by Greg Keyes
Would that Winna were that far away.
Would that she had never found him.
No matter how earnestly he told himself that, it still felt like a lie. Disgusted, he turned his back to the evil-looking moon and returned to the edge of the firelight and Winna's slow, regular breathing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WIDDERSHINS
BY THE TIME THEY HAD REACHED the festival grounds, Fastia had filled Neil's head with the names of so many lords, ladies, retainers, grefts, archgrefts, margrefts, marascalhs, sinescalhs, earls, counts, landfroas, andvats, barons, and knights he feared it would burst. He spent most of his time nodding and making noises to let her know he was listening. Meanwhile, Sir Fail, still speaking with the king, drew farther and farther away. The rest of the royal party outpaced them until only he and Fastia and a few of the deviceless knights were left.
When they reached the hilltop, with its gaudy and bewildering collection of tents, plant growth, and costumed servants Fastia, too, excused herself. “I need to speak to my mother,” she explained. “Details about the celebration. Do try to enjoy yourself.”
“I will, Archgreffess. My deepest thanks for your conversation.”
“It is little enough,” Fastia said stiffly. “It's rare we get a breath of fresh air in this court, and well worth breathing it when it comes along.” She began to ride away, then paused, turned her horse back, and brought her head quite near his, so that he could smell the cinnamon perfume she wore. “There are others in the court you haven't met. I pointed out my uncle, Robert? My father's brother? My father has two sisters, as well. Lesbeth, the duchess of Andemeur, and Elyoner, the duchess of Loiyes. You'll find the first sweet-tempered and pleasant in conversation. Elyoner I advise you to avoid, at least until you are wiser. She can be dangerous for young men like you.”
Neil bowed in the saddle. “Thank you again, Princess Fastia, for your company and your advice.”
“Again you are welcome.” This time she rode off without looking back.
That left him alone, which gave him time to let it all sink in, to try to understand the seeming chaos around him.
And to struggle with the fact that he had actually met a king. No, not just a king, but the king, the Amrath, the Ardrey— the emperor of Crotheny and the kingdoms that served it, the greatest nation in the world.
He began a brief prayer of thanks to Saint Lier.
“Look how Sir Bumpkin sits his horse,” someone said, behind him. “Praying to stay in the saddle, Sir Bumpkin?” Another man guffawed in response. Neil finished his prayer, then looked about to see who “Sir Bumpkin” might be, and found two of the sable-and-green-clad knights regarding him. The one who had spoken had a hawkish nose and a small black beard. His companion was pox-scarred, with chipped teeth and eyes like blue ice. Nearby, another of the knights started drifting toward them.
“You are wrong on at least one count,” Neil replied. “I am not titled, and thus no ‘sir’ of any sort.”
“It's just plain Bumpkin, then? A pity,” the knight said, pulling thoughtfully at his goatee. “Seeing how poorly you sit a horse, I had a mind to see how you fall off of one. But I suspect if I watch long enough, that will happen of its own accord.”
“Have I given you offense, sir?”
“Offense is too strong a word. You amuse.”
“Well, I'm happy, I suppose, if I can give such a great lord as yourself amusement,” Neil replied evenly.
“You suppose? You don't even know who I am, do you?”
“No, sir. You wear no device.”
“This braying island ass doesn't know who I am, fellows.”
The third knight arrived, a huge, bearlike man with a bristly blond beard. “Sometimes your own mother pretends she don't know you either, Jemmy,” he ground out in bass tones. “Leave the lad be.”
The man Neil gathered to be Jemmy pursed his lips as if to make retort, then laughed. “I suppose I must,” he said. “And he is, after all, too far beneath me to muck about with. Go along, Bumpkin.” He kneed his mount, turning dismissively away.
“I pray, sir, that you do tell me your name,” Neil called after him.
The fellow turned slowly back. “And why is that, Bumpkin?”
“So when I take the rose and don my spurs I can call on you.”
The knight laughed, and his companions with him. “Very well,” he allowed. “I am Sir James Cathmayl. I will be happy to kill you, just as soon as you wear the rose. But rumor has it that you're merely a lost puppy, nipping about the heels of Sir Fail, with no house, lands, title, or good name. Is it true?”
Neil drew himself straighter. “All but the last. My father gave me this name, and his father before him, and we have faithfully served the Toute de Liery for three generations. MeqVren is a good name, and he who disputes that is a liar.” He cocked his head. “And if I'm of so little count, why are there rumors about me already?”
Sir James tweaked his mustache. “Because Sir Fail, however eccentric, is one of the most important men in the kingdom. Because you spoke to both His and Her Majesty.”
“And because it's said you made three squires of that oaf Alareik Fram Wishilm shit themselves,” the blond-bearded giant added.
“That, too,” Sir James admitted. “You're a curiosity, is what you are.”
“And who are you fellows? What lord do you serve?”
Blond-beard chuckled good-naturedly; the other two sneered. “He is a babe, isn't he?” Sir James grunted, rolling his eyes. “Who do you think we are, boy?” He didn't wait for an answer, but turned and rode away. Poxy-face went with him.
Neil blushed, but stood his ground.
“We're the Craftsmen, lad,” Blond-beard said. “The royal bodyguard.”
“Oh.” Of course, he had heard of the most famous guard in the land. How stupid that he hadn't known their colors. “My apologies. I should have known, by your very presence around the king.”
The blond man shrugged. “Never mind Jemmy. He's not a bad sort, when you get to know him.”
“And may I ask your name, sir?”
“Why? So you can call me out, too?”
“Not at all. I'd like to know the name of the man who showed me kindness.”
“Well. Vargus Farre, at your service. I'm pleased to meet you, and I wish you luck. It's only honest to tell you this, though: I've never heard of an ungentle man being knighted, and if by some miracle you are, you'll know little peace. You'll be seen as an affront, and every knight in the country will bring challenge against you. Take my advice—stay with Sir Fail as his man-at-arms. It will be a good thing for you.”
“I'll take what the king gives me, and desire no more,” Neil replied. “My only wish is to serve His Majesty as best I can.”
Sir Vargus smiled. “Those are words I've heard often enough to render 'em as meaningless as geese honking. And yet I think you mean them, don't you?”
“I mean them.”
“Well, then. Saints smile on you. And now I must attend to my duties.”
Neil watched him go, still feeling stupid. He noticed them, now, watching from afar. Even though the king and Sir Fail looked as if they were alone, in fact there was a circle of Craftsmen around them—at a distance, yes, looking almost uninterested. But when someone moved toward the king, so did they.
He looked for the queen and found her near the edge of the hill, talking to two ladies. There, too, vigilant Craftsmen kept both their range and their guard.
It was said these men renounced all lands and property upon entering the royal bodyguard. It was also said that they felt neither pain nor desire, that none could stand against them, that their weapons had been forged by giants.
Perhaps that's why he hadn't recognized them right away. To Neil, they seemed like any other men.
Alone again, Neil had the leisure to reflect on just how out of place he felt. In Liery, he had known who he was. He was Neil, son of Fren, and since the destruction of his clan, the fosterling of Fail
de Liery. More than that, he had been a warrior, and a good one. Even the knights of Liery had recognized that, and complimented him on it. He had been one of them in all but title. None had successfully stood against him in single combat since he was fourteen. No enemy of the de Lierys had ever stood against him at all, not since that day on the beach.
But what use was he here, in this place of frilly tents and costumes? Where even the most civil of the royal bodyguard spoke to him with such condescension? What could he do here?
Better that he serve the empire as he always had, as a warrior of the marches, where it mattered little whether or not one wore a rose, and mattered much how one wielded a sword.
He would find Fail de Liery and ask him not to recommend him. It was the only sensible course of action.
He looked about and saw Sir Fail break away from the king.
“Come, Hurricane,” he told his mount, “let's tell him, and hope it's not too late.”
But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of the queen. The sight of her held him momentarily.
She was still mounted, silhouetted against the blue sky. Beyond her, the land dropped away to a distant green, still misty with morning. A breeze ruffled her hair.
He realized he had stared too long, and began to turn, when a motion caught his eye. It was one of the Craftsmen, his mount at full gallop, careening across the green toward her, a long silver flash of steel in his hand.
Neil didn't think but kicked Hurricane into motion. Clearly the knight was rushing to meet some threat. Frantically, Neil searched with his eyes as he galloped forward, but saw nothing the warrior might be responding to.
And then he understood. He drew Crow, flourishing her and uttering the piercing war cry of the MeqVrens.
Austra giggled as Anne shooed away some great lout dressed as an ogre, brandishing her willow-wand sword.
“This is fun,” the maid said.
“It's good of you tell me,” Anne replied. “Else I might never have known.”
“Oh, foo. You're having fun.”
“Maybe a little. But it's time we part company, fair lady.”
“What do you mean?” Austra said. “You are my knight. Who else shall escort me to the center of the maze and the Elphin queen's court?”
“That isn't your charge, as well you know. You must find Roderick and direct him to meet me at the fane of Saint Under.”
“In Eslen-of-Shadows? That's—”
“The last place anyone will look for us. And it's not far from here. He is to meet me there at dusk. Go find him, tell him, then find me again in the maze. We shall then proceed to my sister's birthday court, and none will be the wiser.”
“I don't know. Fastia and your mother must be watching us.”
“Amidst all this? That would be difficult.”
“As difficult as me finding Roderick.”
“I have confidence in you, Austra. Now hurry.”
Austra rustled off, and Anne continued through the labyrinth on her own.
She knew how to work mazes, of course. Some of her earliest memories were of her aunt Elyoner's estate of Glenchest, in Loiyes, and the vast hedge labyrinth there. She had feared it until her aunt explained the secret. You simply trailed a hand on one wall and walked, always keeping contact. In that way you would work through the entire thing. Slow it might be, but not as slow as bumbling confusedly around in the same corner for four bells.
She was in no hurry, but from habit, she trailed her left hand along the floral wall.
Meanwhile, children and court dwarves dressed as boghshins and kovalds ran by, squealing and making fierce faces. Many of the court giants were dressed as pig-headed uttins with tusks and green-skinned trolls with bulging eyes. Hound Hat, her father's Sefry jester, tipped his huge brim to her as she went by, his shadowed face the only flesh visible, the rest of him clad in voluminous robes that swallowed even his hands.
She hoped Austra would find Roderick. The kiss in the orchard had been far different from that first peck in the city of the dead. Or rather, the kisses in the orchard, for she seemed to have lost more than half a bell, when she was with him. It wasn't just the lips, with kissing, as she had always imagined. It was the face, so close, the eyes so near they could hide nothing if you caught them open.
And the warmth of bodies—that was a little frightening. Confusing. She wanted more.
Anne paused, her hand still on the wall.
Something was different. She seemed to have entered a corner of the maze no one else had found, not even the “monsters” who were supposed to inhabit it. She had been so deep in thought that she had failed to take notice. Now, straining her ears, she couldn't even hear anyone else.
Just how big could this maze be?
The flowers had changed, too. The walls here were made of scarlet and white primrose—and they were denser. She couldn't see through them at all. In fact, at their bases the stems were quite thick, as if they had been growing for a very long time. But she had been on Tom Woth in midwinter, and there had been no trace of a maze. Sunflowers could grow more than head high in a few months, but a thick stand of primrose? That seemed unlikely.
Her breathing quickened.
“Hello?” she called.
No one answered.
Frowning, Anne turned around, so that her right hand was touching the wall she had been following. Walking quickly, she retraced her steps.
After a hundred paces or so, she lifted her skirts and broke into a run. The maze was still primroses, now sunset red, then sky blue or snow white, pink and lavender. No sunflowers or twining peas, no jesters or goblin-dressed children, no giggling courtiers. Nothing but endless corridors of flowers, and her own sharp breathing.
Finally she stopped, trying to stay calm.
Obviously she wasn't on Tom Woth anymore. Where was she, then?
The sky looked the same, but something was different. Something other than the maze.
She couldn't place it at first, but when she understood, she gasped and, despite herself, began to tremble.
She couldn't see the sun, which meant it must be low in the sky. Yet there were no shadows. Not from the maze, not from her. She lifted her skirt. Even directly underneath her, the grass was lit as uniformly as everything else.
She slapped herself. She pinched herself, but nothing changed.
Until behind her she heard a faint, throaty chuckle.
Time slowed, as it often did for Neil in such moments. The Craftsman's horse seemed almost to drift toward the queen, its great shanks rippling and glistening like black waters beneath the moon.
The queen hadn't yet noticed anything unusual, for the black-and-green-clad knight was approaching from behind her, but Fastia was facing the oncoming rider, and her face was slowly transforming from puzzlement to horror.
For the Craftsman's target was the queen herself. His sword was drawn back, level with his waist and parallel to the ground, in preparation for the strike known as reaper, aimed at kissing Her Majesty's neck and making a fountain of her lovely white throat.
In that long, slow moment of calculation, Neil was suspended between possibilities. If the Craftsman didn't flinch, Neil would never stop him.
The Craftsman didn't flinch, but his horse did, seeing Hurricane bearing down so fast. A single hesitation, less than a heartbeat, but it was enough.
Hurricane crashed into the other horse's hindquarters, striking from the side with such force that it spun the Craftsman clean around. For this, Neil's own decapitating blow went high, but Neil managed to get his left arm around, and the two steel-clad men hit with a noise like a ton of chain being dropped from a watchtower onto cobblestones.
Then there was a tangle of limbs and no weight, and Neil discovered that there was, indeed, an edge to the hill. A very steep slope, and he and the knight were flying out over it like the clumsiest, most improbable birds in the world.
Thunder smote repeatedly as they hit the grass-dressed hill and bounced, bounced again, and rolled
. He lost his hold and they came apart. Crow wasn't in his hands anymore. He finally fetched to a stop against a rock, flashes like anvil sparks filling his vision.
He didn't know how long he lay there, but it couldn't have been long, because he and the royal guardsman were still alone, though the distant hilltop bristled with figures.
Neil got to his feet a few breaths before the Craftsman, who lay some ten paces away. Crow, by good chance, rested halfway between them. Less fortunately, the knight still held his blade.
Neil didn't get Crow up in time, and he had to take that first blow on his forearm. Sheathed in steel as it was, the heavy blade would still have shattered the bone, but Neil angled it so the blade skidded aside. The force struck like lightning all the way to his hip, and for an instant time paused again.
Then Neil lifted Crow, his bird of slaughter, and brought her straight up from the ground, one-handed, a weak blow, but it struck directly beneath the knight's chin. The helm caught it, but his head snapped back, and now Neil had two hands on his weapon.
He hammered in right, hit the helm again, this time just about where the man's ear should be.
The knight fell.
Neil waited for him to get up.
He did, but his helm was deeply dented, and he limped a little. He was a big man, and by the way he set his middle guard, Neil could tell he knew how to fight without a shield.
The Craftsman struck, coming straight on, feinting a head cut, dropping to strike under the arm instead. It was well done, but Neil saw it coming and took a fast, long step to his right, and the other blade bit only air. Crow, on the other hand, lifted as if to block the feint, then came back and once again struck the conical helm, in the same place it had before.
This time, blood spurted from the visor. His foe tottered and fell, trying to curl around his head.
Neil sighed, walked a few steps, and sat down, badly in need of a few deep breaths. It wasn't easy. His beautiful new armor was stove deeply in from below his left arm all the way to his hip, and he was pretty sure the ribs underneath were cracked, too.