by Greg Keyes
“It isn't fair.”
“I know it's not, sweet, but we'd better talk about it later. Change that shirt and put on your gown.”
Anne ran to her wardrobe and changed the sodden linen for a dry one. “When did you learn so much about politics?” she asked, shrugging back into her embroidered nightgown.
“I just spent two years in Virgenya. It's all they talk about, down there.”
“It must have been terribly boring.”
“Oh—you might be surprised.”
Anne sat on the edge of her bed. “You won't tell anyone about Roderick? Even if it is political?”
Lesbeth laughed and kissed her on the forehead, then knelt and took her hand. “I doubt very much it's political for him. He's probably just young and foolish, like you.”
“He's your age, nineteen.”
“I'm twenty, meadowlark.” She brushed a curly strand from out of Anne's face. “And when your sister comes in, try to keep the left side of your head away from her.”
“Why?”
“You have a love bite, there, just below your ear. I think even Fastia will know what it is.”
“Oh, mercifu—”
“I'll comb your hair, like I was doing when the duchess came in,” Austra volunteered. “I can keep it pulled long over that spot.”
“That's a good plan,” Lesbeth approved. She chuckled again. “When did this happen to our little lark, Austra? When last I saw her she was still dressing up in the stablejack's clothes so she wouldn't have to ride sidesaddle. When did she become such a lady?”
“I still ride,” Anne said defensively.
“That's true enough,” Austra said. “That's how she met this fellow. He followed her down the Snake.”
“Not fainthearted, then.”
“Roderick is anything but fainthearted,” Anne said. “So what's your big secret, Lez?”
Lesbeth smiled. “I've already asked your father's permission, so I suppose I'll tell you. I'm getting married.”
“Married?” Anne and Austra said, in unison.
“Yes.” Lesbeth frowned. “I didn't like the sound of that! You seem incredulous.”
“It's just—at your age—”
“Oh, I see. You had me reckoned a spinster. Well, I had plenty of sisters, and they all married well. I was the youngest so I got to do something they didn't. I got to be choosy.”
“So who is he?”
“A wonderful man, daring and kind. Like your Roderick, far from fainthearted. He has the most elegant castle, and an estate that stretches—”
“Who?”
“Prince Cheiso of Safnia.”
“Safnia?” Anne repeated.
“Where is Safnia?” Austra asked.
“On the shore of the southern sea,” Lesbeth said dreamily. “Where oranges and lemons grow outdoors, and bright birds sing.”
“I've never heard of it.”
“Not surprising, if you pay no more attention to your tutors now than you did when I still lived here.”
“You love him, don't you?” Anne asked.
“Indeed I do. With all of my heart.”
“So it's not political?”
Lesbeth laughed again. “Everything is political, meadowlark. It's not like I could have married a cowherd, you know. Safnia, though you ladies have never heard of it, is a rather important place.”
“But you're marrying for love!”
“Yes.” She wiggled a finger at Anne. “But don't let that put foolish ideas in your head. Live in the kingdom that is, not the one that ought to be.”
“Well,” a somewhat frosty voice said, as the curtain to the antechamber parted again. “That's better advice than I expected you to be giving her, Lesbeth.”
“Hello, Fastia.”
Fastia was older than all of them, almost twenty-three. Her hair was umber silk, now bound up in a net, and her small features were perfect and demure. She was no taller than Anne or Austra, and a handswidth shorter than Lesbeth. But she commanded presence.
“Dear Fastia,” Lesbeth said. “I was just telling darling Anne my news.”
“About your betrothal, I suppose?”
“You already know? But I only just asked my brother Wil-liam's permission a few bells ago.”
“You forget how fast news travels in Eslen, I'm afraid. Congratulations. You'll find marriage a joy, I think.”
Her tone said otherwise, somehow. Anne felt a faint pang of pity for her older sister.
“I think I shall,” Lesbeth replied.
“Well,” Fastia asked, “is all in order here? Have you girls said your prayers and washed your faces?”
“They were praying, I believe, even as I entered the room,” Lesbeth said innocently.
Anne nodded. “We're all but asleep,” she added.
“You don't look sleepy.”
“It's the excitement of seeing Lesbeth. She was telling us all about Shanifar, where her betrothed rules. A delightful-sounding place—”
“Safnia,” Fastia corrected. “One of the original five provinces of the Hegemony. That was over a thousand years ago, of course. A great place once, and still quaint from what I hear.”
“Yes, that's right,” Lesbeth said, as if she hadn't heard the condescension in Fastia's tone. “It's very quaint.”
“I think it sounds wonderful and exotic,” Anne put in.
“Most places do, until you've been to them,” Fastia replied. “Now. I don't want to be the troll, but somehow the duty has fallen to me to make sure these girls get to bed. Lesbeth, may I entice you into taking a cordial?”
Hah, Anne thought. You can't fool me. You love playing the troll. What happened to you? “Surely we can stay up a bit. We haven't seen Lesbeth in two years.”
“Plenty of time for that tomorrow, at Elseny's party. It's time for the women to chat.”
“We are women,” Anne retorted.
“When you are betrothed, then you'll be a woman,” Fastia replied. “Now, good night. Or, as Lesbeth's Safnian prince might say, dena nocha. Austra, see that you are both asleep within the hour.”
“Yes, Archgreffess.”
“Night, loves,” Lesbeth said, blowing them a kiss as the two passed through the curtain into the antechamber. After another moment, they heard the outer door close.
“Why does she have to be like that?” Anne muttered.
“If she weren't, your mother would find someone who was,” Austra replied.
“I suppose. It just galls me.”
“In fact,” Austra said, “I'm something glad they're gone.”
“Why is that?”
A pillow hit Anne in the face.
“Because you haven't told me what happened yet, you jade!”
“Oh! Austra, it was quite extraordinary. He was so—I mean, I thought I would catch afire! And he gave me a rose, a black rose—” She broke off abruptly. “Where's my rose?”
“You had it when we came in the room.”
“Well, I don't have it now! I must press it, or whatever one does with roses …”
“I think one finds them first,” Austra said.
But it wasn't in the receiving room, nor on the floor, nor under the bed. They couldn't find it anywhere.
“We'll see it in the morning, when the light is better,” Austra said.
“Of course we will,” Anne replied dubiously.
In her dream, Anne stood in a field of ebony roses, wearing a black satin dress set with pearls that gleamed dully in the bone light of the moon. The air was so thick with the scent of the blooms she thought she would choke.
There was no end to them; they stretched on to the horizon in a series of low rises, stems bent by a murmuring wind. She turned slowly to see if it was thus in all directions.
Behind her the field ended abruptly in a wall of trees, black-boled monsters covered with puckered thorns bigger than her hand, rising so high she couldn't see their tops in the dim light. Thorn vines as thick as her arm tangled between the trees and crept
out along the ground. Through the trees and beyond the vines was only darkness. A greedy darkness, she felt, a darkness that watched her, hated her, wanted her. The more she stared at it, the more terrified she became of shapes that might or might not be moving, of slight sounds that might be footsteps or wings.
And then, when she thought her terror could be no greater, something pushed through the thorns coming toward her. Moonlight gleamed on a black-mailed arm and the fingers of a hand, uncurling.
And then the helmet came through, a tall, tapering helm, with black horns curving up, set on the shoulders of a giant. The visor was open, and there she saw something that wrenched from her own throat a keening sound somehow more alien than anything she had yet known. She turned and ran through the roses, and the small barbs caught at her dress, and now the moon looked like the rotted eye of a fish …
She awoke, thrashing with the motions of flight, not knowing where she was. Then she remembered, and sat up in her bed, arms wrapped about her middle.
“A dream,” she told the dark room, rocking back and forth. “Just a dream.”
But the air was still thick with anise and plum. In the pale moonlight streaming through her window she saw black petals scattered upon her coverlet. She felt them in her hair. Wet trickled down her face, and the bright taste of salt came to her lips.
Anne slept no more that night, but waited for the cockcrow and the sun.
CHAPTER NINE
ON THE SLEEVE
NEIL WOKE EARLY, inspected his new armor for any blemishing its single wearing might have left on it. He checked his spurs and tabard, and finally drew Crow, his broadsword, then made certain the hard, sharp length of her gleamed like water.
Moving quietly, he slipped on his buskins and padded from the room, down the stairs, and out of the inn. Outside, a morning fog was just starting to lift, and the docks were already alive with movement, fishing crews putting out for the middle shoals, seacharmers and salters and whores looking to be taken on, seagulls and fishravens fighting over scraps.
Neil had noticed the chapel of Saint Lier the day before, distinguished by its mast-shaped spire. It was a modest wooden building right at water's edge, built on a raised stone foundation. As he approached, several rough-looking sailors were on their way out. He greeted them by passing his hand over his face, the sign of Saint Lier. “His hand keep you,” he told them.
“Thanks, lad,” one of them said gruffly. “And you.”
Within, the chapel was dark and plain, all wood, in the island style. The only ornament was a simple statuette of the saint himself above the altar; carved of walrus tusk, it depicted him standing in a coracle.
Neil carefully placed two silver coins in the box and knelt. He began to sing.
“Foam Father, Wave Strider
You feel our keels and hear our prayers
Grant us passage on your broad back
Bring us to shore when the storm's upon us
I beg you now
Grant passage to my song.
Windmaster, Seventh Wave
You know the line of my fathers
Held them curled in fingers of spray
Watched them fight and die on the wide sea roads
Neil, son of Fren
Asks you to heed his prayer.”
He prayed for the souls of his father and mother, for Sir Fail and his lady Fiene, for the hungry ghosts of the sea. He prayed for King William and Queen Muriele, and for Crotheny. Most of all he prayed that he himself might be worthy. Then, after a time of silence, he rose to leave.
A lady in a deep green cloak stood behind him. He started, for in the intensity of his prayers, he hadn't heard her enter.
“I'm sorry, lady,” he said softly. “I didn't mean to keep you from the altar.”
“There's plenty of room,” she answered. “You did not keep me from it. It just that it's been a long time since I heard anyone pray so beautifully. I wanted to listen, I'm afraid, and so it's to you I must apologize.”
“Why?” Neil asked. “I've no shame for my prayers. It's an honor to me if you found something in them. I …”
Her eyes gripped him. Sea-green, they were. Curls of black hair cascaded from beneath her hood, and her lips were a ruby bow. He couldn't guess her age, though if pressed, he would put her in her thirties. She was too beautiful to be human, and with a sudden dizziness, it occurred to Neil that this was no earthly woman, but a vision, a saint or an angel, perhaps.
So strong and certain was the feeling that his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't remember what else he had meant to say.
“The honor is mine, young man,” she said. She cocked her head. “You have an island accent. Are you from Liery?”
“I was born on Skern, my lady,” he managed. “But I am pledged to a lord of Liery, as was my father.”
“Would that lord be the Baron Sir Fail de Liery?”
“Yes, my lady,” he replied, feeling as if he were in a dream.
“A good and noble man. You do very well to serve him.”
“Lady, how could you know—”
“You forget, I heard your prayers. Sir Fail is with you? He is near?”
“Yes, lady. In the inn, just up the way. We arrived yesterday; he intends to present me at court today, unworthy as I may be.”
“If Sir Fail wishes to present you, the only thing unworthy about you is your doubt of him. He knows what he is about.”
“Yes, lady. Of course.”
She lowered her head. “You should know that the court will be on the hill of Tom Woth, today, to celebrate the birthday of the princess Elseny. Sir Fail may not know this, having just arrived. Take the northern gate and ride up the Sleeve. Sir Fail will know where. Tell him to go to the stone circle and wait.”
“You command me, lady.” His heart was thunder, and he could not say why. He wanted to ask her name, but he feared the answer.
“I wonder if you would excuse me now,” the lady said. “My prayers are less elegant than yours. The saint will forgive my clumsiness, I know, but I would rather no one else heard. It's been long since I came here. Too long.”
She sounded infinitely sad.
“Lady, if there is anything I can do for you, please name it.”
Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Take care in the court,” she said softly. “Stay true to yourself. Stay who you are. It is a … difficult thing.”
“Yes, lady. If you ask it, it will be done.”
So saying, he left her there, his feet feeling oddly heavy on the cobbles of the street.
“Quite a sight, isn't it?” Fail de Liery said.
Neil couldn't keep his head still. “I've never see anything like it. I've never seen clothes like this, so much color and silk.”
Hundreds of courtiers were riding up the greensward, along with dwarves, giants, jesters, and footmen, all in fantastic costume.
“You'll see more. Come, those are the stones ahead.”
They spurred their mounts to a gallop, toward the small circle of standing stones near the forest edge. A large group waited there, mounted and on foot. Neil noticed knights among them, all wearing livery of black and deep sea-green trimmed in bronze. He didn't know whose colors they were, and they bore no devices.
“Sir Fail!” a man called out, as they approached. Raising his hand in greeting, he rode out of the circle. He was unarmored, a man of middle years, his auburn hair held with a plain gold circlet, clearly a fellow of some importance. Sir Fail dismounted, and so Neil did, too, as the newcomer also swung down from his horse, a handsome white Galléan stallion with a peppering of dark spots on his withers and muzzle.
“You old de Liery warscow! How are you?”
“Right well, Your Majesty.”
Neil's knees went suddenly weak.
Majesty?
“Well, I'm well pleased to see you here,” the fellow went on easily. “Well pleased!”
“I'm glad I found you! I would've been going up to an empty palace,
right now, if it weren't for my young squire, here. May I present him to you?”
The king's eyes turned on Neil, suddenly, lamps whose light seemed both intense and weary. “By all means.”
“Your Majesty, this is Neil MeqVren, a young man of many talents and great deeds. Neil, this is His Majesty William II of Crotheny.”
Neil remembered to drop to one knee and bowed so low his head nearly hit the ground. “Your Majesty,” he managed to croak.
“Rise up, young man,” the king said.
Neil came to his feet.
“He's a likely looking lad,” the king said. “Squire, you say? This the fellow I've heard so much about, the lad from the battle of Darkling Mere?”
“It is, Sire.”
“Well, Neil MeqVren. We'll have some talks about you, I expect.”
“But not now,” a prim-looking young woman said, sidling up on the back of a delicate-looking bay. She nodded to Neil, and he felt an odd sense that they had met before. Something about her hazel eyes was familiar, or almost so. She was a severe beauty, with high cheekbones and glossy hair several shades browner than chestnut.
“This day is for Elseny, and none other,” the woman went on. “But I'll wish a good day to you—Neil MeqVren, is it?”
It took Neil an open-mouthed moment or two to realize she was presenting her hand. He took it, albeit belatedly, and kissed the royal signet ring.
“Your Majesty,” he said. For this was surely the queen.
A laugh trickled through the group, at that, and Neil realized he had made a mistake.
“This is my daughter Fastia, now of the house Tighern,” the king said.
“Hush your laughing, all of you,” Fastia said sternly. “This man is our guest. Besides, it's clear he knows royal quality when he sees it, at least.” Her smile was brief, more of a twitch, really.
At about that moment, another young woman came flying into Sir Fail's arms. He whirled her around and she shrieked delightedly.
“Elseny, what a sight you are!” the old man said, when he managed to step back from her.
Neil had to agree. She was younger than Fastia— seventeen, or thereabouts—and her hair was raven black, not brown. Where Fastia had a hardness to her beauty, this one had eyes as wide and guileless as a child.