by Greg Keyes
“Maybe. Or maybe there was someone—or something—inside the fane we couldn’t see.”
“He looked fine when he went into the fane, and he didn’t look hurt when he walked out. Wasn’t until he left the mound that he collapsed.”
“Still—”
“Winna.” He tried to keep his voice gentle, but he felt the harshness creeping into it, like a burr caught in his throat.
He sighed. “Winna, I’m a holter. I know nothing of fanes or saints or shinecraft. That was Stephen. All I know is how to track things, find things, and kill things. That’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s what I will do.”
“That’s what the praifec ordered you to do,” Winna said. “But it’s not like you to be so obedient.”
“He’s destroying my forest, Winn. And I’ll tell you, if I do know anything about greffyns and utins and evil fanes and what’s happened to Stephen, it’s this—things like this didn’t happen before the Briar King stopped being a boygshin story and started walkin’ around. When I stop him walkin’ around, I reckon everything will go back to the way it was.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll find whoever built that shrine and kill them, too.”
“I know you, Asp,” Winna said. “You aren’t made of death.”
“Maybe not,” he said, “but she follows me close.” He put his head down then raised it back up. “Winna, here’s what we’ll do. You and Ehawk, you go back to Eslen. Tell the praifec what we saw here, and what Stephen said about it. I’m going on.”
Winna snorted. “Not likely. You’re going to drag poor Stephen around this forest by yourself?”
“He’ll stay on Angel. Maunt this—I almost lost you to the utin. I’ve had Black Marys about it ever since. I can’t think straight, not really, not with you in danger.
“There’s only one arrow, you know. When we meet him, there’s nothing anyone can do but me, and I’ll do that best without any distractions. And you’re right—Stephen thought there was something about that fane that needed dealing with. None of us kann enough to know what to do, and if we all find our ends out here, the praifec will never know what we’ve learned.”
Winna’s lips compressed. “No,” she said. “That doesn’t make nearly the sense you think it does. You think you can do everything by yourself? You think the rest of us do nothing but drag you down? Well, you were by yourself when you came stumbling down to the monastery d’Ef, weren’t you? If Stephen hadn’t found you, you’d have died. If he hadn’t stood for you against the other monks, you’d have died. How are you going to feed yourself? If you leave Stephen to hunt, something will come gnaw on him.”
“Winn—”
“Stop it. I made the same promise to the praifec that you did. You think I have no stake in this? My father lives in the King’s Forest, Asp—at least I pray saints he still lives. Ehawk’s people live out here, too. So you’re just going to have to live with your fear for me. I can’t fight like you, and I don’t have Stephen’s knowledge, but if there’s one thing I’m good for, it’s to make you more cautious than you would be normally. That’s how I’ve saved your life, and don’t deny it, you big stupid banf.”
Aspar regarded her for a moment. “I’m the leader of the expedition. You’ll do what I say.”
Her face went cold. “Is that how it is?”
“Yah. This is the last time you go against me, Winn. Someone has to be in charge, and that’s me. I can’t spend every moment arguing with you.”
Her face relaxed a bit. “But we’re all staying together.”
“For now. If I change my mind again, that’s the way it will be, understand?”
Her face hardened again, and he felt a little wind suck out of him. “Yah,” she said at last.
The next morning the sky pulled on a gray hood of clouds, and the air was as wintry as Winna’s mood. They moved almost silently, save for the snorting of the horses and wet plod of their hooves on the leaves. More than ever, Aspar felt the sickness of the forest, down in his bones.
Or maybe it was arthritis.
They found the trail of black thorns and followed it into the Foxing Marshes, where the ancient yellow stone of the Lean Gable Hills broke into steps for a giant to walk down to the Warlock. For normal-size folks like Aspar and his companions, the steps were a little more difficult to negotiate—they had to hunt for the places where rinns had cut their way and then gone dry. Where the thorns hadn’t choked everything, the land was still green with ferns and horsetails that grew almost as high as the heads of the horses. Leaves from hickory and whitaec drifted as constantly as a soft rain.
And it was quiet as if the earth were holding its breath, which kept Aspar’s spine crawling.
As always, he felt bad for being hard with Winna, which irritated him in its own turn. He’d spent most of his years doing exactly what he wanted, the way he wanted, without any leave from much of anyone. Now a smooth-handed praifec and a girl half his age had him dancing like a trained bear.
Sceat, Winna thought he was tame now, didn’t she? But how could she understand what he was, at her age? She couldn’t, despite the fact that she somehow seemed to.
“The Sefry came this way,” Ehawk said softly, interrupting Aspar’s quiet fume. He looked down to where the Watau’s chin was pointing.
“That’s awfully clear sign,” he muttered. “Is that the first you’ve seen of ’im?”
“Yah,” Ehawk allowed.
“Me, too.” Of course he’d been so busy thinking about Winna, he’d missed even that.
“Looks like he’s trying to lead us off again,” Ehawk said. “South.”
Aspar nodded. “He figured we’d come this way, following the thorns, and now he’s left a roadsign.” He scratched his chin. Then he glanced at Winna. “Well?” he asked.
“Well, what?” she retorted. “You’re the leader of this expedition, remember?”
“Just checking to see that you do,” he grumbled back. He studied the lay of the land. South was upcountry again, a stretch of ground he knew pretty well, and he had a feeling he knew where the Sefry was going.
“You two backtrack to the clearing we passed at noon,” he said. “I’m going to follow this trail a bit. If I’m not back by morning, then I’m probably not coming back.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Winna asked.
Aspar shrugged.
“What do we do if you don’t come back?”
“What we discussed earlier. Head back to Eslen. And before you start thinking it, the reason I’m going alone is because I can move more quietly that way, and not for any other reason.”
“I wasn’t arguing,” Winna said.
His heart dropped a little, but at the same time, he felt a bit of satisfaction. “Well, then. That’s good,” he said.
If Ogre resented climbing back up the hills he’d just come down, he didn’t let on, ascending without the slightest whicker to the high-canopied forest of oak. By the time they came to the relatively flat tableland, Aspar was certain where the trail was headed and quit following it, in case some unpleasant surprise had been left in his path. Instead he circled around so as to approach the place from another direction.
The sun was slanting hard and orange through the trees when he heard voices. He dismounted, left Ogre near a stream, and crept closer on foot.
What he found wasn’t really a surprise, but he still wasn’t fully prepared for it.
The place was called Albraeth by those few who still called it anything. It was a cone-shaped mound of earth, bare save for a few struggling, yellowish weeds and a single gnarled tree, a naubagm with bark like black scales and leaves like drooping, serrated knives.
Some of the branches dipped low, and the rotting remains of rope still clung to some, though it had been years since the king’s law had forbidden their use. It was here that criminals had once been hanged in sacrifice to Grim the Raver. It was here that Aspar had been born, on that sickly grass, below a fresh noose.
Here his mother had died.
The Church had worked to end those sacrifices. Now they were busy with their own.
A perimeter of wooden beams had been planted in the ground around the mound, each about four kingsyards high, and to each beam a man or woman had been nailed, with their hands above their heads and their feet pulled straight down. Aspar could see the blood leaking from the holes in their wrists and ankles, but there was plenty more blood to see.
They had been cut open, each of them, and their entrails pulled out and arranged in deliberate designs. Some were still being arranged, and those who were doing so wore the robes of the Church. He wasn’t certain what order. Stephen would know.
He counted six of them. He had twice that many arrows. Mouth tight, he pulled out the first, considering how to go about what had to be done.
He was still working that out when a greffyn paced out from behind the mound.
It was smaller than the one that had almost killed him, its scales darker and sheened with green, but there was no mistaking its hawklike beak and the sinuous, catlike play of its muscles. He could feel its presence, even at this distance, like heat on his face, and he felt a wave of dizziness.
The touch of the beast—even its glance—was deadly poison. That he knew from hard experience, and from the corpses of its cousin’s victims. So poisonous, in fact, that even those who touched the corpses contracted gangrene, and most died. Even maggots and carrion-eaters would not touch a Greffyn’s kills.
But the monks weren’t dying. They didn’t even seem concerned. And to his astonishment, one even reached out to stroke it as it walked by.
He took a deep breath, trying to sort that out, wishing Stephen were with him. He would recall some ancient tome or legend that would force this all to make sense.
Six monks would be hard to kill, especially if they were of the order of Mamres. Six monks and a greffyn would be impossible—unless he used the arrow again.
But that one was meant for the Briar King.
First one, and then all the monks suddenly straightened from their tasks and looked to the east, as if they had all heard the same secret call. Their hands went to their swords, and Aspar tensed, realizing that he would have to run from this and find help.
But then he understood that they hadn’t found him out at all, that something else had their attention. He could hear it now, a distant howling, like dogs yet unlike dogs, terribly familiar and utterly alien.
Grim.
He remembered when he’d first met Stephen, they’d been on the King’s Road when they’d heard howling off in the distance. Aspar had recognized them as the hounds of Sir Symon Rookswald, but he’d fed the boy’s fear, told him it was Grim and his host, the hounds that carried off the damned souls who haunted the King’s Forest. He’d put a good scare in the lad.
Now he found his own heart beating faster. Had they summoned Haergrim? Had they summoned the Raver?
The howling grew louder, and there was a rushing through the leaves. He realized his hand was shaking, and felt a momentary anger at his own weakness. But if the hidden world was waking, why not Grim? Grim the heafroa, the one-eyed god, the lord of the birsirks, the bloody wrath, as mad as any ancient, pagan god could be.
The greffyn had turned at the sound, too, and the sparse hairs along its spine stood straight. He heard it snarl.
And behind him he heard a voice, whispering soft in the Sefry tongue.
“Life or death, holter,” it said. “You have a choice to make.”
CHAPTER TEN
BETRAYAL
NEIL WAS STILL WAITING for Anne when the sun began to dim and Vaseto returned, leading Hurricane. On the horse was a pack carrying his armor and other few personal possessions. He walked out into the street and patted the stallion’s muzzle, noting with amusement and concern the stares with which those in the neighborhood regarded them both.
Vaseto noticed, too. “I don’t think they see horses in this part of town very much,” she said, “much less warsteeds.”
“I suppose they don’t,” Neil said, remembering he hadn’t seen anyone mounted since they passed through the large square at the city gate.
Hurricane tossed his head restlessly.
“There, lad,” Neil whispered. “Soon we’ll be back where we belong. I promise you a good leg-stretching in Newland. You’ll need it after passage on the ship.”
“If they’ll let you take her on,” Vaseto pointed out. “Berth for a man is one thing. Berth for a horse is something else again.” She shrugged. “But with what the countess passed along to you, you should be able to afford the room if they have it.” She flashed him a smile. “In any event, it’s now your problem. I have to get back to my dogs.”
Neil bowed. “I still don’t know who you really are, but thank you again.”
“You know more about me than most,” Vaseto said. “But if I were you, I would worry more about who you are. That’s likely to be more useful to you.”
With that cryptic comment, she walked up the street and vanished around a corner.
After a bit of reflection, Neil decided to put on his armor. If the men searching for Anne had had the same luck as he had, he might need it.
A bell later it occurred to him that not only hadn’t Anne come back down, but that he hadn’t seen Austra or Cazio, either. Cazio had talked as if there was something of a hurry, and yet where were they all?
He glanced at the old man they had called Ospero. He’d been watching Neil, not too pointedly, but without trying to hide it either. He’d been doing that since Anne had spoken to Cazio and had slipped upstairs.
“Can you tell me where Anne’s room is?” he asked.
“Ne comperumo,” the old man said, shrugging.
Neil looked around, hoping to spot someone who might speak the king’s tongue. Still, Cazio wasn’t back yet, and he had presumably gone to make the final arrangments.
Unless . . .
His heart fell like the bottom of a great storm swell.
Why? Why would Anne try to escape him? Were her Vitellian friends in league with the enemy?
No, there was a better explanation. What an idiot he was for not having seen it sooner. Anne had heard her father and sisters had been killed, but it was unlikely that she knew much more than that. Why should she trust a knight she barely knew, just because he claimed to have been sent to protect her?
It doesn’t matter now, he told himself, trying to stave off panic. His duty was still his duty, whether Anne believed him or not. One way or another he would bring her home, safe.
He knew where the ship was—and Anne wouldn’t be aware of that. He could still catch her, as long as they hadn’t set sail already.
He nodded to Ospero and swung himself up into the saddle.
Ospero grinned faintly and raised his hand to wave.
Neil saw the flash of steel at the last instant. He twisted in the saddle and ducked, and felt something graze along his arm, which was where his heart had been a moment or two before.
Grimly he whirled Hurricane and drew out Crow.
As if on cue, men were bunching into either side of the street. In just a few moments there would be more, but Neil wasn’t going to give them those moments. They were armed with knives and clubs, but one had a spear. If they managed to injure or immobilize Hurricane, his chances weren’t good.
Ospero was shouting, and Neil cursed himself again for not knowing Vitellian.
He pointed Hurricane at the man with the spear and charged.
To his credit, the fellow seemed to know what to do. He knelt and braced the butt of the pole arm against the cobbles and aimed the point at the spot beneath Hurricane’s breastbone.
Neil’s breath was coming cool now, slow, in and out. He saw the men’s faces, their scars, whether they had shaved or not.
At the last possible moment, he turned Hurricane to the side, avoiding the spear altogether. Using the cut known as reaper, he sent one of his attackers down to the street, where the st
one drank blood from his headless corpse. Hurricane reared savagely and kicked down at another. Neil felt a blow to his leg, but then he was free of them, clattering down the darkening streets.
He felt down to his leg, but the armor had turned away the blow. Hurricane seemed unhurt, and so he kept the pace, watching pedestrians scatter, listening to their unintelligible remonstrations, and beginning to hate the whole adventure. The novelty of foreign places was definitely wearing off.
She should have given me a token, he thought angrily. Something to convince Anne she really had sent me.
His anger at the queen was a shock followed by shame. Who was he to question her?
He urged Hurricane on, hoping he still had time.
Anne had recovered from her pangs of conscience by the time they reached the docks. When she saw the ships, she finally understood that she was really going home. Home, where she didn’t scrub clothes or make cheese or get invited to become a whore.
In the back of her mind, she still knew it was going to hurt, too, to enter the castle and find that her father and sisters were really gone, but that moment was still far away. For now, she could cling to the good part.
“But why are we leaving Sir Neil?” Austra whispered near her ear. Cazio had found her washing the dirty plates at a carachio near the great square. Anne had worked there before, her mouth watering at the smell of the lamb roasted with fennel and garlic. Austra smelled like that now.
“Cazio didn’t explain?”
“Yes, but Cazio does not know Sir Neil,” Austra said.
“I can’t believe it,” Anne said. “You’re questioning Cazio’s judgment?”
Austra flushed a bit. “He knows more about Vitellio than we do,” she said. “And he is very clever. But how can he know Sir Neil’s heart? It seems wrong. He always seemed very honest to me.”
“Austra, we don’t know Sir Neil. For all we know, he killed my sisters and now he’s come after me.”
“He wasn’t with the knights who attacked the coven.”
“How do you know? We didn’t see them all.” She took Austra’s hand. “The point is, we can’t know. And if I’m wrong—why, he’ll be fine. He made it to Vitellia, he’ll make it back.”