by Greg Keyes
"So now that he's slain the Briar King, he'll go after the sedos throne. Who is the master of that?"
"No one. The Church has used the sedos power, but the throne hasn't been occupied since the time of Virgenya Dare. But it will be soon. That's what all of this is about."
"The Briar King was fighting the sedos power."
"Of course. It was destroying his forest."
"But the Xhes throne wasn't, yah? So it seems like he and this Vhelny should be allies against the sedos throne when it rises. Why kill the Briar King now?"
"Because the Vhelny wants all the thrones, of course."
"Ah," Aspar murmured, rubbing his forehead. He wished he could see Leshya's face, but he knew he still wouldn't be able to tell if she was having him on.
"You don't know how much of this is pure sceat?" he finally said.
"Not really," she said. "You asked, and I told you what I know. I've never lied to you, have I?"
"Knowing all this and not mentioning it earlier is very much like a lie, I maun," he replied.
"To have told you earlier, I would have had to tell you what the Sefry really are. After that, you wouldn't have listened to anything I said. But after Fend let the secret slip, and after all the time we've been together…"
"You reckoned I'd be more gullible."
"I didn't ask you to believe it," she snapped.
"Yah," he muttered, waving at the darkness. "So Fend's after me because he works for the Vhelny thing and he's afraid the Briar King might have told me something or other."
"Either that or Fend's just using his power to indulge a personal vendetta. You did take one of his eyes."
"Not a lot of love between us," Aspar admitted. "Not much at all."
"Any other questions?" Leshya asked, her voice sounding stiff.
"Yah," he said. "Just what are you hoping the Briar King passed on to me?"
She nodded and was still for a long moment. "We made the Briar King," she finally said.
"What?"
"The Skasloi. The Xhes and sedos thrones existed before any history I know. We may have created them, or some elder race, but we believe they were created."
"I thought the saints created the sedoi."
"Not the saints as your people worship them. We simply don't know. But the Vhen-the essence of life and death-that was in everything, and it had no throne, no being that controlled it. After we brought the world back from the brink of death, the Skasloi decided that the Vhen needed its own guardian, its own focus. So they created the Briar King-or, more specifically, they created the Vhenkherdh, the heart of life, and from that he was born."
"And you hope he told me where that place is?"
"Did he?"
"No."
But suddenly he did know.
She saw it on his face. "You've been there. That's why you want to go back. Not to just die there."
"It's only a feeling," he said.
"Of course. I've been stupid. He wouldn't have put a map in your hand."
"But he's dead. What can we do now?"
"Without his protection, everything will die. But if he is reborn, we might have a chance."
"You think that's possible?"
"I don't know. But it's something, isn't it?"
"Then why haven't you been in more of a hurry to leave?"
"Because I think you're the key to whatever must happen, and I didn't want you to die before you knew where to go or die on the journey from starting too early."
"Well," he said. "Well. I need to chew on all of this for a while."
"Fine. Shall I take first watch?"
"I'll take it."
She didn't say anything else, but he heard the rustle of her situating herself. He suddenly felt heavy and stupid. He listened to her breathing.
"Thanks," he said. "I don't always mean to be like I am. I just-I like things simple."
"I know," she replied.
He went outside. The stars were out, but the moon was no more than a faint glow in the west. He studied the sky, watching for something dark moving against the constellations, straining his ears for any distant warning.
The Aitivar had been mounted. If they stayed that way, they would have to go back up and out of the pass and wind their way here. That could put them far behind, but if he really had seen some sort of flying beast…
But he didn't see or hear anything, so he let his thoughts wander ahead. Tomorrow they ought to be out of the hills and into the river plain of the White Warlock. If they were where he thought they were, another day or two would get them to Haemeth, where he'd left Winna and Ehawk.
But if he was dragging a war band of monsters after him, was that really what he wanted to do?
What did he want to do?
That hardly mattered, did it? Because he would have to do what the Sarnwood witch had geosed him to do.
He hadn't told Leshya about that, had he? Why?
He didn't have the answers, and if the stars and the wind did, they weren't telling. And so his watch passed, and then he slept.
The next morning he and Leshya marched across the Fells, hugging the thin tree lines that followed streams for cover, keeping their thoughts to themselves. But at midday they were working their way down the last line of leans, and he caught a glimpse of the Warlock in the distance before they slipped beneath the comforting branches of a small wood. There wasn't much old growth. Wood was cut here, and often. Mannish trails were everywhere. Still, it kept them out from under the sky, at least for a little while.
But after about a bell, things went quiet-all the birds, even the jays-and a shadow passed. Aspar looked up and caught a glimpse of something big.
"Sceat," he said.
They crouched beneath huckleberry bushes and waited for it to return, but instead, after a moment, Aspar heard a shriek. Without a thought, he suddenly found himself running and wondering why.
"Aspar!" Leshya snapped, but he ignored her.
He bounded down a series of old terraces and broke into a clearing, and there was the thing, gleaming black and green, its wings folding down as its claws came to earth. But in that terrible moment, that was not what held his attention. It was Winna, coming shakily to her feet next to a fallen horse, her eyes wide, a knife in her outstretched hand.
She was in profile, and so he could see the round bulge of her belly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A CHALLENGE
THE HANSAN KNIGHT stepped nearer, and Neil tried to keep his hand off Battlehound's hilt. A hush settled over the room, more profound by far than the earlier pause in the revelry that had greeted his lady.
"Sir Alareik," Neil acknowledged. "We've met before, it's true. I can't recall any unfinished business between us."
"Don't you? The Moonfish Inn at the docks in Eslen?"
"I remember," Neil said. "I was Sir Fail's squire, and he sent me to ask you to dine with us. You refused."
"You insulted me. Since you were a squire, honor forbade me taking the field against you. That is no longer the case."
It didn't stop you sending three of your squires to ambush me in the stables, Neil remembered, but he didn't think it best to bring that up.
In fact, before he could reply at all, Aradal broke in.
"Sir Alareik, this man is a member of an embassy and therefore a guest of our king. You will treat him with all the respect that comes with that position. Whatever grievance you have with him can be settled later."
"I'll not attack him out of hand," the Wishilm knight replied. "But there's nothing in the old code that says he can't agree to meet me with honor. There's no law in the world that forces a man to hide behind skirts and pretty words rather than step out and take arms like a knight. Well, maybe in Crotheny that's how they do things, but I'd rather think that even there knights are knights."
A general mutter went up at that, and a few shouts of agreement. Neil sighed.
"Sir Neil," Muriele whispered in Lierish.
"It's too late," he replied
in the same tongue. "I can't refuse this."
"You certainly can," she said. "Your injuries-"
"Don't matter, Majesty. Don't you see? It's not the insult to me that's the problem; it's the insult to you and to Crotheny. If we're weak here, we'll be weak before Marcomir. There's no helping it."
"Nonsense. We just show we won't be distracted from our purpose. You're not that wise in politics yet, Sir Neil."
"Maybe not, but I know men of war, Majesty. I know knights, and I know Hansans."
"What's your mother say there, sir knight?" Sir Alareik shouted to general laughter.
Muriele lifted a glare at the man. "You've no manners, sir," she replied. "You're no better than a beast. You've interrupted a perfectly fine evening in the most boorish manner possible."
"I've approached your knight in an honorable way, Your Majesty," he replied. "Which is more than I can say about how he dealt with my poor squires, whom he set upon from hiding. What sort of satisfaction can I have if I can't fight him?"
To Neil, Muriele seemed to pause for an instant.
"Oh, you can fight him," she replied. "I was only pleading with him to spare your life when the moment comes."
The Wishilm knight's brow arched in surprise, and then he smiled. But Neil saw something in the man's eyes. It looked like worry.
He thought I would refuse, Neil realized. He doesn't want to fight me.
"Shall we wait for the sun?" Neil asked. "Or would you rather have it now?"
"The morning is fine," Alareik replied. "On the green. Mounted or not?"
"Your choice," Neil replied. "I don't care."
Alareik stood there for a moment.
"Was there something else?" Muriele asked.
"No, Majesty," the Wishilm knight replied. He bowed awkwardly and vanished into the crowd. The music struck up again, and the rest of the evening was all beer, food, and song.
Neil lifted himself from bed after the midnight bell tolled. He put on his gambeson, took up Battlehound, and made his way back down to the great hall and through its doors to the dark street. He took the sword and made a few passes, trying not to wince at how weak the arm felt. An arrow had struck him from above, piercing bone and muscle, and even after the head finally had been withdrawn, fever had nested there for more than a nineday.
Experimentally, he shifted to a left-favoring hold, but that was worse, because the muscles in his upper arm seized into a ball of pain. He'd taken a spear there, and the blade had cut one of the tendons that attached muscle to bone. Apparently those didn't grow back.
He saw something move from the corner of his eye and found a silhouette watching him. Not surprisingly, the shadow had a familiar hulking shape.
"Good evening, Everwulf af Gastenmarka," Neil said. "Come to do your master's dirty work again?"
He couldn't see the face, but the head moved from side to side.
"I'm much ashamed of that," the man growled. "You taught me a proper lesson that night. You could have killed me, but you didn't."
"You were never in danger of that," Neil said.
"Ney, nor was I ever in danger of beating you," the fellow said, "not even with my friends to help me."
"I was lucky."
"Oh, no. I was there. And who hasn't heard of the battle on Thornrath? You butchered our men there, and one of them was Slautwulf Thvairheison. You've made a large reputation in a small time."
"It's the past, Everwulf. No need for you to worry over it."
"Oh, but there is. My lord sent us after you, do you understand? To punish you and affront Sir Fail de Liery. And when you beat us, two of us quit him and went in search of more honorable masters. That's the humiliation that stings him now, that forces this fight, even with you injured."
"What makes him think I'm injured?"
"The battle for the waerd is famous, Sir Neil. And the tale says that you were bleeding from six wounds and lay three months abed. That's not long enough, Sir Neil. You can't be fully mended."
"It is if I didn't really bleed from six wounds," he replied.
"His squires watched you approach. Do you really think he would fight you if he didn't think you were infirm?"
"I think he thought I would back down, and now he isn't sure I'm injured at all."
"Yah. I'm sure you're right there. He's trembling. But he's challenged you in public. He'll fight you."
"There's no talking him out of it?"
"No."
"Well, I'll fight him, then."
Everwulf's voice dropped a bit lower. "Rumor is your legs are good, that your worst injuries were to shoulder and arm. If that were me, I would choose to fight on foot. Quick feet can make up for a slow arm, and I know you have quick feet."
"Thank you," Neil said.
"May the Ansus favor you," Everwulf replied, taking a step back. He paused, then turned and walked quickly off.
"Well, that was interesting," another voice murmured from the darkness, this one feminine. Heat flashed through Neil's veins, and he lifted his blade before recognizing the voice.
"Lady Berrye," he acknowledged.
"You might as well call me Alis," she replied softly.
"You were here for all of that?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Shouldn't you be guarding the queen?"
"I am," she replied.
"By watching after me?"
"I never thought she ought to be on this fool's errand in the first place," Berrye said, "and I think it was a mistake to bring you. The embassy is hardly under way, and already you've endangered it just by being who you are. Every knight between here and Kaithbaurg is going to want to fight you."
"I know," Neil replied.
"Well, then put a stop to it now. Admit your injuries and withdraw."
For a moment Neil honestly thought she was joking, but then her tone registered.
"That's impossible," he said. "That's what Sir Alareik wants."
"Yes. It's what I want, too."
"Is this the queen's word?"
"No. She bleeds the same hot island blood you do, and you convinced her. I think she really believes you will win."
"And you don't?"
"You can barely move your sword arm. Even a little exertion leaves you gasping."
"Well, then I'll lose," Neil said. "That's still better than not fighting."
"You're her champion. If you fight and fall, it weakens her. If you refuse to fight, it shows she's really determined to carry out this embassy, to avoid distraction, that she has you under control."
"If she orders me to withdraw, I will."
"She won't."
"She won't because you're wrong," Neil replied. "Anything I do other than fight and win will weaken her. So I'll fight and I'll win."
"That's pure genius," Berrye said, her voice larded with sarcasm.
He didn't see much point in replying, and after a moment she sighed.
"Very well. This fellow you just spoke to-was he really trying to help you? If you chose to fight on foot, won't that just let Wishilm know about the trouble with your arms?"
"Probably. But I don't think Everwulf came to trick me."
"Why, then?"
"To make his peace with me and tell me good-bye."
"You can still stop this," Alis murmured.
Muriele nodded absently. The sun was breaking through the mist, crowning the poplars and firs at the edge of the green, which lay on the eastern outskirts of town. It wasn't, of course, very green but rather an expanse of muddy ground churned up by horses and wagons, soldiers practicing, and children playing games. There were bits of grass here and there, but on balance Muriele thought it probably ought to be called a "brown."
There was no seating as such, although a chair had been provided for her. Everyone else-and it really did look as if it might be everyone in town-was standing or squatting around the perimeter, waiting expectantly. The Wishilm knight was already on the field, his suit of lord's plate beginning to pick up the gleam of the rising sun. Neil h
adn't appeared yet.
"He'll be killed," Alis pursued.
"He's a knight," she replied.
"A badly injured knight. A knight the leics said should never fight again. A knight you brought along to ease into less martial professions."
"He will be of no use to me if I allow Hansa to brand him a coward," Muriele said.
"I cannot believe you are so cold," Alis said.
Muriele felt a flare of anger but let it flicker down.
"I love that boy," she said after a moment. "He has more heart and soul than any man I have ever known, and I owe him more than I can possibly say. But he is from Skern, Alis. I could make him turn from this, but it would wither him. It would destroy him. For a man like him, death is better."
"So you send him to his death?"
Muriele forced a little laugh. "You did not see him at Cal Azroth," she said.
The crowd suddenly erupted in cheers and heckling that were nearly matched, and Muriele wondered if Neil's hounds were from the south part of town and his ravens from the north. But nothing about Bitaenstath seemed so neatly divided.
Neil wore armor easily as bright as Sir Alareik's. It should have been: It never had been worn before. His last harness had had to be cut from him after the battle of the waerd. The new armor was very plain, made in the style of the islands, without ornamentation, formed for battle and not for court.
He was mounted as Wishilm was, but something about the way he sat seemed strange.
Alis caught it first. "He's got it in his left," she said.
That was it. Neil had his lance couched under his left arm. His shield rested heavily on his right.
"That doesn't make sense," she said. That puts point against point. His shield is useless; it's on the wrong side of the horse."
"The same is true for Wishilm," Alis pointed out.
"What is this?" Sir Alareik muttered as they raised visors. "You've got your spear in the wrong hand."
"It's the hand I want it in," Neil shot back.
"It isn't done."
"You challenged me, and yet I let you choose the place and the weapons. Now you're going to begrudge how I choose to wield my spear?"