by Greg Keyes
He was suddenly, acutely aware of his manhood, of a warmth and tingling that grew along with his terror. It was as if something were touching him, something soft.
He lifted his eyes and saw her. His heart expanded like his lungs, and it was exquisitely painful.
Her hair was effulgent copper, so bright that it burned through his lids when he closed them. Her smile was wicked and erotic and beautiful, and her eyes were like jewels of a bright but unknown color. Taken together, her face was so terrifying and so glorious that he could bear it for only an instant.
His entire body shook with unfamiliar sensations as she pressed down upon him, her flesh melting on him like butter and honey, and still he couldn’t move.
My child, my man, my lover, she crooned in a voice that was no more a voice than her features formed a face.
You will know me.
He awoke gasping or, rather, with the sensation of gasping. There was no sound.
Ehan’s face resolved, as did Henne’s. He was back in the boat, and he could move again.
And he remembered something, something important.
“What river is this?” he asked, feeling the words but not hearing them. Ehan saw his lips move and looked angry, touching his ears.
Stephen pointed to the river. The stream they had started on was probably a tributary, but they were on a river of some size now, bounded by substantial banks.
“Is this the Ef River or some tributary?”
Ehan frowned, then mouthed a word that looked like Ef.
Stephen sat up. How long had he been asleep?
“Are we near Whitraff?” he asked. “How far are we from Whitraff?” He exaggerated the shape of the words, but Ehan’s puzzled expression wasn’t replaced by anything else.
Exasperated, Stephen started working at the cords of one of the oiled leather bags, digging around for parchment and ink. It was stupid to have to waste parchment like this, but he couldn’t think of any other way.
The ink wasn’t where he thought it was, and by the time he found it, houses were becoming suspiciously common along the banks of the river. Desperately, working on his knees, he scribbled out the message.
There is a monster near Whitraff village, a nicwer. It lives in the water. It is very dangerous.
He passed the note to Ehan. The little man blinked, nodded, and gestured for Stephen to take his oar. Then he went back to the tiller to talk to Henne.
Or gesture at him, rather. When he showed Henne Stephen’s note, Henne merely shrugged. Ehan pointed toward the bank.
Around the bend, Stephen saw the familiar buildings of Whitraff coming into view. Aspar, Winna, Ehawk, Leshya, and he had been there less than two months before and had barely survived the nicwer’s attentions.
Henne steered them over to one of the ruined docks, where Ehan began trying to explain to him by signs what was the matter. Stephen searched the waters for any indication of the beast but couldn’t make anything out.
It was difficult to argue without words, but Henne pointed to the river and then held his hands about a handspan apart. Then he pointed in the direction they had come and stetched his hand as far apart as he could. After a bit more pantomime, Stephen gathered that the gist of Henne’s sentiment was that whatever might be lurking in the waters around Whitraff, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as the woorm, and their best chance of outrunning the woorm was on the river. So despite Stephen’s warning, a few moments later they were back on the water.
They passed the ruins of Whitraff without incident, however.
Stephen wondered once again where Aspar and Winna were. Had they come looking for him? Winna would want to. Aspar might, although if he was beginning to sense Stephen’s feelings for Winna, he might not. In any event, both were bound to do whatever Anne Dare commanded, and she needed every knife, sword, and bow she could get if she meant to retake her throne.
Maybe Winna had come after him alone. After all, she had set out alone to find Aspar. But then again, she loved Aspar, or thought she did.
To Stephen it seemed a bit ridiculous. Aspar was two decades Winna’s senior. She would spend her middle years wiping the drool from his face. Would he give her children? Stephen couldn’t imagine that, either. The holter was admirable in most ways, but not in the ways that make for a good husband.
Then again, Stephen wasn’t really any better, was he? If he really loved Winna, he would be searching for her right now, eager to be at her side. And he wanted to be, he really did. But he wanted this more: to unravel the mysteries of language and time.
That was why he was doing this; not because the fratrex had asked him to, not because he feared the woorm, not even because he believed he could prevent whatever new horror was to be released upon the world, but because he had to know.
They never saw the nicwer. Perhaps it had died of its wounds; perhaps it simply had become wary of men. Maybe it could sense that its prey couldn’t hear its deadly song.
But the next day, when fish began floating to the surface of the river, Stephen reckoned that maybe the nicwer knew when to make way for its better.
ANNE HAD SEEN the great hall of Glenchest many times. Sometimes it had been empty when she and her sisters had sneaked into it to enjoy the echos that boomed in the dark and the cavernous reaches of its high-arched roof. On other occasions she had witnessed it full of light, glittering with decorations, packed with lords in elegant suits and ladies in dazzling gowns.
She had never seen it full of warriors before.
Elyoner had ordered a huge, long table brought in, and a large armchair placed at the head of it.
That was where Anne sat now, feeling uncomfortable, staring around at the faces, trying to fit names even to the familiar ones. She wished she had paid more attention at her father’s court, but there was nothing to do about it now.
The men—and they were all men, all thirty-two of them—looked back at her, some staring frankly, others averting their gaze when they thought she was looking. But she knew that all of them were studying her, probing her, trying to figure her out.
She was wondering what to say when Artwair stood up and bowed.
“May I, Your Majesty?” he asked, gesturing at the assembly.
“Please,” she said.
He nodded, then raised his voice.
“Welcome, all of you,” he said, and the murmur of voices receded. “You all know me. I’m a plain man, not given to long speeches, especially at times like this. This is a time for spears, not words, but I reckon a few words have to be spoken to gather the spears together.
“Here’s what it comes down to, as I see it. Not a year ago, our liege, king, and emperor was murdered, and so were two of his daughters. Now, whether that was Black Robert’s work I don’t know, but I do know that Crotheny had a king, a perfectly legitimate one, and now an usurper sits the throne. I might be still for that, but he’s invited Hansa in for a visit and offered them our former queen, Muriele. You all know what that means.”
“Maybe we do and maybe we don’t,” one fellow shouted back. He was of medium build, with a hairline crept halfway back to the crown of his skull and startling blue eyes. “Maybe peace with Hansa is all it means.”
“And maybe the crows only perch on the dead to give ’em blessings and pay respects, auy, Lord Kenwulf? I know you’re not so foolish as that, my lord.”
Kenwulf shrugged reluctantly. “Who knows what Robert has planned? The praifec endorses him. It might be we know too little about his designs. Maybe they only seem sinister from afar. And you have to admit—no offense to Archgreffess Anne—that we might ask for a better sovereign than Charles.”
“I think we all understand your point about Charles,” Artwair agreed. “The saints chose to touch him, and I’m sure even his mother would allow that the throne does not suit him. But there is another legitimate heir to the throne, and she sits right here.”
Most of the gazes had gone to Artwair, but now they returned to Anne, sharper and hungrier than e
ver.
A portly man with shockingly red hair and black eyes heaved himself to his feet.
“May I speak on that, my lord?”
“By all means, Lord Bishop,” Artwair replied.
“King William did manage to persuade the Comven to legislate the article that would allow a woman to take the throne. But this is something that has never actually been done before. It has never been tested. The only reason such a thing was ever considered was, in fact, young Charles’ condition.
“By the older, more established rule, if the son proved unfit to be king, the crown would pass to his son, which, of course, Charles does not have. Failing that, the crown quite legitimately goes to Robert as the only remaining male heir.”
“Yes, yes,” a sallow-faced man interrupted testily. Anne remembered him as the Greft of Dealward. “But Lord Bishop, you leave out the fact that we had our doubts not only about Charles but about Robert, as well. That was why we voted as we did.”
“Yes,” Bishop acknowledged, “but some would argue it were better to have a devil on the throne than an untested girl, especially in times like these.”
“When devils roam freely, you mean?” Artwair asked drily. “You would have evil inside and outside the walls?
The man shrugged. “The rumors about Robert grow darker. I’ve even heard that he doesn’t bleed as other men. But we have heard things about Anne, as well. The praifec himself has condemned her as a shinecrafter, the product of education in a coven turned wholly to evil.
“And the stories we hear of her actions at Dunmrogh are…disturbing,” he added.
Anne felt an odd dislocation then, as if she were watching the proceedings from far, far away. Could they be talking about her? Could things have become so twisted?
Or were they twisted? She’d been to only one coven, the Coven Saint Cer. It was true that her education had been in such subjects as poison and murder. Wasn’t that evil? And the things she could do—had done—wouldn’t they qualify as shinecraft?
What if the praifec was right, and…
No.
“If you wish to accuse me of something, Lord Bishop, please have the decency to address me directly,” Anne heard herself say. She suddenly felt distilled back into her body, and she leaned forward from the makeshift throne.
“Was Virgenya Dare a shinecrafter because she wielded the power of the saints?” she continued. “The man who accuses me, Praifec Hespero—I have evidence, a letter, in fact, that proves he was in league with churchmen who participated in a pagan abomination and performed cruel murder in the process. If you have heard anything of Dunmrogh, you know it was not I who nailed men, women, and children to wooden posts and disemboweled them.
“It was not I who chanted over that innocent blood to awaken some horrible demon. But my companions and I stopped them and their hideous rite. So perhaps, Lord Bishop—and all of you—well, perhaps I am a shinecrafter. Perhaps I am evil. But if that is the case, then there is no good here at all, for certainly the praifec and those churchmen who attend him do not serve the holy saints.
“Nor does my uncle Robert. He will give our country over to the darkest forces you can imagine, and you all know it. That’s why you’re here.”
She sat back and, in the momentary silence that followed, felt her sudden burst of confidence waver. But then another of the men she recognized—Sighbrand Haergild, the Marhgreft of Dhaerath—chuckled loudly.
“The lady has a tongue in her,” he said to the assemblage. He stood, a lean old man who somehow reminded her of the trees on the coast cliffs, an oak shaped by wind and spray, with wood as hard as iron.
“I’ll admit that I’m the first to wonder if a woman ought to be sovereign,” he said. “I opposed William’s campaign and the Comven’s decision. And yet here we are, and it is done. I don’t understand all this talk of shinecraft and saints. The only saint I’ve ever trusted is the one who lives in my sword.
“But I have spent my whole life staring across the Dew River at Hansa. I’ve borne the brunt of the marchland plotting, and I would not see William’s wife wed to a Hansan, would not see one of them sit on even a chamber pot in Eslen. Robert has certainly gone mad to make any deal with the Reiksbaurgs, and that’s proof enough to me that William was right, that the only hope for Crotheny lies in this girl.
“I think it no coincidence that her sisters were murdered on the same day as William, do you?” He stared around the room, and none responded to his challenge. “No, Black Robert was clearing his path to the throne.”
“We don’t know that,” Kenwulf cautioned. “It might as easily have been she who arranged all that.” He pointed at Anne.
That struck through her like a bolt.
“What…did…you say?” she managed to choke out.
“I’m not—I’m just saying, lady, for all we know—I’m not actually accusing…”
Anne pushed herself to her feet, acutely aware of the sudden throbbing in her arms and legs.
“Here I look you in the eye, Lord Kenwulf, and I tell you that I had nothing to do with the death of my family. The very idea is obscene. I have been hounded by the same murderers over half this world. But you look in my eye. Then you do the same with my uncle and see who holds your gaze and does not blink.”
She felt a sort of rushing in her ears and heard the cackle of demonic laughter somewhere behind her.
No, she thought. Would even so many men be enough to protect her? Probably not…
She suddenly realized that she was sitting again, and Austra was offering her water. She also felt as if she had missed something. Everyone was staring at her with concerned expressions.
“—injuries sustained both at Dunmrogh and in an assassination attempt here in Glenchest three nights ago,” Artwair was saying. “She is weak yet, and vile slanders such as Lord Kenwulf conceives do her no good, I assure you.”
“I never meant—” Kenwulf sighed. “I apologize, Your Highness.”
“Accepted,” Anne said frostily.
“Now that that’s done,” Artwair said, “let’s get back to the point, shall we? Lords, Marhgreft Sighbrand speaks the truth, doesn’t he?
“Most of you are here because you are already convinced of what we must do. I am most familiar with this sort of bickering, and I know its root. I also know we do not have time for it. Here is my suggestion, my lords. Each of you speak—in plain king’s tongue—what advantage you desire from Her Majesty once she has been placed on the throne. I think you will find her fair and generous in her treatment of her allies. We will begin with you, Lord Bishop, if you please.”
The rest of the day was a Black Mary for Anne. She hardly understood most of the requests; well, she understood them, but not their importance. The Greft of Roghvael, for instance, asked for a reduction on the tax on the trade of rye, which Artwair advised her to deny him, giving him instead a seat on the Comven. Lord Bishop’s desire was for a position and title in the emperor’s household, an hereditary one. This—again at Artwair’s behest—she granted.
And so it went. That brief moment when she had felt something like a queen had vanished, and she was once again a little girl who hadn’t done her lessons. For all she knew, she was making Artwair the king, and given what her aunt had said about trusting relatives, that was no idle worry.
But she also knew that by herself she could never organize something so complicated as a war.
The proceedings ended only because Artwair declared a break for the night. Elyoner had prepared an entertainment for the guests, but Anne avoided that, sending Austra to the kitchen for some soup and wine and retiring to her quarters.
Neil MeqVren went with her.
“Did you understand any of that?” she asked him once they were seated.
“Not a lot, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “War was much simpler where I come from.”
“What do you mean?”
“My family served Baron Fail. If he told us to go and fight someplace, we did, because that’s wh
at we did. There wasn’t much more to it, thank goodness.”
“I suppose I imagined I would make some sort of speech about right and wrong and the honor of fighting for the throne, and men would just fall in line.” She sighed.
Neil smiled. “That might work for a battle. Not for a war, I think. Then again, I mostly know battles. And I thought you did quite well, you know.”
“But not well enough.”
“No, at least not yet. It’s one thing, I suppose, to ask men to risk their lives. It’s quite another to ask them to risk their families, their lands, their aspirations, their dreams…”
“Most of them are just greedy, I think.”
“There’s that, too,” Neil granted. “But the fact is, there’s a very good chance we’re going to lose this war, and they all know it. I wish that loyalty to Your Majesty could be enough to make them accept that risk, but—”
“But it isn’t. I’m really just a symbol for them, aren’t I?”
“Maybe,” Neil conceded. “For some of them. Maybe even for most of them. But if you win, you’ll be queen in fact as well as in name. In that case, you can even let Artwair or whoever advises you make all the important decisions. But I don’t think that’s how things will go. I think you will lean only until you can stand.”
Anne stared down at her lap.
“I never wanted this at all, you know,” she said faintly. “I only wanted to be left alone.”
“That’s not really your choice,” Neil said. “Not anymore. I’m not sure it ever was.”
“I know that,” Anne said. “Mother tried to explain it to me. I didn’t understand then. Maybe I don’t now, but I’m starting to.”
Neil nodded. “You are,” he agreed. “And for that I’m sorry.”
WINNA LOST her mind within a bell of entering the Halafolk rewn.
Aspar had noticed her breath coming quicker and quicker, but suddenly she began choking, trying to talk but not getting any words out. She sat heavily on an upjut of stone and rested there, quaking, rubbing her shoulders, trying to find her breath.