at the ring, then up at Miri. “But you are coming with us!”
“I have one more thing to do before I join you. They are setting fire to the palace, Canthia. There is no time for talk now.”
She closed the woman’s fingers around the ring, then hurried them all ahead of her into the passage and down to the stairwell, where she sent them on their way.
“Tell the carriage driver to prepare to leave at any moment!” she shouted after them.
Miri turned and ran back down the passage and out to the hallway where she had left Sir Jurgen and Envalles. To her surprise, she found the old man stretched on his belly across the floor, paddling like a drowning swimmer and calling for help, with Jurgen sitting on top of him.
“He tried to escape,” the guard captain explained. “I was getting tired of trying to hold him.”
“Bring him with us. He can tell his story to my husband, then we will hang the cursed traitor who gave him his orders.”
As Jurgen dragged the weeping prisoner back onto his feet, finally having to resort to a drawn dagger pressed against the old man’s ribs to get his attention, Miri hurried to the window. What she saw below was almost enough to make her legs fail beneath her. The mob had pushed in past the inner gate and was swarming through the courtyard below the window, so close now that she could see individual faces. A few of the duke’s soldiers had made a stand in front of the residence gates, but several of the maddened citizens had already broken into one of the Sancellan’s wings. Others were pouring in after them. Smoke drifted from the windows, and she could see flames licking upward inside. She could see no sign of the duke’s kingfisher-feather crest.
Then, just as she was about to turn from the window, she saw Saluceris. His helmet was gone, but she could make out his bright armor, now dinted and stained with blood. He was being dragged by a crowd of men toward the statue of his ancestor, Benidrivis the Great, founder of the Third Imperium. Even as Miri watched in open-mouthed horror, someone produced a rope and flung it over the statue’s outstretched arm.
For a moment the roil of the crowd around the statue’s base was so great that she could see little of what was happening, but then several men pulled on the rope and Saluceris was jerked up into the air with the other end of the rope knotted around his neck. As the crowd screamed and jeered the duke kicked and thrashed just above their heads. Several hands reached out to pull down on his legs, but his death-struggles were too violent and they could not hold him.
Her own eyes suddenly blurry with tears, Miri turned and ran until she caught up with Jurgen, but she could not speak and did not answer his questions.
The main rooms of the palace were full of courtiers running, servants crying, some just kneeling on the floor and praying. No one seemed to notice Miri or her companions, and they were halfway across the great entrance hall, heading toward the rear courtyard, when someone stepped out before them.
“Heavens be praised, Your Majesty! I am heartily glad to see you!” Count Matreu briefly bent his knee, then straightened. “Where are the duchess and her children? I have been looking for them everywhere!”
Miriamele instantly felt mistrust—if he had been looking for them so assiduously, why had she not met him in the upper floors of the residence? “I do not know,” she said. “You should look to the duke’s chambers.”
“I went there earlier,” he said. “I knocked and knocked, and called that it was me, but nobody answered.”
Miri was torn. She did not know whether to believe him or not, but she was certain she did not want him to know where Canthia and the children were. “Then you must save yourself, and trust God to protect the innocents,” she said.
Matreu looked at Envalles, slumped at Sir Jurgen’s side, before turning back to Miri. “And what of you, Majesty? The people are drunk with disorder and blood. This is no place for you.”
“I have my own protection, my own plan of escape,” she said, but even as she said it she knew it might not be enough to dislodge him. “Instead, I give you a royal command—a task that will bind you to me and the High Throne by our gratitude. Take this whining cur, Envalles. Get him to safety, but do not release him. He has played a grave part in all this and must answer for his crimes. Do you hear me? He must live, but I cannot take him with me. Will you lead him out of this place, Count Matreu, before it is too late?”
She could see thoughts jump like sparks behind Matreu’s eyes, but he did not hesitate for more than a heartbeat or two. “Of course, Majesty. I will get him safe from here. He will be prisoner in my father’s house. Are you certain you do not need me for aught else?”
“I am certain.”
“Then God protect you, Majesty.”
“Thank you, Count,” she said. “And God protect every true, loyal soul from the terrors of this day.”
Jurgen passed the unresisting Envalles into Matreu’s care, then Miri and the guard captain hurried across the wide, echoing room, heading for the door at the far end that led down to the stables. Already she could smell smoke from the west wing and hear people shouting that a fire had broken out. She did not want to look back for fear Matreu would be following them, but when she finally weakened and peered over her shoulder, he and Envalles were gone.
* * *
• • •
The stables were a madhouse. Miri’s guards fought to hold back members of the duke’s household, servants and nobles both, who were trying to make their way to the gate and escape, screaming and shoving until the soldiers could hardly hold them. Smelling smoke, horses pranced and whickered in their stalls. The stable doors had been flung wide; the royal coach stood waiting, the team harnessed, the driver and three Erkynguards all in their places. Miri could see the back of Canthia’s head through the tiny window at the rear, as well as a bit of the baby’s blanket. She finally let out the breath she had been holding since she and Jurgen had first come down the stairs. The duchess and the children were safe, or as safe as they could be.
Before she could take a step toward the waiting carriage, Miri heard a loud clanking of chains and the creak of wooden wheels. The outer gate began to swing open.
“What are they doing?” she cried. “Have they lost their minds?”
Jurgen grabbed her
and pulled her to one side as a group of palace residents finally forced their way past the Erkynguards who were trying to hold them back, then spread out through the stable even as the gate continued to open. A moment later, as the gate swung wide, Miri saw that the winches were being worked not by the gatehouse guards but by an outshoot of the mob that was already laying waste to the courtyard and the eastern wing. The bodies of several guards lay motionless and bloody where they had been flung down from the top of the gatehouse onto the cobbles, and intruders were swarming through the open gate with torches and shovels and mattocks, screaming “Murder!” and “Drusis!”
The horses harnessed to the royal coach reared and shrilled at this, hooves flailing the air as the crowd eddied around them. Some tried to grab at their harnesses, but the Erkynguardsmen on the carriage cut at the attackers’ hands until they fell back and went looking for easier prey. But the horses had panicked and could not be held back; an instant later, one of them broke forward, yanking his harness mate along, and then they were all plunging through the crowd so swiftly that the carriage, dragged helplessly behind, wobbled on its wheels and threatened to overspill. It stayed upright and hurtled out of the stable toward the gate, crushing many of the crowd beneath its wheels as it went, while the driver swung his whip wildly and uselessly, barely able to hang onto his seat.
As Miri watched in numb astonishment the carriage crashed out through the open gate at speed, tilting so badly as it turned onto the road that it almost overtipped again, then sped along until it vanished behind the palace wall, leaving only a cloud of dust and a few writhing bodies behind it.
“Onto my horse, Majesty,” said Sir Jurgen, his face quite white. “Orn is faster than anything in Nabban, I trow, even with two people on his back. None of them will catch us.” He pulled his sword from its scabbard and then led her toward the stall, clearing the way before him with swipes of his blade, no longer caring whether it was groom, ducal soldier, or angry peasant that he struck. His big gray courser, eyes rolling, quieted a little when he grabbed its harness and put his face close to speak a few soothing words. He clambered into the saddle and reached down for Miri.
