The Blood Knight

by Greg Keyes

  “No one,” Neil replied quickly.

  “Hah. You mean you wish no one had. You mean someone has, but you think it’s wrong, somehow. Guilt is your real lover, sir knight. Name to me one woman you have loved when you did not feel guilty for the affection.”

  “Please, Duchess, I don’t wish to discuss this.”

  “Perhaps you need more of my herbal concoction.”

  Neil gazed desperately ahead, hoping for relief from the conversation. The mansion was so very far from the gates. It hadn’t seemed this far before.

  Since finding Anne in Dunmrogh, he had managed to keep his heart silent, but Glenchest was waking it again. He remembered riding here the first time, on a much more carefree outing. He remembered Fastia, weaving him a chain of flowers to wear around his neck. And then later, after much drinking, she had come to his room…

  The daughter of my queen, whom I was sworn to protect. A married woman.

  She had died in his arms, and he had thought his heart was so shattered that it could never feel again.

  Until he met Brinna, who saved his life and sacrificed her dream so he might pursue his duty. He did not love her, not as he had Fastia, but there was something there.

  Where was she now? Dead also? Returned to the prison she had fled?

  “Poor thing.” Elyoner sighed. “Poor thing. Your heart is made for tragedy, I fear.”

  “That is why my one love must be my duty,” he replied, speaking stiffly again.

  “And that would be the greatest tragedy of all,” Elyoner replied, “if I thought you could stick to that. But your heart is far too romantic to close all of its portals.”

  And finally, too late, they reached the gates of the manse.

  Cazio put his hand against the wall to hold it up, belched, and lifted the carafe of wine to his lips, swallowing deeply.

  The vintage was unlike any he had ever had: dry and fruity, with an aftertaste like apricots. The duchess had claimed its origin was in a nearby valley, which made it the first Crothanic wine he’d ever tasted.

  He glanced up at the moonless sky and raised the carafe.

  “Z’Acatto!” he said. “You should have come! We could have argued about this wine. To you, old man!”

  Z’Acatto had claimed there was no vintage north of Tero Gallé worth drinking, but this one proved him wrong. Whether he was too stubborn to admit that was, of course, the issue. Cazio wondered how his mentor was doing. Surely he was still abed in Dunmrogh, considering his injuries.

  He gazed around the garden he’d found. The meal had been excellent and exotic. The northern lands might be a bit barbaric, but the food was definitely interesting, and at the duchess’s there was plenty of it. But after a few glasses of wine, the gabble around him had lost all intelligibility.

  The duchess was able to carry on a passable conversation in Vitellian, but though she had flirted with him a bit on the ride, she quite naturally was concentrating on catching up with Anne. He was too tired to try to muddle clumsily through in the king’s tongue, so after the meal he’d gone looking for a bit of solitude, and he had found it here.

  Glenchest—such odd names they had in this part of the world—seemed to be more garden than anything else, rather like the grounds of the Mediccio in z’Irbina where he and z’Acatto had once pilfered a bottle of the fabled Echi’dacrumi de Sahto Rosa.

  Of course, there hadn’t been frozen rain all over the place in z’Irbina, nor did Vitellian gardens favor evergreen hedges trimmed to resemble stone walls as this one did, but the results were still pleasing. There was even a statue of Lady Fiussa, whose image had also graced the square in his hometown of Avella. It made him feel a bit at home.

  He doffed his hat to the nude slip of a saint who stood in the paved center of a small, clover-shaped courtyard and rested on a marble bench to finish his wine. His hands ached with the cold, but the rest of him was surprisingly warm, courtesy not only of the wine but also of the excellent doublet and hose the duchess had given him. The orange leggings were thick and woolen, and the black upper garment was of supple leather lined with fur. Over all that was thrown a wide-sleeved quilted coat, and his feet were snugged in buskins.

  He sat in the warm pool of light cast by his lamp and was lifting the carafe again in toast to the duchess’s excellent taste in clothing, when a feminine voice interrupted his reverie.

  “Cazio?”

  He turned and found Austra regarding him.

  Elyoner had given her presents, as well: an indigo gown over which she wore a robe of deep brown fur of some sort Cazio did not recognize, though he thought the hood was trimmed with white mink. Her face seemed ruddy, even for lamplight, probably from the cold.

  “Hello, lovely,” he said. “Welcome to my little kingdom.”

  Austra didn’t answer for a moment. Cazio wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light that she seemed to be rocking back and forth on her heels, as if trying to keep balance on something narrow. He kept expecting her to put her arms out to steady herself.

  “Do you really think I’m lovely?” she blurted, and Cazio realized that she’d had at least as much wine as he had.

  That was something the duchess was good at, apparently: getting people to drink her wine.

  “As the light of sunrise, as the petals of the violet,” he answered.

  “No,” she said a bit angrily. “None of that. You say that sort of thing to every woman you meet. I want to know what you think of me, just me.”

  “I—” he began, but she rushed on.

  “I thought I was going to die,” she said. “I’ve never felt so completely alone. And I prayed you would find me, but I feared you were already dead. I saw you fall, Cazio.”

  “And I did find you,” Cazio said.

  “Yes, you did,” she said. “You did, and it was wonderful. Like that first time you saved me—saved us, back near the coven. You put yourself between us and harm without even asking why. I fell in love with you then. Did you know that?”

  “I…No,” he said.

  “But then I got to know you better, and I understood that you would have done that for anyone. Yes, you were pursuing Anne, but even if you had known neither of us, you would have done the same thing.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Cazio said.

  “I would. You are like an actor on a stage, Cazio, only what you’re acting out is your own life. You contrive your speech and your mannerisms; you pose near constantly. But beneath all that, whether you know it or not, the thing you are pretending to be—you really are. And now that I understand that, I understand that I love you all the more. I also understand you don’t love me.”

  Cazio’s belly tightened. “Austra—”

  “No, hush. You don’t. You like me. You like kissing me. But you don’t love me. Maybe you love Anne. I’m not sure about that part, but you understand now, don’t you, that you can’t have her?”

  She was crying, and Cazio suddenly wanted nothing more than to stop those tears, but he felt strangely paralyzed.

  “I know you dallied with me to make her jealous. And knowing you, the fact that Anne is unattainable probably makes her all the more enticing. But I’m here, Cazio, and I love you, and even if you don’t feel the same, I want you, want whatever you can give me.” She pushed the tears away and defiantly took a step closer.

  “I’ve nearly died a dozen times in the last year. I’ve been lucky, but things are only going to get worse. I don’t think I’ll see my next birthday, Cazio. I really don’t. And before I die, I want—I want to be with you. Do you understand? I won’t expect marriage, or love, or even flowers, but I want you, now, while there’s still time.”

  “Austra, have you really thought about this?”

  “They were talking about raping me, Cazio,” Austra said. “You think I want to lose my virginity like that? Am I so ugly that—”

  “Stop,” he said, holding up his hand, and she did. Her eyes seemed larger than usual, gentle shadows on her face. “You know bett
er than that.”

  “I know better than nothing.”

  “Really? You seem to know quite a lot about me,” he said. “What I feel, what I don’t feel. Well, let me tell you, Austra Eleistotara—”

  “Laesdautar,” she corrected.

  “However you pronounce it,” he said. “My point is—”

  “What is your point?”

  “It—” He stopped, looked at her for a second, and the moment came back to him, just before the slinders attacked them, when he had seen her tied up, and the men who had taken her, saw that it was Austra and not Anne.

  He took her by both shoulders and kissed her. Her lips were cold at first and unresponsive, but then they quivered against his, and her arms reached around him, and she sighed as her body butted against him.

  “My point,” he said, pulling away after a long, long time, and he was reasonably sure of what he meant to say. “My point is that you do not understand me half so well as you think you do. Because I do love you.”

  “Oh,” she said as he pulled her close again. “Oh.”

  When the servant closed the door behind her, Anne collapsed onto the bed, listening to the faint wisp of buskins on stone until they vanished.

  Dinner had been almost unbearable; it had been an age since she had eaten at a formal table, and though Elyoner’s board was rowdier than most, still she felt the need to sit with her spine straight and attempt to make witty conversation. She’d eschewed the wine that might have helped relax her, because the idea of alcohol still sickened her a bit. The meal had been delicious, judging by the reactions of her companions, but she scarcely had noticed the taste of anything.

  Now, finally, she had what she’d wanted for, well, months.

  She was alone.

  She reached for the foot of the bed, where a wooden lion’s head kept sentinel at the top of the post. She rubbed the glass-smooth crown of it.

  “Hello, Lew.” She sighed.

  It was all so familiar and so strange at the same time. How many times had she stayed in this room? Once a year, nearly. The first time she remembered she’d been about six, and Austra five. Elseny, Anne’s middle sister, had been eight. It was the first time Fastia, the eldest, had been put in charge of the three girls, and she must have been about thirteen.

  Anne could see her now; to her younger eyes, of course, Fastia had seemed all but grown, a woman. Looking at her now, in her cotton shift, she was still just a slip, her breasts the slightest of bumps. Her face already had their mother’s famous beauty, but still in girlish disguise. Her long dark hair was wavy from having been caught up in braids earlier that evening.

  “Hello, Lew,” Fastia had said, rubbing the lion’s head for the first time.

  Elseny had giggled. “You’re in love!” she had accused. “You’re in love with Leuhaert!”

  Anne could barely remember who Leuhaert was. The son of some greft or duke who’d appeared at court during one Yule season, a handsome boy whose manners were well intended but never quite right.

  “Maybe I am,” she said. “And you know what his name means? Lion-heart. He’s my lion, and since he’s not here, old Lew here will have to do.”

  Anne put her hand on the lion’s head. “Oh, Lew!” she said brightly. “Bring me a prince, too.”

  “And me!” Austra giggled, slapping the wood.

  They’d made a habit of that for the next ten years, always rubbing Lew’s head, even after Fastia married.

  She’d closed her eyes in membrance, but as a hand brushed hers, they flew open and she gasped. A girl stood there, a girl with golden hair.

  “Elseny?” Anne asked, drawing her hand back.

  It was Elseny, looking the age Anne had last seen her.

  “Hello, Lew,” Elseny said, ignoring Anne. “Hello, old fellow. I think Fastia is up to something naughty, but I won’t tell if you won’t. And I’m going to be married. Fancy that!”

  Elseny patted the wooden head again and then walked back toward the door. Anne felt her breath rushing in her ears.

  “Elseny!” she called, but her sister didn’t answer.

  She glanced back up and found Fastia standing there.

  “Hello, Lew,” Fastia said, giving the bedpost a brush with a hand that lingered. She looked almost the same as Anne had last seen her except that her face was relaxed, her public mask laid aside. It seemed soft, and sad, and young, not so different from the girl who had given Lew his name.

  Anne felt her heart clutch. She’d said such angry things to Fastia the last time they’d spoken. How could she have known they would never speak again?

  “What should I do?” Fastia murmured. “I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t…”

  Anne suddenly recognized the glazed look in her sister’s eyes. She was drunk. She stood there swaying, and she suddenly teared up. She looked straight at Anne, and for an instant Anne was sure Fastia saw her.

  “I’m sorry, Anne,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Then Fastia closed her eyes and softly began to sing.

  Here’s my wish;

  A man with lips as red as blood

  With skin as white as snow

  With hair of blue-black

  Like a raven’s wing.

  That’s my wish.

  Here’s my wish;

  A man to hold me tight and warm

  To hold no one but me

  Until the stars dim

  Until the sea dries up

  That’s my wish

  She finished her song, and Anne was seeing her through a blur of tears.

  “Good-bye, Lew,” Fastia said. As she began to turn, Anne’s silent weeping became sobs. Fastia walked to the tapestry of a knight astride a hippocampus and lifted it. Behind it, she tapped the wall, and a panel slid open.

  Fastia paused at the threshold into darkness. “There are many more such hidden places where we are from,” she said. “But that is for later. For now, you must survive this.”

  And then came the smell of rotting flesh, and Fastia’s eyes were full of worms, and Anne screamed—

  —and sat up screaming, her hand still on the bedpost, just in time to see the tapestry lifting.

  THE MAN was so close, Stephen could feel breath on the back of his neck.

  “I always thought that was just an expression,” he murmured.

  “What’s an expression?” the man asked.

  “Gozh dazh, brodar Ehan,” Stephen said.

  “Eh, yah, that’s an expression: ‘Good day,’” Ehan replied. “But you know that.”

  “May I turn around?”

  “Oh, sure,” Ehan said. “I was just trying to scare you.”

  “You did a fine job,” Stephen allowed, turning slowly.

  He found an almost dwarfish little man with bright red hair beaming up at him, fists on his hips and elbows jutting in a dark green robe. He suddenly thrust one of his hands out, and Stephen flinched slightly, until he saw it was empty.

  “Jumpy, aren’t you?” Ehan said as Stephen belatedly took the proffered hand.

  “Well, it’s just that you began by calling me a traitor, Brother Ehan.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Ehan replied. “There’s some in the Church would consider you a traitor, but I’m not one of ’em. Nor will you find anyone in d’Ef that thinks that way. Not at the moment, anyway.”

  “How did you know I was going to be there?”

  “Them below told me they was sending you up,” Ehan said.

  “Then you’re allied with slinders?”

  Ehan scratched his head. “The wothen? Yah, I reckon.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, I’m not to explain it to you,” Ehan replied, “for fear I’ll get it wrong. I’m just here to take you to the fellow who will explain it to you, and to assure you that you’re among friends—or at least not among enemies. No allies of the praifec here.”

  “So you know about that?” Stephen said.

  “Oh, sure,” Ehan replied. “Look, do you mi
nd if we start walking? We’re likely to miss the praicersnu if we don’t hurry.”

  Stephen took a deep breath. He and Ehan had been friends, or at least he once thought they were. They had helped each other against Desmond Spendlove and the other corrupt monks of the monastery d’Ef. But Stephen had since undertaken a series of studies whose lesson was essentially that no one was what he seemed, especially in the Church.

  Ehan had never given Stephen any reason to distrust him. He could as easily have stabbed him in the back as said hello.

  But maybe what he wanted was subtler than murder.

  “Let’s go, then,” Stephen said.

  “This way.”

  Ehan motioned him along a trail that switched back through forest fringe and pasture, down across a little stream bridged by a log, out through the vast apple orchard, and up the next hill toward the sprawling monastery. Despite his bad memories of the place, he had to admit it was still a beautiful building. The high-steepled nave thrust up a double-arched clock tower of rose granite to catch the morning sun like pale fire, a prayer made architecture.

  “What’s happened since I’ve been gone?” Stephen asked as they climbed the last, steepest part of the approach.

  “Ah, well, I reckon I can tell you some of it. After you saved the holter from Brother Desmond and his bunch, they went out after you. We learned later how that turned out, of course. In the meantime, we got word that the praifec had sent a new fratrex to carry on here at the monastery. Now, we knew Desmond was mean, but we didn’t know he was working for the Hierovasi.”

  “Hierovasi?”

  “I—right, supposed to let him explain. Don’t worry about that just yet. The bad fellows, let’s say. In fact, like you, most of us didn’t even know about the Hierovasi until recently. But we did manage to work out that Hespero was one of ’em, which meant the fratrex he was sending would most likely be one, as well.

  “He was, and we had a bit of a fight. We would have lost, but we had some allies.”

  “The slinders?”

  “The dreothen, and yah, the wothen through them. You don’t approve?”

  “They eat people,” Stephen pointed out.