The Charnel Prince

by Greg Keyes

  “Three of them,” Anne said.

  Osne sighed. “I have never been so blessed as to be called. I have heard their voices in my dreams, caught glimpses of what they see, that is all. You are a lucky young woman.”

  “I don’t feel lucky,” Anne said. “I feel trapped.”

  “We are all trapped,” Osne said, “if that’s how you want to think of it.”

  “Is there another way?” Anne asked.

  “Yes,” Osne said. “We are all vital. Each of us may be just a thread, but without the threads, there is no tapestry.”

  “Then how can one thread be more important than the others?”

  “Some threads are warp and some are weft,” Osne said. “The warp must be there to weave the other threads through. The warp must be there first.”

  “You’re as bad as the Faiths.” Anne sighed.

  Osne smiled and gripped her hand more tightly. “They’ve told you what you must do, haven’t they? And given you at least some hint of why.”

  Anne conceded that with a nod. “It’s not that I’m fighting it,” she said. “I’ve been trying to return to Eslen.”

  “And now you shall,” Osne vowed. “My husband and sons will take you across the river and past your enemies in town. They will escort you to Eslen.”

  “I can’t go straight home,” Anne told her. “Not yet.”

  “But you just said that was your goal,” Osne said.

  “The two men who rescued me at the coven, and have been protecting me since, were captured by the horsemen. I have to rescue them first.”

  Osne’s brow bunched in worry. “I’m sorry about your friends,” she said, “but they aren’t your first duty.”

  “Maybe not,” Anne said, “but I won’t leave them to die. I have to do something.”

  Osne closed her eyes. “That’s not the path you’re supposed to walk.”

  “I can choose another path?”

  Osne hesitated. “Yes. But then the future becomes cloudy.”

  “Let it. If I’m not true to my friends, whom can I be true to? What good am I to anyone?”

  Osne closed her eyes for a moment. “How many horsemen are with your friends?”

  “Artoré saw them. He said three.”

  “Then I will send Artoré and my sons after them, and find a safe place for you until they return.”

  “No,” Anne said. “I want to go with them.”

  “They may not succeed,” Osne said softly. “If one of the knights is a marevasé, they might not succeed.”

  “A what?” Anne asked.

  “One who cannot die. They have other names.”

  “Oh,” Anne said. “One of them is like that,” she said. “Maybe more.”

  “Then you know the risk is great.”

  “You’d send your husband and sons to their deaths, just to get me to Eslen?”

  “I’d rather not,” Osne admitted. “I’d rather you let them escort you home. There would still be some risk in that, but not like sending them to battle a marevasé.

  “You don’t understand,” Anne said. “These men—Cazio and z’Acatto—risked everything for us.”

  “And so would we, dear.”

  “I see that,” Anne flared. “I’m tired of people dying for me, do you understand? I can’t take any more of it.”

  “People die for their queens,” Osne exclaimed. “That is a burden you must accept, or there is no point in you reaching Eslen. There are much harder decisions than this ahead of you, Anne.”

  “Cazio and z’Acatto know nothing about my supposed destiny,” she said. “And I’m sure if I do nothing they will die. But how can I risk your family, too?”

  “Because we do accept your destiny, and our role in it. If it is your decision to follow the horsemen, we will abide by your decision.” Her eyes became more intense. “I could have drugged your wine,” she said. “Artoré could have simply taken you home. But a queen who cannot make her own decisions is a poor queen indeed.”

  Anne rubbed her head. “I hate it,” she snarled. “I hate it all.”

  “They may be dead already,” Osne pointed out. “If the horsemen believe they have lost you, I can’t think of any reason they would keep your friends alive—except perhaps as bait, in the hopes you will follow.”

  Anne felt tears on her face. She remembered Cazio, when she first met him, brash and teasing and full of life. To think of him dead hollowed her out.

  But her father was dead. Elseny was dead. Fastia was dead.

  “I will go to Eslen,” she said, and a great sob tore from her chest. Osne came around the table and took her in her arms, and Anne let her hold her like that, even though she hardly knew the woman. She wept, and Osne rocked her as night eased through the window and into her heart.

  Anne and Austra were given lodging in a windowless room. By lantern light, the plaster looked dark yellow. It was simply furnished with a bed, a basin of water and towel on a wooden stand, and a night pan beneath the bed. Away from the hearth it was cold, and Anne slipped quickly into the nightgown Osne had given her, then beneath the thick woolen comforters. Austra was already there, asleep, but she woke when Anne settled in beside her.

  “That was a long talk,” Austra said. “What was it about?”

  Anne took a deep breath. Her chest ached from crying.

  “Osne was at the coven Saint Cer, many years ago,” she explained. “She knows who we are because the countess Orchaevia sent word along the roads to look for us and keep us safe.”

  “The countess? How odd.”

  “It’s not odd,” Anne said. “The countess was a member of the coven, too.”

  “That’s even odder, in a way, but it makes some sense. The countess must have known who you were, to go to so much trouble.”

  “I’m supposed to be queen, Austra.”

  Austra started a laugh that never quite finished. “How do you mean?” she asked.

  “Father, you remember. He had the Comven legitimize Fastia, Elseny, and me to succeed him. Fastia and Elseny are gone, and only I remain.”

  “But Charles is still alive,” Austra said. “The cuveitur said nothing about his death.”

  “Our enemies don’t care about Charles,” Anne said. “They do not want a queen in Eslen. They fear a queen.”

  “Why?”

  Anne explained then, about everything. About the Faiths, about the dark man in the forest, about her dreams. When she finished, Austra’s eyes were round with wonder.

  “Why couldn’t you have told me all of this before?” she asked.

  “Because I didn’t believe it myself,” Anne said. “Because I thought it might somehow put you in more danger. But now I know I have to tell you.”

  “Why? Because I’ve been to where the Faiths are?”

  “No, because tomorrow Artoré and his sons are going to sneak us across the river and take us to Eslen.”

  “But that’s wonderful,” Austra said, then started, and her voice dropped in tone. “You mean after we rescue Cazio.”

  Anne shook her head. “No, Austra. We can’t go after them. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t understand. With Artoré we can save them.”

  “Artoré and his boys are no match for those knights,” Anne said.

  “You don’t know that, Anne, you—”

  “I can’t risk it, don’t you understand?”

  “No! How can you even imagine leaving them to die?”

  “Austra, I know how you feel about Cazio, but—”

  “No! No you don’t—you can’t.” She was crying now. “We can’t just give up.”

  “We’ve no choice,” Anne replied.

  “We do!”

  “You have to listen to me,” Anne said. “This is hard for me. Do you think I want to do this? But if we go after them, and it’s a trap—which it probably is—then not only do Cazio and z’Acatto die anyway, but so do Artoré and his sons, and so do we.”

  “I never thought you a coward,” Austra said.
>
  “If it was just our lives I was risking, I would be following them this instant,” Anne said. “If it was just these few men, I would still do it. But if I am to believe the Faiths, and Osne—and Sister Secula, for that matter—then I cannot risk my life here. I must return straightaway to Eslen.”

  “And why do you believe them? Why should I believe you? You, a queen who can save the world from destruction. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

  “I do. But I’m starting to believe it.”

  “Of course you do! You’re to be queen and savior of all that’s good. Your head is as swollen as a melon!”

  “Austra—”

  “Oh, no,” Austra said. “Don’t try. Don’t talk to me. Don’t ever talk to me again.”

  She turned her back, sobbing again, and Anne’s own tears returned, albeit silently this time. She lay awake for a very long time before exhaustion finally claimed her.

  When she woke the next morning, Austra was gone.

  “It looks like she took a weather-cloak and some bread,” Osne said. “But no one saw her leave.”

  “Austra is no thief,” Anne said.

  “I know that. I’m sure she feels as if her need outweighed everything, and equally sure she intends to return the cloak. It isn’t of any consequence—I would have given her those things anyway.”

  “Well, she can’t have gone far,” Anne said. “If we hurry, we’ll find her.” She knew she was going against everything she had said the night before, but this was Austra, and besides, she wouldn’t have caught up with the horsemen yet. It should be safe.

  “We’ll have to go that direction for a few leagues anyway,” Artoré said. “And we’d best get started now.”

  “The horses are ready, Atté,” Cotmar, the second eldest boy, said. “And Jarné has seen to the supplies.”

  “Osne, get the princess outfitted, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Osne dressed her in one of the boys’ clothes—riding breeches tucked into leather boots, a cotton shirt and heavy woolen overshirt, weather cloak and battered, broad-brimmed hat. They rode out before the next bell.

  “That’s her mark there, Atté,” Cotmar said, pointing to something on the path that Anne couldn’t see at all.

  “Té, somebody told her about the upper crossing,” Artoré mused. “She must have stopped and asked Vimsel. Smart girl.”

  “Well, we knew better than to try to cross the bridge at Teremené,” Anne said. She patted her horse’s mane. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Tare,” he told her.

  “Tarry,” Anne repeated. “I hope he’s faster than his name.”

  Artoré gave her an odd look, but didn’t say anything.

  They continued along, with the road following close to the river, until they reached a rickety-looking rope bridge. The chasm was even deeper at this point than it had been at Teremené, and Anne tried hard not to look down as she swayed across its span. They picked up Austra’s trail on the other side, where it intersected a way that was broad enough for wagons.

  The chalky road led them higher into the hills, wandering along ridgetops when it could and reluctantly dipping into valleys when it couldn’t. The hills themselves were slumped and worn, virtually treeless. Gray and white sheep grazed on the slopes, along with the occasional goat or horse. They saw scatterings of houses built mostly of undressed stone with thatched roofs.

  “Té, there’s the horsemen, I’ll wager,” Artoré said, after a time.

  “How can you tell?” Anne asked. This time she could see the marks of horses, at least.

  “One dismounted here. See the scuff of his spurs? The horseshoes have a funny shape, too, and there’re three of them.”

  “And Austra?”

  “She took a horse from that farm back there,” he replied. “This is her.” He pointed to a slurred sort of track. “Trotting him. She’s in a hurry.”

  “How far ahead?”

  “She’s about an hour ahead, and they’re more than half a day.”

  “Can we speed up?”

  “Sure, but if she leaves the road, we might miss it.”

  “She can’t track the way you can. She’ll stick to the road, and hope the men who have Cazio do, too.”

  “Well, then,” Artoré said. He urged his horse to a trot.

  “Come on, Tarry,” Anne said. At first she just matched the trot, but, just to see what he could do, she encouraged the horse to a run and then a hard-out gallop, and for an instant, despite it all, she found herself grinning. She loved riding, and while Tarry wasn’t as quick as her own steed, Faster, he was a good runner, and she hadn’t been on a horse in a long time. She’d almost forgotten what it was like.

  She knew she couldn’t push him like that for long, however, so she went back to a trot and they traveled like that, alternating. The leagues between them and Teremené lengthened as their shadows did, until at last night came, with the prints of her stolen horse the only sign of Austra.

  They camped on a hill overlooking the road.

  “We’ll catch her tomorrow,” Artoré promised. “She’s wearing her horse out, and he’ll be slower. That should put us near the Dunmrogh road, and we can take that west toward Eslen.”

  “Dunmrogh,” Anne said. “We’re near Dunmrogh?”

  “About five leagues, I’d say. Why?”

  “Just curious. I know someone from there.” Roderick. He would help—his family had troops, surely. With his aid, they could go after Cazio and succeed.

  But he was more than likely in Eslen. Still, if they were going to be so close, it wouldn’t hurt to find out, would it?

  But on the heels of that thought came Cazio’s suspicions. What if her enemies were going to Dunmrogh? What if he really was in league with them?

  She put speculation from her mind.

  Tomorrow she would know.

  The hills sloped gently down into a plain Artoré named Magh y Herth, the “Plain of Barrows.” Anne didn’t see any barrows, only leagues of yellowed grass and the occasional line of trees marking a stream. Geese streamed overhead and occasional herds of cattle cropped by the side of the road. Now and then side roads led off to small villages, made visible by their bell towers.

  Around midday, a line of green appeared on the horizon, eventually resolving into a forest. The road led them beneath the huge, arching branches of ironoak, ash, everic, and hickory. The hoofbeats of their horses were muffled here by falling leaves. The forest felt old and clingy, like a decrepit man trying to hug her.

  “Prethsorucaldh,” Artoré said, gesturing at the trees. “You would call it ‘Little Worm Wood.’ ”

  “That’s an odd name,” Anne said. “Why is it called that?”

  “I’ve heard some tale about a monster of some sort that lived in the ground, but I don’t recall any details. They say it used to be a part of the King’s Forest, but during the Warlock Wars an army of fire marched on either side of the Saint Sefodh and cut it off. Since then it’s been shrinking. Now it’s the Lord of Dunmrogh’s hunting preserve.”

  “An army of fire what?”

  “That’s what the stories say—Sverfath of the Twenty Eyes summoned an army of fire and sent it against his enemy—oh, what was her name?—Sefhind the Windwitch. Some say it was an army of flaming demons, others that it was a living river of fire. But those are stories, you know? I’ve never read the sober histories. But if it was fire, it wasn’t an ordinary one, because the trees never came back. You’ll see when we get to the other side—not a tree between here and the river.

  “Atté!” One of the boys shrieked, Anne wasn’t sure which one, and in the space after his cry she heard a peculiar noise, almost like rain though the leaves, but with a peculiar whirring to it. Jarné—who was riding ahead—clutched at his heart and jerked weirdly, then fell off his horse. Everything came into focus then, as she understood that arrows where riving the air around them.

  “Go!” Artoré shouted, and slapped at Tarry’s tail. The horse
started forward violently. Pulse racing, Anne lay close to the stallion’s mane and gave him his head. A couple of arrows hissed by her, so close she could feel the wind, and she wondered what it would feel like when one hit her.

  As it turned out, it felt like a hard sort of thump—she thought she’d hit a branch or something. But when she looked down, she saw a long feathered shaft in her thigh. Just as she was wondering why it didn’t hurt, it began to, and her head went light.

  Tarry screamed, and she guessed he’d been hit, too, though she couldn’t see where.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Anne gasped. She wasn’t sure who she was talking to. Everyone, she guessed.

  Tarry kept running, and after a few long moments Anne realized the arrows had stopped. She looked back and didn’t see anyone at all.

  “Artoré!” she shouted. Her leg was throbbing now, and she felt feverish and weak.

  When she turned back around she saw a horseman, coming from the other direction.

  CHAPTER TEN

  OVERTURES

  MURIELE WOKE TO SOFT humming. Sleepily, she opened her eyes and looked for the source.

  “Ah,” a male voice said. “Good morning to you, Queen Mother.”

  She went rigid when she saw that it was Robert, seated lazily in her armchair. Alis Berrye was in his lap.

  “Get out of my room,” Muriele commanded.

  “Well, it’s not actually your room, you know,” Robert countered. “It belongs to the Crown, and that belongs to me at the moment.”

  Muriele didn’t answer, because there wasn’t anything to say. She couldn’t call for the guards, because they wouldn’t come. She looked around, searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon, but there wasn’t anything.

  Berrye giggled.

  “Come now, dear,” Robert said to the girl. “Off we go. I’ve some things to discuss with your lady here.”

  “Oh, can’t I stay?” Berrye pouted.

  “This will be grown-up talk,” Robert said. “Go into your room and shut the door.”

  “Well—I will. But she’s been very rude to me. I think you should punish her.” With that, she got up and vanished into her quarters. Robert stayed where he was, stroking his mustache.