The Serpent Bride

by Sara Douglass

  One morning, as they’d encamped after a night’s travel, Maximilian drew Garth and Lixel to one side.

  “My friends,” he said, “today Ishbel and I will rest here with the Emerald Guard, but I would like you to travel ahead, and make our presence known to Malat.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?” asked Lixel. The events of the past few months had aged the man considerably. He’d longed to return to Escator, but had never envisioned making the journey by the back roads and living off scraps as a fugitive. Once portly and florid, Lixel was a pale shadow of his former self.

  Maximilian smiled. “Feed you first, I imagine. Then he will ask you and Garth for your version of the events he has heard of from Sirus. Tell him what you know, all you know, and beg him to understand that neither myself nor Ishbel, nor any other of my party, had a hand in these murders. Tell him I will swear so on the bodies of my parents, and that if I lie I should be sent back to another seventeen years in the Veins. Beg him also for a town house somewhere within Kyros where Ishbel and I, as well as the Emerald Guard, may rest up for a week or so. My wife is pregnant, and all of us exhausted. We will not impose on his hospitality, and we will keep to ourselves so that no other may know of our presence, but, oh, for both his understanding and for some sweet, fresh beds, Malat will earn my undying gratitude.”

  They spent an uneasy (and somewhat wet, for it rained the entire time) three days waiting in the woods a league or so outside Kyros, but when Lixel and Garth returned, the smiles on their faces told Maximilian all he needed to know.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kyros, the Central Kingdoms

  They entered Kyros at night by a small gate set into the southern wall of the city. Someone had been stationed there to keep an eye out for them, for the normally locked gate swung open as soon as Maximilian and his party rode close, and, as Maximilian rode through, a man on horseback rode out of an overhang to greet them.

  “Maximilian!” the man said, his tone welcoming, if hushed, and held out a hand as he pulled his horse to a halt before Maximilian’s.

  “Borchard,” Maximilian said, taking the man’s hand in his, and offering him a wide, unforced grin. Borchard was Malat’s eldest son, heir to the throne, and a personal friend of Maximilian’s. Despite the fact that Lixel and Garth had told him that Malat had been welcoming, Maximilian still had harbored doubts. To have Borchard here to greet him was the best indication he’d had yet that Malat would be more welcoming than judgmental.

  Borchard turned his attention to Ishbel, sitting behind Maximilian, her hands lightly clasped to his waist. “And a wife,” he said, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “Maxel, you never said she was going to be so lovely.”

  He pushed his horse forward a pace, so he could take Ishbel’s hand and kiss it. Borchard was not a conventionally handsome man, but he had an air of boyish fun about him, and a gleam of mischievousness in his eyes, that appealed to most women.

  Ishbel did not resist his charm. She smiled as Borchard kissed her hand, then glanced at Maximilian, her smile fading as she saw the sadness in his eyes.

  Borchard caught the look and let go Ishbel’s hand. “Maxel,” he said, “we have heard some of what has happened in Pelemere, and in Margalit before that, and it beggars belief. My father and I are glad of the chance to hear your version of events. My father begs your understanding in not being here to greet you, nor even being able to grant you an audience…but, as I am sure you’re aware, yours is a name spoken with a certain degree of frostiness these days. I and my companions”—Borchard inclined his head at a group of four or five armed horsemen waiting to one side—“shall have to provide you with all the company you need.”

  There was a perceptible coolness in Borchard’s tone now, and Maximilian realized their welcome was not quite as guaranteed as he’d first thought.

  “A meal and somewhere to rest our weary limbs,” he said, “and we shall be grateful to relate anything you wish.”

  Borchard nodded, then turned his horse about and led them into the city.

  He led them to a town house situated in a gated courtyard not far from where they entered (a fact closely noted by Maximilian, should, gods forbid, he need to make an escape quickly from this city as well). The town house was a good size, with enough stabling and dormitories for Maximilian’s entire party, and the kitchens were lit and warm: the courtyard was redolent with the savory smell of roasting meat wafting out of the open kitchen windows.

  “I can hardly thank you and your father enough,” Maximilian said to Borchard as Maximilian helped Ishbel to dismount. “I’ve been so worried about Ishbel and the strain I’ve put her through.”

  “I have heard that you are expecting a child,” Borchard said to Ishbel. “I hope that we can offer you good rest and comfort here in Kyros. Come, let me take you inside.”

  Borchard waited until they’d eaten, and then further, until Maximilian had seen Ishbel to the chamber and into bed, before he asked Maximilian about the events of the past few months.

  They were alone now—Lixel and Garth having retired for the night; Egalion seeing to the settling of the Emerald Guard—and sharing a pitcher of warmed spiced wine by a fire.

  Maximilian took a long draft of the wine from his glass, then held it out for Borchard to refill.

  “To be honest, my friend,” he said, “I have no idea where to begin.”

  “With Ishbel, perhaps, as she was the reason you traveled this far distant to begin with.”

  “With Ishbel, then.” As Borchard sat listening and occasionally refilling Maximilian’s glass, Maximilian related a reasonably full version of the events that had enveloped him ever since he’d left Escator. Some of them Borchard already knew, for Maximilian had stopped in Kyros on his way east to meet Ishbel, and many things Borchard, as his father, had heard from other sources. Maximilian did not relate everything, most particularly not that which had occurred between him and Ishbel in the woodsman’s hut, but in all else he was frank with Borchard, knowing that the information would go directly back to Malat and that Malat would appreciate honesty and directness before all else.

  “And so,” Maximilian concluded, “here we are, finally in some comfort due to you and your father’s generosity. Tell me, if you can, what news from Sirus? How badly is my name being bruited about?”

  “As to your name, Maximilian, it does poorly, I am afraid. Sirus is certain that you, or your lovely wife, were responsible for Allemorte’s death and that Ishbel is likely deeply involved in some Outlander plot to invade the Central Kingdoms. Maximilian, I hate to ask this of you, but are you certain of your wife?”

  Maximilian did not know how to answer that. Was he certain of Ishbel? No, he wasn’t. She harbored far too many secrets, and he was still uncertain of her true relationship with the Coil. She was somehow tied to Elcho Falling…but he had no idea how, or if she consciously concealed what she did know. He wanted to trust Ishbel unreservedly, but “wanting” did not help when so many doubts remained.

  Maximilian became aware that he’d hesitated too long, and his mouth lifted wryly. “She has her secrets, Borchard, but I do not think them murderous ones.”

  “Perhaps,” Borchard said. “Maxel, Sirus’ accusations are serious. You and Ishbel were the only ones close to Allemorte when he was struck—”

  “And Sirus.”

  “Sirus would hardly be likely to murder one of his own barons.”

  Maximilian contented himself with sending Borchard a deeply cynical look.

  “Oh, Maxel, surely not!”

  “No, I suppose I do not suspect Sirus of this. All I can say is that besides myself and Ishbel, there were countless servants and guards within two or three paces of us, and the deep stench of a black enchantment hanging over Allemorte’s corpse. And as for Rilm Evenor—neither Ishbel nor myself were within a hundred leagues of that murder, and cannot, surely, be suspected of it.”

  “The ‘deep stench of a black enchantment’? You did not mention this earlier.�
��

  Maximilian drained his wineglass and then waggled it before Borchard, asking for a refill. “I do not think Allemorte was the target. I think Ishbel was.”

  “Ishbel? Why?”

  Maximilian had said nothing to Borchard about what the ring had screamed. How could he? Borchard would not have understood. “An intuition. I can explain it no further, Borchard.”

  Now it was Borchard who shot the deeply cynical look.

  Maximilian shifted uncomfortably. He wished he could talk to Borchard about the secrets of Elcho Falling, but they were such deep secrets, mysteries only to be discussed among the initiated, and he could not speak of them to his friend.

  “Borchard,” he said, “have you heard any news, or even rumor, of troubles apart from those that ensnare the Outlands and Sirus and Fulmer?”

  “You want more?” Borchard gave a small snort. “No. Praise gods. The trouble with the Outlands is bad enough.”

  “Nothing…no news from the south?”

  “South?”

  “From the Tyranny of Isembaard?”

  Borchard frowned. “There is never any news from the Tyranny of Isembaard, Maxel! They keep themselves to themselves. We are too poor and uncultured to be of any concern to them.”

  Maximilian sipped his wine. He’d been concerned that the troubles in the Central Kingdoms had been somehow tied to the necessity for the Lord of Elcho Falling to wake, but if there was no problem in Isembaard, then maybe he could relax a little. Maybe there would be many months, perhaps even years, before he was required to do anything.

  Maybe.

  “Look,” said Borchard, setting his own wine to one side and standing up, “perhaps we can continue this in the morning. I’m tired, and you look exhausted. I’ll leave you to your rest now, and return midafternoon tomorrow. I ask only that you and yours do not leave the confines of this town house and its courtyard.”

  “Of course not,” said Maximilian, now also standing. “Borchard, again I thank you for this welcome, and this town house. You are a friend indeed.”

  Borchard smiled, nodded, put a hand on Maximilian’s shoulder, then left the room.

  He opened the door to the dim corridor outside, and walked through.

  Straight onto the blade of a sword.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kyros, the Central Kingdoms

  Maximilian froze, caught between disbelief and horror. Then he lunged forward, just as Borchard staggered back into the room.

  There was a sword buried in his belly.

  It was one of the Emerald Guard’s distinctive weapons.

  Maximilian caught Borchard as he lost his balance, breaking his fall before he reached the floor. He lay him down gently, unable for the moment to look at the sword, thinking only that he needed to be careful as at least half a handbreadth of the blade protruded from Borchard’s back.

  Borchard had his hands gripped about the hilt. His abdomen and thighs were soaked in blood, and now a thick stream of it bubbled from his mouth.

  “Why, Maxel?” Borchard said, his hands scrabbling uselessly about the hilt of the sword. He spat out a great clot of blood. “Why?”

  Then he died.

  Maximilian could do nothing but kneel by his friend’s body, now staring sightlessly. He was in deep, cold shock, unable to process the events of the last few moments, or to truly comprehend what had just happened.

  He did not realize that he was kneeling on the floor, his back to the door, utterly defenseless against Borchard’s murderer.

  A step sounded behind him, then a soft gasp of shock.

  “Maxel!”

  He turned his head, very slightly, just enough to see Ishbel standing there, clutching a shawl about her nightgown, huge eyes in a white face.

  “Why are you out of bed?” Maximilian said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I heard something, and—”

  “Go back to your bed, Ishbel.”

  “Maxel? What has happened?” Ishbel crept a little closer.

  “I said to go back to your bed!”

  She froze. “Maxel—”

  “Get back to the bedchamber and do not move from there until I allow it!”

  Ishbel went utterly still. Then, very slowly and very deliberately, she turned her back and walked away.

  Egalion came within moments, closely followed by Garth.

  “Ishbel called me,” Egalion said, kneeling down next to Maximilian, who still had not moved.

  Borchard remained as he had died, half on one side, his hands still wrapped about the hilt of the sword, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, blood still oozing very slowly from his mouth and belly.

  “Garth,” Egalion said, “get the Emerald Guard up, weaponed and surrounding this room. Then get Lixel. You can do nothing here.”

  Garth nodded, leaving the room.

  “Maximilian,” Egalion said softly. “What happened?”

  Maximilian made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know, Egalion. Borchard opened the door to leave, took a step out, then staggered back in, the sword in his body. He died within heartbeats. I didn’t see who…I didn’t see anyone, gods damn it!”

  “Ishbel?” Egalion said, his voice still very quiet. “Why was she here? I thought she was abed and asleep hours ago. Was she here when Borchard was struck?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I can’t think.”

  “Death is following her everywhere, Maximilian.”

  Maximilian didn’t respond.

  “I will set guards about her bedchamber as well,” Egalion said, and Maximilian did not countermand it.

  “Maximilian, I am sorry, but I need to ask this. Do you think she was responsible for this?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t bear to think about it. She was here immediately after, and I don’t know why. How she knew.”

  Egalion looked at the body once more, then back at Maximilian. “Maxel, we need to get you away from—”

  “No.”

  “Maxel—”

  “I will not run from Borchard’s death as I ran from Allemorte’s. Borchard was my friend, and I owe it to Malat to remain.”

  “Gods, Maxel, don’t you see what kind of sword it is sticking out of Borchard’s belly? No one is going to believe your protests of innocence. You need to leave.”

  “No.”

  “Shit,” Egalion muttered. He wiped a hand over his face, unable to think, unable to see a way out of this. What in the name of all gods was happening to them?

  There was the sound of many feet, running quietly, coming closer. Garth returned, together with six or seven of the Emerald Guard.

  Egalion rose from the floor, conferring quietly with the Emerald Guard, giving orders to secure the town house, guard Ishbel, and hunt for any other person within the compound who might possibly be a murderer.

  “Borchard’s companions are on their way,” one of the Emerald Guard said. “They were in the kitchen. They know something is wrong.”

  “I wish they could have guarded their prince better than they did,” Egalion said bitterly. “Shit!” he said again. Then he saw Baron Lixel hurrying along the corridor toward them.

  “Lixel,” Egalion said, and in a few terse words informed him of what had happened. “Maxel won’t leave. He’s decided to stay.”

  Lixel muttered a curse.

  “I’m going to give you five of the Emerald Guard as escort,” Egalion said, “and I want you to get out of this city and ride as hard as you can to Ruen. Let Vorstus and the Privy Council know what has happened, and that it will be a miracle if they ever see their king again. Damn it, Garth, why did you save Maximilian from the Veins, if this is what you saved him for?”

  “No time for that now,” Garth said. “Lixel, you have to go. Now. Egalion—”

  “Yes, yes.” Egalion gave one of the Emerald Guards hurried, urgent orders, then looked back at Lixel. “Be safe, Lixel. Let Vorstus know what is happening. Tell him everything you know. Now, go! Go! Borchard’s men must
surely be only moments away.”

  Lixel shot one anxious look at Maximilian, still by Borchard’s body; then he hurried off with the Emerald Guard.

  A moment later, Borchard’s companions hurried around a corner from the opposite end of the corridor.

  King Malat was a tall man, handsome and well built, but in the cold gray of the dawn he looked old and fragile. He sat in a chair in the chamber in which his son had died, his son’s body laid out before him, the sword still in place, Borchard’s cold hands still wrapped about its hilt, looking at Maximilian who sat in a chair the other side of the body.

  “Why?” Malat said for the twentieth time. “Why is my son dead? For what reason?”

  Maximilian waved a hand uselessly. It was a gesture he’d made countless times since Malat had arrived four hours ago.

  They had spent that time as they were now, sitting in opposite chairs, Borchard lying between them.

  The town house was now ringed with Malat’s soldiers. Maximilian didn’t know where everyone else in his party was, but he assumed they were under close guard.

  “Who am I to blame if not you?” Malat said.

  Another useless gesture on Maximilian’s part.

  “How can you say you did not see the murderer? The door was open.”

  “Malat—”

  “I wish I’d listened to what Sirus had warned me. I wish I had not listened to the honeyed words of your friends Garth and Lixel and offered you rest within Kyros. Borchard”—his voice broke on the name of his son—“would still be alive if I had not capitulated.”

  “Malat, I am sorry. I—”

  “I want you gone, Maximilian. I want you out of here. I don’t know who murdered my son. I want to believe it wasn’t you, but I just don’t know. All I do know is that I want you gone from my house and sight and city and life. Leave me to grieve for my son without your corrupting presence. If, one day, I discover that you were responsible for Borchard’s death, then I will come after you with everything I have. I will destroy your life as you have destroyed mine. Do you understand me, Maximilian?”