Authors: Greg Keyes
The utin wasn’t moving. Carefully, Aspar leaned forward, soundlessly shifting his weight until his fingers touched the hilt. He felt an odd, tingling warmth, then took hold of it and pulled it out.
Blood spurted in a stream. The utin’s eyes snapped open, and it gave a horrible gurgling scream, starting toward Aspar but stopping when it saw the weapon.
“Unholy thing,” it said.
“You’re one to talk.”
It started an odd gulp and hiss that might have been a laugh.
“Your mother,” Aspar said. “The Sarnwood witch. Did she send you?”
“No, no. Mother not sending us, eh?”
“But you work for Fend?”
“The Blood Knight calls us. We come.”
“Why?”
“How we are,” the utin said. “How we are, it’s all.”
“But what does he want?”
The utin had shoved its fist into the knife hole. It wasn’t helping much.
“Not the same as Mother, I think,” it said. “Not at end of things. But doesn’t matter. Today he wanting you. Today, you.” It looked up suddenly and released a deafening, ululating shriek. Howling himself, Aspar drove forward, slicing through the exposed throat so deeply that the head flopped backward like the hood of a cloak. Blood jetted from the stump of its neck, pulsed another few times, and stopped.
Aspar tried to still his own panting and reckon whether he’d been wounded by the thing. He didn’t want to take his eyes off it, so he was watching when its mouth started moving again.
“Holter.”
Aspar flinched and raised the knife back up. The voice was the same, but the timbre of it was somehow different.
“Another of my children dead by you.”
“Sarnwood witch,” he breathed.
“Each one is part of me,”
she said.
He remembered her forest, how he’d felt her in every limb and leaf, how she’d laid her invisible weight on him so that he couldn’t move.
“He tried to kill me,” he pointed out.
“More coming,”
she said.
“They may kill you. But if they don’t, you have a promise to keep.”
Aspar felt an even deeper chill settle in. Months earlier, to save the lives of his friends, he had made a bargain.
“I won’t ask for the life of anyone you love. I won’t ask you to spare one of my children.”
“That’s what we agreed,” Aspar said. “I remember.”
She’ll ask for my life,
he suddenly thought. But no, it wasn’t going to be that simple.
“Here is your geos,”
she said.
“The next human being you meet, you’ll take under your protection. And you will take that person to the valley where you found the Briar King sleeping.”
“Why?”
“That’s not in the bargain, holter. I honored my part; now it’s time for you to honor yours.”
He sighed, trying to think what the witch could mean. Leshya was right; he’d been thinking about going back there anyway. But what could the Sarnwood witch be up to?
But he’d given his word, and she
had
kept hers.
“Yah,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“Yes, you will,”
she replied. The utin seemed to sag further, and a long soft exhalation escaped its lips.
“If you live…”
Already Aspar could hear something else coming through the trees. He pushed himself up, every part of him shaking, and held the knife before him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T
HE
T
OWN
B
ETWEEN
H
IS BLOOD
soaks this ground. But his soul is with the Draugs.
Muriele stared at the sungilt waves and wondered what to feel. William had been a good man, a fair king. As husband he hadn’t been mean or abusive, but he often hadn’t much been there, either. Maintaining several mistresses tended to be draining. Against the grain she had loved him, and she mourned for him. She could remember the scent on his clothes even now.
Alis took her hand. It felt good, the young, honest warmth of it. She looked at the girl, a pretty brown-haired creature of twenty.
“Robert came one night,” Muriele said. “When I was alone. When he thought you dead. He was drunk and even more cruel than usual, and he told me how William died.”
“He might have lied,” Alis said.
“He might have,” Muriele agreed. “But the details make me think he was telling the truth.” She took a step so that they stood at the edge of the cliff. She looked at the waves breaking far below.
“It was an ambush, and William had fallen wounded from his horse. Robert dragged him here and meant to gloat and kick him over the edge. But William managed to enrage him with taunts, tricked him into stooping down, and then Wil struck him in the heart with his
echein doif.
That was how Robert learned he could not die.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “Why would Robert tell a lie so unflattering to himself?”
“Robert does not like himself very well,” Alis said. Her voice sounded odd, and when Muriele looked up, she saw tears in the younger woman’s eyes.
“You loved my poor husband,” she said.
“I don’t know,” Alis admitted. “But I miss him.”
“Well, at least he has Gramme to keep him company,” Muriele said, feeling suddenly mordant.
“Muriele…”
“Hush. It’s past. To tell the truth, if I could have him back, I wouldn’t mind if you were his mistress. At least not so much as I did before.”
“I hope your next husband feels the same,” Alis said lightly.
Muriele gave her a hug, then turned back to the sea.
“Good-bye, William,” she called.
Together they walked back to where the others waited.
Neil watched the two women stride toward the party, remembering his own recent ghosts: Fastia, Muriele’s eldest daughter, who had died in his arms; Erren, the coven-trained assassin who had protected the queen when he first had met her. He had loved the first and respected the second, and both had been lost to the lands of fate the same day King William was slain.
Erren and Muriele had been together so long when he met them that they had seemed sisters to Neil. Alis was something different. She had been one of William’s mistresses, for one thing. And now, suddenly, she was Muriele’s maid, bodyguard, best friend. Aside from Muriele, he was the only one in the party who knew the girl claimed coven training. But what coven? Who was her mestra? She wouldn’t say.
“Thank you, Aradal, for that detour,” Muriele said to the archgreft.
“It hardly took us out of our way,” the Hansan replied. He gestured north and east. “The old Nean Road is just over that hill, and that will bring us to the Vitellian Way in a few bells.”
“Thank you just the same.”
“William was a good man,” Aradal said. “An opponent, usually, but I liked him. I am sorry for his loss, Muriele.”
She smiled a thin smile Neil had come to understand was her alternative to screaming.
“Thank you,” she said. “And now, by all means, let us go. I would not have us miss the feast you describe that awaits us at the inn at Bitaenstath.”
“I would not have you miss your first taste of Hansan hospitality,” the duke replied.
Muriele’s smile tightened, and this time she did not reply.
And so they went on, the road taking them through fields of spelt and wheat that rose high enough to hide an army of murderers. Neil saw a malend high on a hill, its four great sails turning rather quickly in the breeze from the sea. It was the first he had seen since leaving Newland, where they were used to keep water out of the poelen. But what was this one doing? Why was it here?
As promised, within a few bells they met the Vitellian Way, the longest road in the world. It had been built by the Hegemony a thousand years before, and it stretched more than a hundred leagues from z’Irbina in Vitellio to Kaithbaurg in the north.
Neil had traveled the southern portion of the road and had found it well kept, stoutly embanked, and wide enough for two carriages to pass.
Here it was hardly more than a pair of deep wain ruts. The old Vitellian bed of the road seemed barely there.
The women stayed in saddle for a bell or so and then retired to the carriage that the Hansans had brought along with their twenty horses.
Why only twenty?
He became aware of another rider at his flank.
“Sir Neil,” the young man said. “I don’t know if you remember me.”
“I know the name of every man in this party, Sir Edhmon,” Neil assured him. “When I saw that you had joined the Craftsmen, I picked you for this duty.”
“But you hardly know me, Sir Neil.”
“You fought on my left flank at the battle of the waerd,” Neil replied. “I do not need long walks in the gardens with you to know what I need to know.”
The young man blushed. “It was my first battle,” he said. “You inspired me to something I never dreamed myself capable of.”
“Whatever you are, it was in you before you met me,” Neil replied.
“I don’t know about that,” Edhmon said, shaking his head.
“Well,” Neil said, searching for a reply.
They rode on in silence.
They reached the looming fortress of Northwatch while the sun was settling into a bed of high western clouds. The sky was still blue, but the slanting light was copper and brass, and the white walls of the castle, the verdance of the fields, and the still-blue sky made such a pretty picture that war seemed very far away.
And yet Northwatch, despite its sunset patina, had been built for nothing but war. Its walls were thick and from the top it would appear as a six-pointed star, so that the outside of each section of wall was defensible from the inside of another. It was a new design, and Neil reckoned the ramparts were no more than ten years old.
The keep was a different story. Its weathered and vine-etched stone formed four walls with a squat tower at each corner. Clearly a fancy new fortification had been thrown up around a very old castle.
Six riders met them, four of them in lord’s plate. As they approached, they doffed their helmets, and the oldest-looking one let his horse step forward.
The carriage door swung open, and Muriele stepped out. The riders dismounted and knelt.
“It’s good to see you, Marhgreft Geoffrysen,” Muriele said. “Please rise; let me embrace you.”
The marhgreft looked to be sixty-five at least. His iron-gray hair was cropped to his skull, and his eyes were that blue that always startled.
“Highness,” he said, rising. Muriele crossed to him and gave him a perfunctory embrace. Then the marhgreft bowed again, this time to Aradal, with a good deal less enthusiasm.
“My lord,” Aradal acknowledged.
“I rather expected to see you riding in from the other direction,” Geoffrysen said.
“Well, if one comes, one must go back,” Aradal replied.
“Not necessarily,” Geoffrysen said with a wicked little smile.
“But today,” Aradal replied, wagging a finger.
“Today,” the marhgreft agreed. “And I’d be pleased if you would take the hospitality of my house.”
“We’ve accommodations arranged in town,” Muriele told him. “But your offer is more than kind.”
Geoffrysen looked surprised. “In town? Not in Suthschild?”
“It will be too dark before we reach Suthschild and past the dinner hour,” Aradal said. “No, we shall be at the Wexrohzen.”
“On the Hansan side.”
“I suppose it is. But can you think of a better accommodation?”
“Mine,” the marhgreft said stubbornly.
“I am in good hands, Marhgreft,” Muriele assured the old man. “Aradal is my escort to Kaithbaurg. I leave these matters to him.”
“Better leave the watching of piglets to a wolf,” Geoffrysen blurted. “Stay here, Majesty, and tomorrow let me escort you safely home.”
Neil tensed and with a sidewise glance caught Sir Edhmon’s eye.
“Marhgreft,” Muriele said softly, “that is uncalled for. For one thing, I am not a piglet.”
“Majesty, they have gathered troops at Suthschild. They are marching even now in the north.”
“That will be enough, my lord,” Muriele said. “I hope to enjoy your hospitality on my return.”
Geoffrysen was red in the face. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “As you say, Highness.”
“It is,” Muriele gently agreed.
Neil could almost hear muscles relaxing. He nodded a salute at the marhgreft as they rode past.
After a moment’s thought, Neil rode up alongside Aradal.
“Sir Neil,” Aradal acknowledged.
“My lord. May I have a word with you?”
“Of course.”
“What did the marhgreft mean by ‘the Hansan side’?”
“Ah. Never been to Bitaenstath before?”
“No, my lord.”
“Well, there it is.”
They had been riding over an old earthwork, probably the remains of an earlier castle, but now Neil could see houses and shops. Most of them hugged the road closely, but some sprawled out from it. Beyond, perhaps a third of a league distant, he saw the towers of another castle.
“That’s Suthschild, our counterpart to Northwatch,” he said. “The border of our countries is out there. I think long ago there were two towns, one near each fortress, but over the years they’ve grown together. After all, a miller doesn’t care which side buys his flour, nor a whore whose soldiers she’s servicing.”
“But what happens during war?”
“It hasn’t come up in a hundred years,” Aradal pointed out. “But castles always have villages, and villages are always at risk when war comes.” He nodded. “This is Southmarket. When the marhgreft needs beer or broadcloth, it’s here he’ll likely get it. But if he throws a feast, he’ll want mead or svartbier, and to get that he’ll send to Northmarket.”
“There are no border guards?”
“Do you see a border?”
Neil didn’t. There was no wall, no standing stones, no pickets to mark where Crotheny became Hansa.
Most of Southmarket seemed to be shutting down for the evening, except for the inns and bierrohsen, from which issued cheerful singing and the savory scents of roasting beef. Some of the patrons had taken their cups into the street and stood in little circles, talking and laughing. Many looked like farmers, still in their sweat-soaked shirts. Others were cleaner and more neatly dressed and seemed likely to be tradesmen. The few women he saw appeared to be working, not drinking.
As they moved toward the center of town, the look of the people appeared richer. The taverns had tables and chairs outside and lanterns to keep the night away. The houses and shops were grander, too, some with glass windows. The road went from dirt to gravel to paved, and not much later they found themselves in a largish village square, which at one end had an imposing, high-timbered hall with great doors swung open and dance music playing within.
“Just in time,” Aradal said, pointing up.
Neil looked and saw the first stars appearing in the rose sky.
“That’s our destination?”
“The Wexrohzen. I promise you, you’ll find no better bread, butter, pork, or ale in the world than right there.” He slapped his rotund belly. “And I’ve looked.”
“Not even in Kaithbaurg?”
“Fancier. Not better. Too many dumplings.”
“This hardly seems the place for the queen,” Neil said, lowering his voice. “Too busy, too crowded.”
“William stayed several times,” Aradal said. “Muriele was with him at least once, and I don’t think she complained.”
Neil felt a hand settle on his shoulder.
“It’s perfectly fine,” Muriele told him.
“Majesty…”
“As I told Geoffrysen, we’re in the archgreft’s care now.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
And so they entered the Wexrohzen, and the music dropped away as every head in the hall turned toward them.
Aradal raised his voice. “Welcome, all, Her Majesty Queen Muriele.”
To Neil’s surprise, a great shout went up, and flagons were raised as the crowd answered with a welcome.
Aradal patted his shoulder and leaned close to his ear. “They don’t, after all, know who will win the war,” he said.
“I suppose they don’t,” Neil replied, but he already was frowning as some commotion seemed to be moving toward them, and space suddenly was cleared on the dance floor.
And in that space stepped a man with close-cropped red hair and a sharp beard. He wore a sable tunic displaying a lion, three roses, a sword and helm.
The hairs on Neil’s neck pricked up, because he knew the man.
The fellow lifted his chin and addressed Muriele.
“Your Majesty, I am Sir Alareik Wishilm af Gothfera, and your knight and I have unfinished business.”