by Tad Williams
“Hurry,” she said. “Hurry! We must reach the palace or be killed here!”
The sun had vanished behind the clouds again; the day had gone dark. The rain began to pour down, and the crowd around them was all wide, white-rimmed eyes and screaming mouths.
* * *
Jesa was back in her family’s hut in Red Pig Lagoon. The ladder was creaking. The wind wailed outside and rain battered the thatch roof, but she still could hear the ladder going eek-eek-eek as someone climbed it.
Now she was standing before the doorway. The house was empty and she was alone, but someone was coming up the ladder. She saw the face first, the handsome, full-lipped face beneath curly hair matted by rainwater. She tried to tell Lord Drusis that he did not want her—that he was in the wrong place—but could not make words come out of her mouth. Something had put a spell of silence on her, and she could only back away from the door, helplessly lifting her hands.
As he climbed higher, she saw that Drusis wore a white winding sheet marked in many places by the blood of his wounds. This did not seem unusual, although the emptiness of his face frightened her. But as the figure made its way onto the floor of the hut and straightened up, she could see that the earl’s arms were backward, the elbows toward her, the hands facing away. He was a dhoota, an angry, hungry ghost. She tried to scream, but her voice was still sealed in her throat. Drusis took a step toward her, then another, each one louder, louder . . .
Jesa woke up gasping, to the sound of thunder booming in the night sky.
She rolled off her bed onto the floor, then crouched on her hands and knees as her heart struggled to escape her breast like a trapped bird. As soon as she could breathe again she scrambled across the room, still on all fours, and looked into Serasina’s cradle, but the child was sleeping peacefully on her stomach with her head on one side, her fat cheeks squeezed by the bed so that she looked like a lump of bread dough. Jesa sat down on the floor beside the cradle and wept a little.
It was not the first time she had dreamed that terrible dream. Her mother had once told her of how her own uncle Jaraweg, taken by a crocodile, had come to her in a dream as a ghost with arms on backward, and had chased her through the swamps, crying out that he was cold from sleeping so long in the depths of the lagoon. The story had terrified Jesa as a child, and even though she had never seen her mother’s uncle and had no idea what he looked like, he had come to her in many nightmares.
Now the ghost had a new face.
Jesa said a prayer to He Who Always Steps On Sand and She Who Waits To Take All Back over the sleeping baby.
Guide her safely, she begged. And do not take her before her time. Let her live to know life. Let her escape these terrible days.
Outside lightning flashed. Moments later, as she finished her prayer, thunder boomed like an angry crocodile.
What will become of us? she thought. First the duke’s brother, now Count Dallo. Is the drylander God killing the duke’s enemies? Or does he mean to kill us all, one by one?
“The Great Lodge will burn from the inside.” The voice of the old Wran-woman at the market came back to her again, each word icy and painful as a knife-slash. “Many will die.”
She could not stay here in this doomed place a moment longer, but she could not leave little Serasina behind, either. Jesa went to her chest and dug down until she found her run-away bag, packed and ready. Her heart ached at the thought of how frightened the duchess would be if Jesa took the baby away to safety, but she told herself Canthia would thank her later for saving her daughter. How could any of them not see that their God—that all the gods—must be angry? That something even more terrible was about to happen?
As she opened the sack she heard a noise behind her and turned. A shape stood in the doorway, all blowing white, and Jesa let out a strangled scream.
“Oh!” said the duchess. “Oh, I didn’t mean to scare you, but I’m so worried. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to hold my little one.”
Jesa could only stare at her mistress, suddenly as unable to speak as in her dream. Canthia walked across the room and lifted Serasina from the cradle. The baby complained sleepily but did not wake.
“Come with us,” said the duchess. “Come and get into the bed with us, dear Jesa. My husband is downstairs—he will not sleep tonight either. He and his advisers are trying . . . trying . . .” She trailed off, suddenly as wordless as Jesa, and walked out of the room with the baby clutched to her bosom. Jesa let out her breath and tucked the bag back into the depths of the chest, then followed.
* * *
It was one of those increasingly rare things, a day of clear skies, though the air had a chill bite to it. Miriamele had taken her ladies walking in the gardens, but if she hoped to cheer them with a promenade among the now leafless fruit trees she had failed. All the women could talk of was danger and doom, the curfew, the deaths of Drusis and Dallo, the perilous streets of Nabban that they dared not walk even with the duke’s soldiers out in force.
Miri had just decided it was past time to send them all back to Erkynland, even if she could not allow herself to leave yet, when a messenger came from the duke asking her to come to the throne room.
Saluceris, his uncle Envalles, and several more members of the duke’s inner circle were all waiting there. Most of them wore their swords in acknowledgment of the dangerous times. They all bowed as Miri came in with her guards, although she thought she saw hints of resentment on more than a few faces, including that of Duke Saluceris himself, and she felt a moment of anger. Did they think that all this was her fault? That things would have somehow gone better if the High Throne had not been in Nabban during these dark days?
“We have had a response from Sallin Ingadaris, Dallo’s son,” Saluceris told her. “I thought you might like to read it.”
She took it from the duke’s hand. “If I cannot even give my father a proper funeral,” Sallin had written, “I can hardly be expected to sign a treaty that gives away the rights and privileges of my house. The duke’s troops bar me from the streets of my own city . . .” She looked up. “I have the gist of it. Am I the only one who also sees that Sallin, that great lump, did not write this?”
“It does not matter who wrote it,” said old Envalles. “Sallin signed it, and he now speaks for Honsa Ingadaris.”
“It’s full of lies,” said Saluceris. “He is not banned from giving his father a funeral. He is banned from giving his father a public funeral.”
“For the Ingadarines, those are the same thing,” said Lord Chancellor Idexes.
Miriamele knew that in this at least, Envalles was right—it did not matter who had authored the letter, Sallin the count’s unfortunate son, who cared only for hunting and drinking, or some family adviser. The Octander Covenant, which Lector Vidian had only signed after near-blackmail, was no more. “They have nothing left,” she said in irritation. “Whatever the cause and whoever the fault, the brains in that family are gone. Why will they not make peace?”
“Anger,” said Saluceris. “Dallo had a plan to snatch the throne, or at least to snatch at power to match mine. Now they have nothing.” He looked at Miri. “Will you stay, Majesty?”
“I suppose not. But if a new pact can be negotiated, I will return.” She sighed, but tried to hide it with a movement toward the door. “Lord Envalles, I wonder if you would grant me a little of your time?”
The duke’s uncle rose from his stool. “Of course, Majesty. You honor me.”
She led him out. “Sir Jurgen, come along,” she told her guard captain. “Bring a pair of your men. I will have some work for you later.”
When they reached her chambers, she left Jurgen and his men outside. “Lord Envalles, will you take a cup of Cudomani with me?” she asked.
“I will, thank you,” he said. “You are very generous, Majesty.”
“Generous with someone else’s cellar. It’s not quite the
same thing.”
When her maid had served them both and retired to the bedchamber, Miri sipped her apple brandy and looked the older man over. In tribute to the martial spirit, Envalles too had donned a sword. He was still a trim figure for his age, and she did not doubt he could wield the weapon to some effect if it was necessary, but she could also see more than a little anxiousness in his posture.
“How may I help you, Majesty?”
“I’ve been wondering about Saluceris being lured away, and I was hoping you might be able to lend me your thoughts. First off, it seems unlikely that letter was written by Drusis himself, don’t you agree? From what we’ve heard, Drusis must have been dead since early in the morning. Even on foot, a messenger could make it from Domo Ingadaris to the Sancellan in a matter of a half hour. Yet the letter only came here at ten of the clock.”
Envalles tugged at his beard. “I suppose you are right, unless Drusis wrote it and asked for the letter to be delivered later in the morning.”
Miri nodded. “Perhaps. But why would Drusis want to meet on Saluceris’ home ground, and so soon before the ceremony to sign the pact at the Dominiate? And how would the duke even reach the mausoleum without coming through the main gates of the Sancellan Mahistrevis? I’ve had my men search—there is no easy way over the walls into the graveyard.”
“Hmmm, yes.” Envalles looked disturbed. “You raise a good point, Majesty.”
“But if the letter did not come from Drusis, then from whom? Who would know enough to mimic his hand so aptly? And who would know that the mausoleum was once a meeting place for them when they were young—a place that Saluceris believed only Drusis would know?”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you, Majesty,” Envalles said. “These matters are too deep for me.”
“Are they? Because it occurred to me that you, Envalles, are one of the only people left in this Sancellan who saw the boys grow up, who knows Drusis well enough and long enough to perhaps be able to forge his hand in a letter.”
A faint gleam of perspiration now became apparent on Envalles’ brow. “I . . . I don’t . . .” He licked dry lips. “Are you accusing me, Your Majesty?”
“Of killing Drusis and Dallo? No, no. Of writing a letter and helping to make sure the duke could not establish his innocence during the time of Drusis’s murder? Yes. Yes, Lord Envalles, I think I am.” She swallowed the last of her brandy, then rose and walked around the room as she continued. “Saluceris saw you sleeping in the garden. Or he thought you were sleeping. But it would have been easy enough to deliver that letter in the dark of night, then wait in the garden until the time came.”
“This is sheer madness, Majesty. I have been one of the Benidrivine House’s most loyal members—!”
“Interestingly enough,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “while they were looking for ways into the cemetery from outside the palace, my soldiers found an old gate, half-hidden by ivy, which leads from the orangery, where Saluceris saw you sleeping, to a path that leads to the cemetery and the Benidrivine vault. It would have been easy enough for you to follow the duke and his guards, wait until they were inside, and then bar the door shut.”
“Were you not my queen, I would demand satisfaction for my honor!” Envalles’ face was red, but Miri did not find his show of indignation convincing. “You have no proof for any of this . . . this . . . wild fancy.”
“I have gathered that Saluceris has some very painful ways of getting proof out of those he deems criminals,” she said. “I would hope you would confess now, so that we can find out who put you up to it—who is really behind all this—without having to resort to such methods.”
“I have done nothing! This is preposterous!”
“Sir Jurgen!” Miri shouted. An instant later the door opened and the guard captain came in with his men. “Lord Envalles will be confined to his room, and that room will be locked. If any of the duke’s men try to stop you, here is my signet.” She handed him the ring. “I will discuss my reasons with Duke Saluceris.”
Envalles was still protesting his innocence and making vague threats as Jurgen led him away, but Miri thought—not without a little satisfaction—that the prisoner did it without much real conviction.
* * *
• • •
In the two days that followed Miri noticed a definite chill in the Sancellan Mahistrevis, much of it directed at her, if only by looks and whispers. Saluceris himself had barely been dissuaded from freeing Envalles immediately, and the rest of his advisers were aghast. Only Duchess Canthia spoke up in Miri’s defense.
“Envalles has always resented you,” she told her husband. “He was quiet about it, and I did not think it would ever go so far as treachery, but it is true nonetheless.”
“What are you talking about?” Saluceris demanded.
“When your father died and the High Throne made you duke, he was very angry. He thought you were too young, and that as oldest male of the household he should have been named regent until you were of age. He said that to many people. Some of them have told me over the years.”
“Who? Who said this?”
“It doesn’t matter, Your Grace,” said Miri. “And I do not suggest Envalles had an active hand in your brother’s death. We know he did not leave the Sancellan that night or that morning. He may even have thought he was delivering a note that Drusis wanted but did not dare write himself.”
“That makes no sense,” said Saluceris angrily, but was distracted by the arrival of one of the heralds, resplendent in sky blue tabard emblazoned with the golden Benidrivine kingfisher. “What do you want, man?”
The herald, mindful of protocol, bowed deeply to the queen and then to his master and the duchess. “At the gate, Your Grace. Lady Turia Ingadaris—with six armed men wearing the Ingadarine albatross. Your brother’s widow desires an audience.”
“What is that child doing here? And why would I see her, especially when she brings soldiers with her?”
“A mere half a dozen,” Miri pointed out. “The smallest possible amount any noblewoman of standing would take with her for protection these days. She has not come to attack us. Perhaps she wishes a parley.”
“Why would I parley with a child?” said Saluceris, scowling. “Very well, bring her in. But her men will be disarmed. If she does not trust me that far, she has her own house to go to—although it is short of menfolk these days, even if you count that muttonhead Sallin.”
A very short time passed before the herald returned. He stopped in the doorway of the throne room and announced, “Lady Turia Ingadaris, Countess of Eadne and Drina.”
The girl was dressed all in black, wearing a hooded cloak against the rain, but Miri could still see that her mourning clothes were of exquisite make, Khandian silk with ilenite threads gleaming in the subtle embroidery. Turia stopped just inside the doorway and made a courtesy toward Miriamele, then straightened. “Your herald is wrong.” Her voice was small and high, but somehow it carried. “I am the widow of the duke’s brother. I am called Turia Benidrivis.”
Saluceris did his best to hide his annoyance. “Our apologies, sister-in-law. And we extend you our sympathies on the death of your uncle.”
Turia showed him a swift smile with no life in it. “On behalf of Count Dallo’s family, I thank you. And now, since the curfew you have instituted is but an hour or so away and I would not want to be arrested by your soldiers, Duke Saluceris, I wish to have an audience—”
“I am very busy, Lady Turia,” the duke said hurriedly. “I can make a little time for my brother’s widow, of course—”
“You did not let me finish.” This time she put a bit of a sting in her words. The courtiers grew wide-eyed and began to whisper among themselves. “I do not seek an audience with you, but with Her Majesty, Queen Miriamele. A privy meeting, away from other eyes and ears.”
Miri was surprised but did her best no
t to show it. “Certainly, my lady. If the duke does not grudge it to me, I can meet with you in his study.” She turned to Saluceris. “Would that be agreeable to you, Duke?”
Saluceris was as startled as she was, and more than a little offended—the color in his cheeks emphasized the lightness of his whiskers and the white hairs so newly visible in them. After a moment, he waved his hand, almost violently. “As you wish, Majesty. But for your safety, I will post guards outside the door.”
Miri frowned. “I do not think that necessary, Duke Saluceris. Not while I have a conversation with this bereaved young woman, just the two of us.”
The duke gave in with poor grace, shrugging his assent. As Miri and Lady Turia walked out, he started a conversation with Idexes Claves. Miri heard them laughing loudly as she left the throne room.
Once in the duke’s study, with faithful Jurgen standing guard outside, Miri seated herself and gestured Turia to an embroidered bench. “Will you take some wine?” she asked.
Turia shook her head. “No, Your Majesty. I will not stay long. I have only a brief message for you, though it is an important one.” Raindrops still sparkled on the fur lining of her hood. Real diamonds sparkled in her black hair, a slender circlet of gems that Miri guessed could pay for a small country estate. But she could not read the expression on Turia’s face. Placid, at least at first seeming, but with something working beneath. Anger? Unhappiness? “Please, then,” she said. “Share your message with me.”