Last King of Osten Ard 02 - Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

Zin-Seyvu spread her long hands. “We cannot fight you,” she said mournfully. “We are grateful you wished to take nothing else from us. We will find more food.”

  Nezeru pulled up the hood of her cloak and began scraping mud from her boots with a stick before climbing into the saddle. “Where are you and your people going?”

  “We do not know. We only know what we have seen.”

  “Seen?”

  “In our dreams. She speaks to us in our dreams. She called us in our tunnels beneath the city of Cloud Castle—called us to come here.”

  Nezeru was confused. She tossed the stick aside. “You come from Hikehikayo itself? The old city? But who is this ‘she’ who called you? Queen Utuk’ku?”

  “We do not know, but her voice was strong and we could not ignore it. We had to obey.” Zin-Seyvu turned and said something to her fellows that Nezeru could not understand, but several of them nodded and began rocking back and forth where they sat. A few even set up a soft hooting that she realized after a moment was singing. “She calls us every night when we lie in darkness. She says, ‘Come. I need you. I need all the Ocean Children.’ Sometimes we see visions of a shadowed vale, and a dark figure as big as a mountain. We only know it lies before us, somewhere in this forest.” Zin-Seyvu’s face took on an expression of desperation. “You cannot understand, warrior. These dreams and these calls haunt us. Some of us have been driven mad by it. We could ignore the summons no longer. We set out from the Cloud Castle with twice these numbers. The road has been hard and several have perished. But the call continues, night after night. Like you, we cannot stop, cannot take any comfort. Like you, we must keep moving. But you are being pursued. We are being summoned.”

  Nezeru was intrigued but decided it would have to remain a mystery. What was it Jarnulf said about stories? That all thinking creatures have one that is theirs alone? So my story has met theirs, but neither of us will ever know how the other’s story ends.

  She tilted her head under a dripping branch and took a last drink of water, but before she had even finished swallowing, several of the Delvers suddenly cried out, and she heard Zin-Seyvu coming toward her from behind. Cursing herself for being too trusting, she grabbed at her sword hilt and turned to face what she felt sure was treachery, but the female Delver had stopped a few paces away and was swaying, one great starfish of a hand held out toward Nezeru as if to beg some boon. Then Zin-Seyvu crumpled to the ground and pitched forward onto her face, a long black shaft sticking out of her back. In the split-second it took her to collapse, another of the Delvers was knocked from his place on the log as if slapped by some powerful, invisible spirit. Blood pumped from his long neck around the long, quivering shaft of an arrow. Black feathers, she saw with a sinking heart. Hikeda’ya.

  Her pursuers had been closer than she had guessed, but she had no time to curse herself for overconfidence. Several more arrows snapped past her as she leaped onto the horse’s back and leaned low against its neck, gouging at the beast’s side with her heels. She could hear thin, whistling cries of despair from the Delvers behind her as her mount plunged out of the clearing and into the trees, but she could do nothing for them.

  Another arrow missed her by a finger’s breadth and smacked into the trunk of a tree as she raced past it. Her horse, at least, needed no coaxing to run as fast as it could, making dizzying leaps over fallen logs, crashing through chest-high undergrowth. Nezeru could hear her attackers calling to each other through the trees—as much to frighten her, she knew, as to communicate with each other.

  She set her teeth. But I am no ordinary fugitive, she thought, and for a moment something burned hot in her breast. I am a Queen’s Talon.

  But even as she clung to the horse’s back, fixed on this moment and escape, she was also aware she was being driven south by her pursuers, deeper and deeper into the ancient forest, a place she did not know, a place with many more things to fear in it than simply the Sacrifices chasing her. Perhaps I should turn and fight . . .

  No, she told herself, and laid her head on her mount’s shoulder just in time to avoid being clubbed by a heavy, dripping branch that jutted across her path. I must try to outrun them . . . try to live. And if I cannot, then I will try make a good ending. Her Hikeda’ya horse came upon a gully at a speed too great to stop, and leaped. As they descended Nezeru felt herself rising out the saddle, and was almost jarred off completely as they landed with a violent impact on the far side. Only her knees digging into the horse’s flanks and her fingers entwined in the mane kept her on its back. They raced on and the trees rushed past her, close enough to touch.

  And when my ending does come, I promise I will pass over to the Garden with the blood of many enemies on my sword.

  41

  A Heart of Ashes

  “After all the years that my family and I have been loyal to the crown of Erkynland, Your Majesty, I am disheartened you do not believe me!” Duke Saluceris did not sound disheartened, he sounded furious. The Sancellan’s council chamber was full of people—Duchess Canthia, the duke’s uncle Envalles, and several others—but Saluceris had not sat once, instead pacing back and forth around the table at the room’s center, weaving between the assembled courtiers.

  “I do not disbelieve you, Your Grace.” It was hard for Miriamele to keep frustration and anger from her voice. “Please do not put words in my mouth. I asked you to tell me again what happened so I can understand.”

  “More idle talk when my brother has been murdered!”

  “The streets are full of rioters. On every corner of the city Ingadarines accuse you of the killing. This is not ‘idle talk,’ Duke.” She turned to Envalles. “My lord, help your nephew to hear me, please.”

  The older man nodded. “The queen is not your foe, Saluceris. None of us are.”

  The duke stopped pacing for a moment and looked around the room, as though to make certain that his uncle spoke the truth. “Nevertheless, there is conspiracy afoot here. Someone tries to make me responsible for my brother’s murder—my own brother! But I am innocent, and may God strike me down if I lie!”

  “I do not doubt you,” Miri said again. “Now, please, tell me what happened. You said you received a message.”

  “From Drusis, yes. It was his written in his hand—would I not know my brother’s hand?”

  “How did it come to you?”

  “I told this already. It was put under my door in the middle of the night. A servant found it and brought it to me. Here, see for yourself.” He took out the folded parchment and waved it, then opened it up and read. “You and I must speak, Brother. There are things you do not know. We have a mutual enemy. Meet me at the tenth hour in the Dead House.” Saluceris had calmed himself a little, but his face was still flushed and agitated. “That is the name Drusis and I called the Benidrivine mausoleum when we were young. You remember that, Envalles, don’t you?”

  His uncle nodded and showed the ghost of a smile. “It is familiar, yes. Your mother thought it a terrible sacrilege and forbade you to play there.”

  “Just so. Who else but Drusis would have known that? And see, the letters are just like his!”

  “I see,” said Miri. “And what did you do? Tell me again.”

  “I am no fool. I did not go alone. I do not trust Drusis that far. I took three of my most trustworthy guards. We made our way through the gardens and out toward the park. I saw Uncle Envalles sleeping in a chair in the Orangery Garden.” He turned to the old man. “Sleeping when he should have been preparing for us to go to the Dominiate.”

  “I was waiting for you,” said Envalles simply.

  “In any case, you can pledge that you saw me go past with my guards.”

  “If you claim that I was asleep, how can I pledge anything about what you were doing?” Envalles replied crossly.

  “Enough,” said Miriamele. “Speak on, Your Grace. You went through the park to the family mausoleum?”


  “Yes. No one was there—not Drusis nor anyone else. The guards will all testify to what I say.”

  Of course they will, thought Miriamele. But they would do the same if they helped you murder your brother. Still, at this point she was inclined to believe Saluceris. It was not just the genuine confusion he had shown when he returned to the palace; if his red-rimmed eyes and air of stunned indignation were play-acting, the duke was one of the most gifted mummers she had ever met.

  “I went in first—with one of the soldiers, of course. He went before me. I do not know if you have been in the Benidrivine crypt, Majesty, but it is very large, a veritable catacomb. We found no one waiting there but the dead.” He paused again, disturbed by his own words. His mouth twisted in what might have been anger again or something sadder, but he shook it off and resumed his story. “The other two guards, fools that they were, came in behind us to help look. While we were searching the place, someone pushed the great door closed—we did not even hear it. We only discovered that we were locked in when we tried to leave again.”

  “And that is where you were the whole time, while the rest of us were at the Hall of the Dominiate? Until you appeared here?”

  “Yes, and may the Holy Aedon blast me if I tell a single untrue word. We broke open the door at last. It had been barred with a piece of wood from one of the forcing-houses on the slope above the mausoleum. I returned to find all this . . . this madness.”

  At last, as if he had emptied himself like a storm cloud, Saluceris fell into a chair beside his wife. She clutched at his hand. He tried to resist at first, but Canthia would not let go. Her face, Miriamele thought, was that of someone trapped in a nightmare.

  Miri felt a little the same.

  “And while you were locked in the crypt, Drusis was murdered in his own chapel,” she said. “One person could not manage both acts—the Ingadarine estate is too far away, even by horse, for one man to do both. If everything you have told us is true, Saluceris, then this was a conspiracy.”

  “Of course it’s true!”

  “I do not mean you have lied, Your Grace. Calm yourself. I mean only if your memories of time and circumstance are correct.” She took a moment to look at the others gathered in the chamber. None looked any different than she imagined innocent folk would, all fearful but doing their best to contain it. She looked to Canthia, still doggedly clutching her husband’s hand. “Duchess, I will say it again—I think you should take your children and leave the city.”

  Canthia was startled. “I will not go to Domos Benidriyan and leave my husband here alone. My place is at his side. After all, I am not just his wife, I am the duchess!”

  “And your children are the heirs,” said Envalles. “The queen is right, Madam. Who knows what will happen if Dallo whips his supporters into a frenzy?”

  “You truly think Canthia should leave?” Saluceris seemed bewildered, as though only now realizing how bad things could be. “How can I protect her at Domos Benidriyan? There are only a few dozen guards there—we have hundreds here in the Sancellan.”

  “I do not mean your city-house,” Miriamele said. “That is far too close to the troubles and too hard to defend on top of it. No, I think your wife and children should go as far away as they can. Ardivalis in the north is the Benidrivine heartland. Send her to your family lands there.”

  “No!” said Canthia. “I will not go! Even the High Ward cannot force me to leave my husband.”

  “Then you are a fool,” said Miriamele, and her harsh words sent a shock through the whole gathering. “And so is your husband if he lets you sway him.” She stared at the duke. “Do you not see that whatever happened was no chance attack? This was a plan, carried out by more than one person. We cannot say who would be willing to murder Drusis—not yet—then try to make it seem as though it was done by your hand, but it was clearly part of a larger plan. And as long as you stay here with your children, not just your dukedom is in danger, but the survival of your house.”

  “What do you mean we cannot say who the murderer is?” said Saluceris. “How can you call me a fool and then pretend it is not obvious to all who is behind this? Dallo! Dallo Ingadaris, that fat spider!”

  “Perhaps,” said Miri. “But Drusis had only been married to Dallo’s niece for scarcely a month and a half. It seems a bit risky for Dallo to give up his best claim to the dukedom so easily.”

  “But, Your Majesty,” said Count Matreu, “who else would benefit from the death of Earl Drusis?”

  “Many, perhaps.” Miriamele shook her head, suddenly so weary she wished she could get up and go immediately to her bedchamber. She was aching for her husband—for dear Simon, who might not know the answer to any of these questions, but would calm her by his mere presence while she struggled to sort it out. “And that is one of the things we must discover. Duchess Canthia, it might be in my power to force you out of the city against your will, but it is not my wish. I am first and foremost your friend. For the sake of your children, for young Blasis and little Serasina, I beg you to heed me.”

  Canthia did not reply but only looked back defiantly, though her eyes were wet with tears.

  “Be certain that the guard officers in charge are those you most trust, Your Grace,” Miri told the duke. “And for the love of Elysia, Mother of God, tell them not to fight back against the people unless it is to save their own lives! Nabban is full of wild rumors and angry citizens—terrified citizens as well, who wonder what has happened, why thirty years of peace has so quickly disappeared. I doubt any of us will sleep much tonight because of the unrest and the earl’s murder, but that is all the more reason for the Sancellan Mahistrevis not to make things worse. Anything can happen, but let us not put a torch to our own roof.”

  * * *

  Nineteenth Day of Anitul, Founding Year 1201

  My good Lord Tiamak,

  I send you greetings and trust I find you still under God’s loving protection. I have astounding news for you. I have found Lady Faiera alive!

  I will not delay by telling of my continuing problems with your friend Madi and his dreadsome offspring, the small criminals who have beggared me and twice forced me to leave a lodging just ahead of being brought to assizes by the innkeepers. That said, I would vastly appreciate it if you would send a decent sum of money no smaller than two gold pieces to the proprietor of the tavern called Li Campino as soon as you receive this, or I may spend the rest of my life in Perdruin, locked in one of Countess Yissola’s prisons.

  That said, I move to the purpose of this letter.

  I learned from someone who knew Faiera that she was thought to still be alive, but that she had left Ansis Pellipé some years before and moved to a mountain village called Piga Fonto on the far side of Sta Mirore, so I hired a mule and rode there, leaving Madi and his bandit offspring behind. This was a mistake, I discovered later, hence the sudden need for two gold pieces, but I will not let that slow my story.

  Faiera did not live in Piga Fonto, and nobody there recognized her name, but I was told of a woman named Grandi—some said a “witch woman”—who lived in a hut high on a crag and eked out a living growing vegetables and herbs and concocting healing draughts for those who wished them. So I climbed back on my mule and made my way farther up the mountain until I came upon a tumble-down cottage with a garden full of plants I recognized—and you and your wife would recognize as well—such as Hyssop and Motherwort.

  * * *

  • • •

  She stood in the doorway of the hut, watching as his mule trudged up the winding path. Her unbound hair was long and gray and fluttered like a cloud being shredded by the swift autumn wind. Her expression was hard and suspicious, but he saw none of the fear he might have expected from an old woman facing a male stranger in her dooryard.

  “Are you the one the folk down in the village call Grandi?” he asked.

  “They call
me many things in the Piga Fonto. ‘Grandi’ is one of them.” Despite the sour flatness of her tone, her words were well formed: she spoke much better Westerling than most he had met in these parts. Away from Ansis Pellipé and its harbors, few bothered to learn another language so well.

  “Then I bid you good day. My name is Brother Etan of Erchester. I would have speech with you. I have money and can make it worth your time.” He did not have much, though, and he hoped that if this turned out to be another path leading nowhere, he would at least only have to pay her according to local standards. The city and its expensive bribes had all but flattened his purse.

  “You might be a handsome young fellow under that idiot’s tonsure,” she said. “But I am still not in the habit of inviting strangers into my house.” She pointed to a log half swallowed by wild thyme. “You may sit on my bench, and we will look over the gardens together as we speak.”

  This dour jest made Etan’s heart quicken a little. “You are too kind, my lady.”

  She gave him a crooked look. “So. I have little to offer you, Brother, but I always try to show courtesy to God’s messengers, even when they arrive by mule. Will you have a little burdock wine?”

  “I will, thank you. The weather is cooling now that autumn is here, but it was still a hot ride up the mountain under the sun.”

  She disappeared into the tiny hut as Etan tethered his mule and cleared a place for himself on the log. She returned with two clay mugs and handed one to him, then returned to her doorway with the other. “Forgive me if I do not sit,” she said. “It is pleasant while I am doing so, but it is painful when the time comes to stand again.” She took a sip. When she looked up, her expression had sharpened. “Now, what brings a traveling monk to Grandi’s door?”

  “To be honest, my lady, it is not Grandi with whom I would speak.” He took a draught from his cup, wondering only when it was in his mouth whether this might be some mad old woman who poisoned travelers and robbed them. It gave the burdock wine a sour flavor, but he bravely swallowed it down. God would not bring him so far, he reassured himself, simply to let him die here on a hill in Perdruin. “I am looking for Lady Faiera.”