The Charnel Prince

by Greg Keyes

  Gilmer brightened. “You saw the saglwic outside, auy? The wind spins it, which turns a shaft up there.” He pointed toward the roof. “Then there’s wooden cogs and gears, takes that turning and makes this shaft go up and down. That runs the pump, down under. I can show you tomorrow.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but I won’t be here tomorrow.”

  “You may be. Artwair has had time to gang and come from Broogh twice now, so something must be keeping him there. And I’m needin’ min rest. And judging by the way the Kuvoolds are pulling at your eyelids, I’d say you need a rest, as well.”

  “I am rather tired,” Leoff realized.

  “You’re welcome to stay until Artwair gets back, as I said. There’s another bed, on the next floor, for just such a purpose. Take it, if you’d like.”

  “I think I shall, even if it’s only for a short nap.”

  He climbed the ladder to the next level and found the bed, just under a window. It was well dark now, but the moon was out, and up the canal some half a league he saw what must be Broogh, a collection of house-shaped shadows, a wall, and four towers of varying height. He saw no light, however, not even so much as he had made out in the far more distant—and probably smaller—villages.

  With a sigh he lay on the rough mattress, listening to the wolfwings and nighthawks singing, tired but not sleepy. Above, he could hear the gears Gilmer had mentioned clattering and clucking, and somewhere near, the trickling of water.

  The end of the world, eh? That was just his luck. At the age of thirty-two he had a royal appointment in his grasp, and the world was going to end.

  If he still had a royal appointment.

  His thoughts on the matter were interrupted by the sudden breathy voice of a recorder. It was so clear and beautiful, it might have been real, but he’d lived long enough with his gift to know it was in his head.

  A melody began, and he smiled as his body relaxed and his mind went to work.

  The malend was teaching him its song.

  It came easily, first the alto recorder, the wind coming along from the east across green plains. And now the drum, as the wheel—saglwic?—began to turn, and croths—plucked here rather than bowed—began playing the melody in unison with the flute. Then joined the low strings of the bass croths, the vast waters beneath the earth responding, but still all melody, of course—and now water flowing into the canal, a merry trickling on a flageolet, as the malend became the union of air, earth, water, and craft.

  Now the variations began, each element acquiring its own theme—the earth a slow pavane on the deep instruments, but on the pipes a mad, happy dance as the wind quickened, and the strings bowing nearly glissando arpeggios . . .

  He blinked. His candle had gone out, and it was pitch-black. When had that happened?

  But the concerto was finished, ready to go to paper. Unlike the melody in the hills, the dance of the malend had come to him whole.

  Which was perhaps why he only now realized that someone was in the room below, talking.

  Two voices, and neither belonged to Gilmer Oercsun.

  “ . . . don’t see why we had got picked to do this job,” a voice said. It was a tenor voice, scratchy.

  “Don’t complain,” another said. This one was a booming baritone. “Especially don’t complain around him.”

  “It’s just that I wanted to see,” the first replied. “Don’t you want to be there, when they bust through the dike, and the water goes all a rushin’ out?”

  “You’ll see it,” the baritone replied. “You’ll see it well enough. You’ll be lucky not to swim in it.”

  “Yah, I suppose. Still.” A cheerful tone crept into his voice. “But won’t it be fun, rowing a boat over all of that down there? Over the roofs of the houses? I’m going to row right over . . . what was the town?”

  “Where the girl said you had a nose like a turtle’s prickler?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Reckhaem.”

  “Right. Hey, a turtle’s prickler is the best she’ll be getting, after tonight.”

  “Still better than yours, from what I’ve heard,” the baritone said. “Now let’s be done here. We’ve got to burn every malend for four leagues before morning.”

  “Yah, but why?”

  “So they can’t pump the water back up, you dumb sceat. Now, come on.”

  Burn? Leoff’s heart did a triple-quick-step.

  The top of the stairway suddenly appeared, an orange rectangle, and he smelled burning oil.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE PRAIFEC

  ASPAR WHITE FOUGHT TO draw a breath, but he felt as if a giant hand were clenched around his throat. “Sceat, this can’t be right,” he managed to gasp out. “Winna—”

  Winna rolled her blue eyes and shook her honey locks. “Hush, Asp,” she admonished, “don’t be such a kindling. Haven’t you ever worn a Farling collar before?”

  “I’ve never worn any damn sort of collar before,” Aspar grunted. “What’s the point?”

  “The point is, you’re in Eslen, in the royal palace, not tramping through a heath in the uplands, and before the next bell you’re going to see His Grace, the Praifec of all Crotheny. You’ve got to dress for the occasion.”

  “But I’m just a holter,” he complained. “Let me dress like one.”

  “You killed the Black Warg and his bandit band, alone, with nothing but your bow, ax, and dirk. You fought a greffyn and lived. You mean to say now you’re afraid to wear a simple set of weeds?”

  “They aren’t simple, I look stupid, and I can’t breathe.”

  “You haven’t even seen yourself, and if you’ve got enough breath to whinge so, I’d say you’re doing fine. Now here, come to the mirror.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Winna’s young face was broad with smile. Her hair was caught up in a black net of some sort, and she wore an azure gown that—to his mind—was cut far too low at the bodice. Not that the view didn’t please, but it would please every other man who saw it, too.

  “Well, you look—ah—pretty, at least,” he said.

  “Surely I do. And so do you. See?” She turned him toward the mirror.

  Well, he recognized the face, even with it shaved clean. Burned dark by the sun, scarred and worn by forty-one years of hard living, it might not be pretty, but it was the sort of face the king’s holter ought to have.

  From the neck down, he was a stranger. The tight, stiff collar was merely the most torturous part of a doublet made of some sort of brightly patterned cloth that ought to have ended up as a drape or a rug. Below that, his legs felt naked, clothed as they were in tight green hose. He felt altogether like a candied apple on a stick.

  “Who ever thought of dressing like this?” He grunted. “It’s as if some madwoman tried to think of the most ridiculous outfit imaginable, and—Grim’s eye—succeeded.”

  “Madwoman?” Winna asked.

  “Yah, well, no man would ever invent such a clownish suit. It must have been some sort of evil trick. Or a dare.”

  “You’ve been at court long enough to know better,” Winna said. “The men here love their plumage.”

  “Yah,” he conceded, “and I’m damn ready to be away from here, too.”

  Her eyes narrowed a little, and she wagged an accusing finger. “You’re nervous about meeting the praifec.”

  “I’m no such a thing,” he snapped.

  “You are such a thing! A nervous little kindling thing!”

  “I haven’t had much to do with the Church, that’s all,” he grumbled. “Other than killing a few of their monks.”

  “Outlaw monks,” she reminded him. “You’ll do fine, just try not to blaspheme—in other words, try not to talk at all. Let Stephen do the talking.”

  “Oh, yah, that will be a comfort,” Aspar muttered sarcastically. “He’s the soul of tact.”

  “He’s a churchman, though,” Winna pointed out. “He ought to know more about talking to a praifec than you do.”

&nb
sp; That brought a sharp little laugh from near the door. Aspar glanced over to see that Stephen had entered and was leaning against the frame, clad much as he was but appearing far more comfortable. His mouth was quirked in a smile, and his brown hair was swept back in something approaching courtly fashion. “I was in the Church,” Stephen said. “Before committing heresy, disobeying my fratrex, getting him killed, and fleeing my monastery. I doubt much that His Grace the Praifec will have many good things to say to me.”

  “Like as not,” Aspar agreed, “we’ll end this meeting in a dungeon.”

  “Well,” Winna said, primly, “at least we’ll go well-dressed.”

  Praifec Marché Hespero was a tall man of upper middle years. He had a narrow face made sharper by a small black goatee and mustache. His black robes were draped on a body to suit—thin, almost birdlike. His eyes were like a bird’s, as well, Aspar reflected—like a hawk’s or an eagle’s eyes.

  He received them in a somber, spare room of gray stone with low-beamed ceilings. In the baroque splendor of Eslen Castle, it seemed very much out-of-place. The praifec sat in an armchair behind a large table. To his left sat a dark-complexioned boy of perhaps sixteen winters, looking at least as uncomfortable in his courtly garb as Aspar felt. Other than that, Aspar, Winna, and Stephen were the only people in the chamber.

  “Sit, please,” the praifec said pleasantly.

  Aspar waited until Stephen and Winna took their chairs, then settled in the one that remained. Grim knew if it was the right one. If there was a right one. He still smarted from an incident with spoons at a banquet the nineday before. Who needed more than one sort of spoon?

  When they were seated, the praifec rose and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked at Aspar. “Aspar White,” he said in a soft voice, soft as the fabric of Winna’s dress. “You’ve been the royal holter for many years.”

  “More years than I care to remember, Your Grace.”

  The praifec smiled briefly. “Yes, the years chase us, do they not? I put you at a man of some forty winters. It’s been some time since I saw that age.” He shrugged. “What we lose in beauty, we gain in wisdom, one hopes.”

  “Ya—yes, Your Grace.”

  “You’ve a distinguished career up until now, all in all. Several acts of an almost impossible sort—did you really sort out this Black Warg all by yourself?”

  Aspar shifted uncomfortably. “That’s been made a bit much of,” he said.

  “Ah,” the praifec said. “And the affair of the Relister?”

  “He’d never fought a man with dirk and ax, Your Grace. His armor slowed him down.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” He glanced at a paper on the table. “I see a few complaints, here, as well. What’s this about the Greft of Ashwis?”

  “That was a misunderstanding,” Aspar said. “His lordship was mad with drink, and taking a firebrand to the forest.”

  “Did you really bind and gag him?”

  “The king saw it my way, sir.”

  “Yes, eventually. But there’s this thing with Lady Esteiren?”

  Aspar stiffened. “The lady wanted me for a holiday guide, Your Grace, which is in no way my charge. I tried to be polite.”

  “And failed, it seems,” the praifec said, a touch of amusement in his voice.

  Aspar started a reply, but the praifec held up his hand, shook his head, and turned to Stephen.

  “Stephen Darige, formerly a fratir at the monastery d’Ef.” He peered down his nose at Stephen. “You’ve made quite an impression on the Church during your very brief tenure with it, haven’t you, Brother Stephen?”

  Stephen frowned. “Your Grace, as you know, the circumstances—”

  The praifec cut him off. “You’re from a family of good standing, I see. Educated at the college in Ralegh. An expert in antique languages, which you put to use at d’Ef translating forbidden documents, which translation—as I understand it, correct me if I get this wrong—led both to the death of your fratrex and the commission of unspeakable acts of dark sorcery.”

  “This is all true, Your Grace,” Stephen replied, “but I did my work at the command of the fratrex. The dark sorcery was practiced by renegade monks, led by Desmond Spendlove.”

  “Yes, well, you see, there’s no proof of any of that,” the praifec pointed out. “Brother Spendlove and his compatriots are all dead, as is Fratrex Pell. This is convenient for you, as there is no one to contradict your story.”

  “Your Grace—”

  “And yet you admit to summoning the Briar King, whose appearance is said to foretell the end of the world.”

  “It was an accident, Your Grace.”

  “Yes. That will be small comfort if the world is actually in the process of ending, will it not?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Stephen replied miserably.

  “Nonetheless, your admission of guilt in that case goes far to suggest that you’re telling the truth. Privately, I confess I had long suspected something was awry at d’Ef. The Church, after all, is made up of men and women, all of whom are fallible, and as prone to corruption as anyone. We are doubly on the watch now, you may be assured.”

  He turned at last to Winna.

  “Winna Rufoote. Hostler’s daughter from Colbaely. Not a holter, not in the Church. How in Heaven did you become involved in all this?”

  “I’m in love with this great lump of a holter, Your Grace,” she replied.

  Aspar felt his face color.

  “Well,” the praifec said. “There’s no accounting for such things, is there?”

  “Likely not, Your Grace.”

  “Yet you were with him when he tracked the greffyn, and at Cal Azroth when the Briar King appeared. You were also a captive of the Sefry, Fend, said to be responsible for much of what happened.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Well.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “I give you a choice, Winna Rufoote. We are about to speak of things that cannot go beyond the walls of this room. You may remain and become a part of something which could prove quite dangerous in several different ways—or you may leave, and I will have you escorted safely back to your father’s inn in Colbaely.”

  “Your Grace, I’m a part of this. I’ll stay.”

  Aspar found himself standing suddenly. “Winna, I forbid—”

  “Hush, you great bear,” Winna said. “When could you ever forbid me?”

  “This time I do!” Aspar said.

  “Silence, please,” the praifec said. He focused his raptor eyes on Aspar. “It’s her choice.”

  “And she’s made it,” Winna said.

  “Think carefully, my dear,” the praifec said.

  “It’s done, Your Grace,” Winna replied.

  The praifec nodded. “Very well.”

  He placed his hand on the shoulder of the boy, who had sat silent through all of this. He had black hair and eyes to match, and his skin was dark, darker than Aspar’s.

  “Allow me to present Ehawk, of the Wattau, a tribe from the Mountains of the Hare. You know of them, perhaps, Holter White.”

  “Yah,” Aspar answered curtly. His mother had been Wattau, his father an Ingorn. The child they bore had never been welcome in either village.

  The praifec nodded again. “The events you three have been a part of are of great concern to the Church, most especially the appearance of the so-called Briar King. Up until now, we have considered him to be nothing more than a folktale, a lingering superstition, perhaps inspired by an illiterate memory of the Warlock Wars or even the Captivity, before our ancestors broke the shackles of the demons who enslaved them. Now that he has appeared, of course, we must reassess the state of our knowledge.”

  “If I may, Your Grace, my report—,” Stephen began.

  “I have read your reports, of course,” Hespero said. “Your work on the subject is laudable, but you lack the full resources of the Church. There is, in holy z’Irbina, a certain set of volumes which may be read only by His Holiness the Fratrex Prismo. Imme
diately on hearing of the events at Cal Azroth, I sent word to z’Irbina, and word has now come back to me.” He paused.

  “Word and more,” he continued. “I will explain that later. Anyway, at the time I did not feel that I could wait to hear from z’Irbina. I sent, under Church auspices, an expedition to track this—creature, and to learn more of it. The expedition was a strong one; a knight of the Church and five monks of Mamres. They hired Ehawk in his village to act as a guide. Ehawk will now relate what he saw.”

  “Ah,” Ehawk said. His accent was thick, and it was that of someone not used to speaking the king’s tongue. “Hello to you.” He fixed his eyes on Aspar. “I’ve heard of you, Sir Holter. I thought you’d be taller. It’s said your arrows are the size of spears.”

  “I’ve shrunk down for His Grace,” Aspar grunted. “What did you see, boy, and where did you see it?”

  “It in the territory of the Duth ag Paé, near Aghdon. One of the monks—Martyn—heard something. And there they were.”

  “They?”

  “Men and women, but like beasts. They wore nothing; they carried no weapons. They tore up poor Sir Oneu with their bare hands and teeth. A madness was upon them.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “They were the Duth ag Paé, I’m sure of it. Maybe all of them, except no children. There were old people, though.” He shuddered. “They ate the monks’ flesh as they killed them.”

  “Do you know what might have driven them to madness?”

  “It’s not just them, Sir Holter. As I fled, I came across village after village, all abandoned. I hid in holes and under leaves, but they found my horse and tore her up. I heard them at night, singing songs in no speech of the mountains.”

  “But you escaped them.”

  “Yah. When I left the forest, I left them. I came here because Martyn wished it.”

  “Martyn was one of my most trusted servants,” the praifec amplified, “and very powerful in Mamres.”

  “What sort of madness sweeps whole villages?” Stephen wondered.