Beneath the Keep

by Erika Johansen

  “My retainers have been unable to deal with the problem,” Lady Andrews continued. Her tone suggested that the retainers might be in even worse trouble than the tenants. “I ask Your Majesty to call out the Tear army to help me retake my manse and punish the tenants responsible.”

  “Aye!” several men shouted from the crowd. Gullys entreated them to be silent, this time to no avail. Glancing at the Princess, Christian found her expression the same as before, utterly pleasant, as though she had been listening to the Queen and Lady Andrews discussing the weather. And now Christian sensed another pair of eyes upon him, neither hostile nor friendly, only curious. Looking out over the crowd, he spotted Arliss at the end of the third row: a gnomelike figure, hopelessly crooked, his body bent over a jeweled cane.

  “Mace,” Carroll whispered beside him. “Remember yourself.”

  Christian nodded, returning his attention to Elyssa. On the far side of the Queen, the witch emitted a sudden chuckle, and at the sound, the temperature of Christian’s blood seemed to drop ten degrees.

  Brenna saw you coming.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  The Queen’s voice echoed over the room, and silence fell with it. Christian felt a moment of reluctant admiration for the woman who hunched on the throne like a vulture, glowering at them all. The crowd had been silenced not by the volume in her voice but by the steel. The Queen glared down at them all for another few seconds, then said, “Refused, Lady Andrews.”

  “Majesty!” one of the nobles barked from the crowd. Another well-dressed fop, this one; no tattoo, but just as dislikable as the rest. “A crime has been committed! Lady Andrews has been robbed and displaced!”

  “We regret that Lady Andrews is experiencing a problem on her lands, March,” the Queen returned smoothly. “But the Tear army is not a police force, and private squabbles among nobles and tenants are not our purview. If you need additional security to deal with starving tenants, Lady Andrews, we suggest that you hire the Caden.”

  The Queen must truly dislike the Andrews woman, Christian thought, for even the dullest observer could feel the undercurrent of panic among the nobility in the room. If one group of tenants claimed the land for their own, it was only a matter of time before more followed suit. The uprising would have to be put down; rather than choosing to become involved, the Queen would be forced to, and thus weakened. It was a mistake, but still Christian felt his quiet admiration for the woman ratchet up a notch. She was no pushover, that was certain.

  “Mother.”

  The Princess had spoken up, for the first time that day.

  “A word, Mother?”

  The Queen looked annoyed, but her frown faded as the Princess bent to whisper in her ear. The crowd continued to bubble, nobles muttering and whispering among themselves, and Christian snuck another glance at Arliss. He had never been in the Almont, but he understood the dynamics of tenancy well enough: many living in misery in order to support a comfortable few. It was a system that any Creche child could recognize and respond to, and Christian longed to ask Arliss what his precious Blue Horizon was going to do about that.

  “Our daughter has interceded on your behalf, Lady Andrews,” the Queen announced, as the Princess straightened at her side. “We have changed our minds. We shall send the army to deal with your little domestic problem.”

  Christian heard a wounded gasp behind him: Niya, the maid. Turning to look at her, Christian nearly flinched at the expression on her face: shocked betrayal . . . but only for a moment, before her face settled into its former placid expression. Barty and Carroll, too, looked stunned, and Lady Andrews was simply flabbergasted. The crowd, equally bewildered, had fallen silent, and the Queen took advantage of the moment to beckon her chamberlain.

  “We will hear no more petitions today!” she announced. “Gullys, if you please.”

  “Clear this court!” Gullys called. “The Queen thanks you for your attendance.”

  The crowd of nobles began moving toward the rear of the room, muttering among themselves, shooting distrustful glances at Elyssa. As they went, Christian nudged Carroll. But it took two nudges to get his attention, for Carroll was still staring at the Princess, his eyes dark with doubt.

  “Who is that noble down there?” Christian asked. “The dark-haired one with the red shirt?”

  “Lord Tennant,” Carroll replied in an undertone. “You’ll not find a more wretched climber anywhere in this court.”

  Christian watched the man retreat, the scarecrow figure of Thorne beside him . . . and then, almost automatically, he turned to seek the witch. Finding her pale, staring eyes upon him, he looked quickly away.

  “Well, here’s trouble,” the Queen muttered as the last nobles cleared the doors. “A murdered priest? The Holy Father will be onto us, sure enough. We will have to find those responsible.”

  “Then why refuse Lady Andrews, Majesty?” Givens asked.

  “I enjoy few things in the world so much as telling that bitch no. But it was never meant as a real refusal, only a chance for my daughter to publicly convince me otherwise.” The Queen smiled at the Princess. “Her idea, and a good one.”

  “Majesty?”

  “My girl has finally seen the light. No more rabble-rousing, no more playing at rebellion. Her first proclamation is being distributed as we speak. Elyssa wrote the documents herself, in secret, so that there should be no chance for the Blue Horizon to throw a wrench in the works.”

  “And what is the substance of this proclamation?” Barty asked.

  “A public declaration,” the Queen replied, with an approving nod at Elyssa. “Denouncing the Blue Horizon and declaring allegiance to God’s Church.”

  Several of the guards around Christian stopped breathing; he heard it clearly.

  “Also, it seems a good time to announce another bit of good news,” the Queen said, beckoning Elyssa forward. The Princess took her mother’s offered hand . . . but Christian sensed artifice in the gesture, and even more so in the Princess’s smile. For a brief second, the corner of Elyssa’s mouth twitched, as though in spasm. Barty, standing behind Elyssa, had turned pale, and Niya . . . even Christian, who had seen every possible expression of horror that a man’s face could hold, found himself shrinking away from the look in the maid’s eyes.

  “Congratulations are due,” the Queen announced. “In April, or perhaps May, I will be a grandmother.”

  For a moment they all stood still, as though the Queen had spoken in a foreign language. Givens recovered first.

  “Congratulations, Majesty! And to you, Your Highness,” he added, turning to Elyssa. And then, more delicately: “And who is the father?”

  “Mhurn,” Elyssa replied.

  Several of the guards gasped, and even Christian raised his eyebrows. Mhurn was another of Elyssa’s guards; Christian had spoken with him once or twice, and they had shared a shift in the arms room. Mhurn was a farm boy from the Almont—a true farm boy, not an actor like Christian. Christian wouldn’t have thought that Queen’s Guards were allowed to bed down with royals . . . but now he realized that, once again, something was going on here, some dynamic that he did not understand. Elyssa’s guards were sneaking glances at each other, and Barty looked as though he had taken a bite of something rotten. Prince Thomas had gone so pale that the blue letters on his forehead seemed almost black.

  “Come,” the Queen said. “Let’s go back upstairs.”

  The Guard formed up. Christian took his place on the outskirts of Elyssa’s retinue, just beside Barty. Carroll had told him that he would not be allowed on the inner ring until he had been with the Guard for at least a year. It was a reasonable precaution, and Christian did not take offense, but the rule struck him as silly, all the same. He had taken the measure of these guards now, and if he so wished, the Princess’s neck would be in his hands in less than five seconds. He was sure that Carroll knew this as well, b
ut Carroll was in no position to break Guard tradition. He was too young.

  “Incidentally,” the Queen remarked as they walked, “we will need to eject Mhurn from the Guard. Barty, I trust you will take care of it. Give him a small severance and send him back where he came from.”

  Barty nodded, but Christian noted that his face was frozen; looking down, he found the old guard’s hands trembling. Barty glanced at Elyssa, as though in mute appeal, but the Princess was not looking at any of them, only staring dreamily at the walls as they began to climb the stairs.

  “Get General Cleary in here,” the Queen told Givens. “We need to stamp out this nonsense in the Almont immediately, before it infects the city. God knows the last thing I need is a bunch of radical farmers linking up with those lunatics from the Blue Horizon. I want at least two battalions mobilized and ready to leave in a week.”

  “Yes, Majesty. Cleary’s in the city. I’ll summon him today, but there may be a bit of a delay.”

  “What sort of delay?”

  Givens swallowed; he did not want to bear bad news to the Queen, and Christian could not blame him.

  “There was an incident early this morning, Majesty. The Blue Horizon broke into Lord Welland’s storehouses on the outskirts of the Hollow. Six dead and more than twenty injured. I believe Cleary is still clearing up the wreckage.”

  The Queen’s face tightened. “And the food?”

  “Gone, Majesty.”

  “What of the Fetch?”

  “He was there, Majesty. Several soldiers saw him . . . or his mask, at any rate.”

  The Queen cursed under her breath. “Up the bounty on the Fetch again. A thousand pounds.”

  “It’s no use, Majesty. No one will give him up.”

  “Then we must be cleverer than he is!” the Queen exploded, turning on the landing to face them all. “Is my entire army incompetent?”

  Givens said nothing—wisely, Christian thought. The maid, Niya, was looking up the next stairwell, as though the conversation bored her, but Christian sensed a vast well of upset beneath that serene exterior. By contrast, the Princess herself seemed genuinely uninterested, examining her fingernails as though they were fascinating.

  “Is there more we have not been apprised of?” the Queen asked coldly. “Any further catastrophes that you were not planning to share?”

  Givens flushed, but replied, “No catastrophe, Majesty, only a small problem. Lord Latimer has disappeared.”

  “Says who?” the Queen asked, turning to begin climbing again.

  “His family, Majesty. Apparently, Latimer disappeared in the Gut. The family sent a messenger last night, reminding you that he was once the Prince’s caregiver and demanding a full investigation.”

  “No body?”

  “None yet, Majesty.”

  “Send them our regrets,” the Queen replied blandly. “Or do one better: tell them we hope he’s dead and burning. We do not grieve when stoats meet their end, regardless of how much cattle they own.”

  “I will perhaps change the phrasing, Majesty.”

  The guards chuckled, but Christian did not. Stoat, the Queen had called Latimer; she had known about him, then. Christian snuck a glance at Carroll, but the other guard’s face might have been made of wood for all it revealed.

  “I must see Brenna,” the Queen announced as they entered the Queen’s Wing. “Have her come to my chambers.”

  “Majesty—”

  “Don’t start with me, Givens. Do as I say.”

  Givens’s face darkened, but he nodded to Bowler, one of the Queen’s other close guards. The Queen continued down the hall toward her chambers, several guards in tow, and Elyssa followed her, with Galen and Cae trailing close behind.

  The rest of the guards gathered around the table, awaiting dinner. Christian sat beside Carroll without asking; he wasn’t sure any of the rest wanted to sit next to him, and he didn’t want to sit next to them. Barty was on his other side, but he was deep in muttered conversation with Givens. Christian did not need to eavesdrop; he would have heard the conversation whether he wished to or not.

  “We must do something.”

  “What am I to do?” Givens demanded. “The Queen thinks she can make her immortal, help her see the future, God knows what else. And the things the witch carries around! Chicken scraps, blood in vials . . . I found what looked like a child’s arm bone last time I tossed her chambers! I want that creature here no more than you do. But what am I to do?”

  Barty’s reply was so low that Christian almost missed it.

  “You were there; you saw. She has already begun to work on Elyssa, and I will not have it. I will kill the witch, if it comes to that.”

  “And how will you do that, Barty? Have you been studying sorcery on the side?”

  Barty didn’t answer, for the servants brought their dinner then, a simmering tureen of stew that smelled like heaven to Christian. He looked forward to meals more than a guard likely should, but he could not get over the food . . . the variety, the quality. Yet even as he dipped his spoon into the rich dish, Christian found himself glancing sideways at Barty, considering him. A common goal . . . it was the last thing he had expected to find in this place, but it was there. They must get the witch out. The Guard did not like her, but only Christian knew her real purpose in the Keep: to pave the way for Arlen Thorne. In a sharp blink, Christian saw Thorne, as clearly as though the pimp stood before him, his bright blue eyes veiling a wealth of purpose, merciless depth of plan.

  “You are not eating, Mace,” Coryn remarked from the far side of the table, cutting through the myriad conversations taking place around them. “Lamb not to your liking?”

  “The lamb is fine,” Christian replied easily, taking a bite of his stew. It was more than fine; it was delicious. “But where there are sheep, there are also wolves.”

  “Is that what we are?” Dyer asked, digging into his own bowl with relish. “Wolves?”

  Christian shook his head, smiling. He did not dislike Coryn and Dyer; they were good men of their kind. But like all Queen’s Guards, they had no way of knowing that they were the sheep: bound by honor and decency and rules, hamstrung in the belief that these things would make a difference. But Christian, not so bound, knew what the rest could not: that the wolf was coming.

  Chapter 22

  THE LADDER IS DOWN

  At the outset, the Almont rebellion was badly overmatched. It was a desolate winter in the farming plains, and the rebels had neither food nor warm clothing. They were able to provision themselves from the castle they had taken, but there was not enough food to last the winter. The rebels had precious little skill with steel or military strategy, no real idea of where to go or what to do next. Defeat seemed both imminent and inevitable.

  —Out of Famine: The Almont Uprising, Alla Benedict

  Aislinn!” Eamon called from the doorway. “More coming in!”

  Aislinn looked up from the dough she was beating with her fists. They had found several massive canisters of flour in the cellars of Lady Andrews’s castle, and every day Aislinn made fresh bread, enjoying the solitude of the task. But now Eamon was leaning through the doorway, his face worried.

  “How many?” Aislinn asked.

  “An entire village, from the looks of it.”

  “Will they never stop coming?” she murmured to Liam, who sat silent at the end of the table.

  “You could always bar the doors.”

  She glared at him, then realized that he was joking. But the joke wasn’t funny, for she had received just this advice, in earnest, from several of the men who had come in from other acreages. She understood their reasoning: the food and water in Lady Andrews’s cellars would not last forever. Eamon had made a conservative estimate that they had no more than three months’ worth to feed everyone, and more refugees poured in all the time. The castle now held ne
arly seven hundred people. Clapping the flour from her hands, Aislinn rose from the table and left the kitchen, Liam at her heels.

  Lady Andrews’s castle was dominated by a high, hollow central hall, flanked by two massive, curving staircases. These staircases traveled from base to battlement, breaking briefly to create landings for each floor. With Eamon and Liam behind her, Aislinn began the long climb toward the roof. She kept her hand on the balustrade, knowing that once she reached the third or fourth floor, the height would begin to make her dizzy.

  “More people will strain our rations,” Eamon muttered. “Perhaps we should—”

  “No,” Aislinn said firmly, closing the discussion. Eamon scowled but remained silent. He had come in with a tiny band, only seven people, but his knowledge was invaluable. He had once been a soldier, and he could wield a sword, but more than that, he knew about castles, their defense and bolster. Yet his cowardice still shocked her. In the hundreds of square miles surrounding, people were now starving in earnest, and each new set of refugees brought their own stories of misery: tenants eating dogs, tenants eating mud, tenants eating the clay walls of their dwellings. One village had even dug up its own churchyard in desperation. Aislinn and her people had taken Lady Andrews’s castle easily, for the servants had let them in, and now Eamon and the others would counsel her to bar the doors, to climb to safety and pull the ladder up behind them. But Aislinn couldn’t do that, not even if they all suffered for it. None of them were any better or braver than those who arrived on foot, starving and desperate; they had simply been lucky. They had no right to close the gates.

  The three of them reached the top of the tall staircase and climbed through the open trapdoor to the roof. Eight men were spread across the western battlement, staring outward, spyglasses in their hands.

  “Here, girl,” Morton said, offering Aislinn a spyglass. “Look and despair.”

  Aislinn took the spyglass from him and stared outward, over the parapet and across the bleak, barren fields of Lady Andrews’s former acreage. It was late afternoon, almost dusk, and the autumn sun hung low on the western horizon. A haze of dust covered the ground out there, but Aislinn could see them clear enough: a wide line of men on horse, moving neither quickly nor cautiously, and behind them a broad, dark shadow, spread out over perhaps half an acre of the plains.