Cobweb Bride (17 page)

“What is it? Speak clearly.” The Emperor was exhausted and therefore blunt.

“In short, we cannot agree to the trade expansion treaty as written,” Marquis Alfre said.

“Ah
 . . .” the Emperor sighed. “So, what did the Sovereign demand of your King now?”

“With deepest apologies, I was not informed of the details.” Marquis Alfre bowed again, lowering his gaze.

“Or you’re not at liberty to disclose, I know, I know. . . .”

“One thing I can reliably offer your Imperial Majesty at this point,” Viscount Deupris added, “is that because of the situation pertaining to the so-called cessation of death, many things are changed, and plans are
 . . . reconsidered.”

The Marquis threw the younger man a subtle look, as though he’d somehow said too much.

He then said, “Begging apologies once more for disturbing Your Imperial Majesty, but we must beg your leave to depart in haste. Is there anything—any words that Your Imperial Majesty would like to convey to our King?”

It hurt to think. The Emperor knew the beginnings of a headache encroaching, but he also knew he had to convey an effective parting tone.

“Tell your liege that Balmue remains our welcome neighbor. There is no reason the Realm and the Domain border access must be modified in the foreseeable future. I look forward to the continuation of our talks . . . despite these difficult times.”

The diplomats bowed once more, their expressions taking on a blank polite facade, underneath which was a hint of relief. And then they gracefully backed out of the chamber.

When the doors were shut behind them, the Emperor eased, resting the back of his bewigged head against the carved wood of the throne.

“Rovait, Plaimes, come forth.
 . . .”

The Imperial advisors moved the drapery aside and entered the chamber. Andre Eldon, the Duke of Plaimes was an elegant dandified lord at first glance, a man in his prime dressed at the height of fashion. However, few knew that he was an accomplished spy in the service of the Crown.

At his side, the bearded Claude Rovait, Duke of Rovait, was a more sedate elder figure, with more of a sharp military bearing. He too was deeply embroiled in the workings of the spy network that extended into the criminal underworld.

“So, what are your impressions?” the Emperor asked.

The Duke of Plaimes cleared his throat. “A lot of usual vacuous politeness, but the underlying tone is urgency. Obviously they were in haste to depart. Our contacts tell us that as of last night the Sovereign is suddenly in the process of repositioning her military forces all around the Domain. My suspicion is, within her structural framework Balmue is suddenly a pivotal point, since they share a border with us.”

“It has to be the direct result of death’s cessation,” said the Duke Rovait. “There is no other overt catalyst, we are told. Spain and France are a very remote possibility from beyond the Domain’s southern and western borders respectively, but there have been no particular exchanges between them recently to warrant such a movement of troops. Besides we share more western borders with France, our kinder neighbor, than does the Domain, and I do not think Louis XIV,
le Roi Soleil
, is interested in anything but decorating his beloved Palace at Versailles.”

“So, it is death, then
 . . .” the Emperor mused.

“Incidentally,” Rovait said, “I suspect the Balmue received their summons not from an express messenger but from someone local, working for their side. A plant. I think we are getting close to narrowing the short list of spy candidates that could be Domain plants, here in the Silver Court.”

“Excellent, continue working on that.”

“Majesty,” the Duke of Plaimes said, taking a step forward, then starting to pace. “I regret to bring this up, but
 . . . Fiomarre. What should he be told of—”

“What?” The Emperor interrupted harshly. And then he sat forward in the throne. “Oh God, not that name—I cannot bear to hear it, not now, not
 . . . yet. It is intolerable that we must discuss this now. . . .”

Saying this the Emperor rubbed his forehead with his hand, where the headache was now drilling deep into the bowl of his skull.

“Unfortunately I must send a message to him tonight. Micul Fiomarre will expect the regular carrier bird promptly,” said Andre Eldon of Plaimes.

“He does not know,” Duke Rovait added gently. “None of it. He and his eldest son, both of them. Ebrai has not been in contact with me for a fortnight, in fact.”

“Oh God!” The Emperor exclaimed, then groaned and put his head down in his hands. “Oh God, oh Lord of Heaven . . . Have mercy on your servant. Have mercy, mercy. . . . Fiomarre.”

And then Josephuste Liguon II, Emperor of the Realm, stood up on shaky feet, slowly came down the three stairs of the dais and paused before his two closest advisors.

“I cannot . . .” he began. “I don’t know how to deal with Fiomarre now—with any of them. Indeed, I cannot abide the sound of that name. It rings with madness inside my head!”

“A truly singular tragedy, indeed,” whispered the Duke of Plaimes, looking at his liege with sympathetic eyes.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Rovait said, “I know how difficult it is for you, how intolerable, but Micul Fiomarre is our best man there, and my recommendation—for now, at least—is that he not be told at all. He is planted in such a sensitive position at the Sapphire Court that any jarring news of whatever nature might throw him off and blow his cover. As far as Ebrai, I will take care of letting him know, the next time he contacts me, and I will request that he holds off communicating any of it to his father.”

“I will not be able to look him in the face,” the Emperor said, beginning to pace slowly in a broken aimless circle. “Never again. Nor would I be able to bear seeing his face in turn. His son killed my daughter. Fiomarre the middle son, a madman, killed my beloved child!”

The two lords watched him carefully.

“Is there any precedent for this kind of thing in all of history of the Realm?” the Emperor whispered. “Is there a precedent on how to treat a decorated hero father when his son commits the act of a traitor?”

Silence.

“The tragedy is in the not knowing—on all sides,” Duke Rovait said.

“They are so deep undercover that the family could not be told without compromising them,” the Duke of Plaimes said. “Perverse circumstances, confound it! No one could account for the middle son reacting in such an extreme to the false story of his father’s so-called death, and then Ebrai’s fabricated death also. Who could have expected him to go so far overboard? Didn’t the lady mother receive a partially encrypted letter from Fiomarre the elder, explaining his situation? Confound it, indeed.”

“I cannot look at him when he comes home
 . . .” the Emperor continued to whisper. “Fiomarre. . . . How do I deal with him? How, oh God?”

“Who is to say what might happen, Majesty, by the time they do come home?” Duke Rovait spoke soothingly, watching the Emperor. “For the moment, all we can do is pray. And—avoid giving them any provocations and compromising them in the Domain.”

“Then . . . pray,” the Emperor whispered. “Pray with me, my lords. For strength, for justice. And . . . oblivion.”

Chapt
er 7

I
t was dawn, and pale twilight in the family chapel of the Chidair Keep. A solitary knight outfitted in full battle armor knelt before the altar, his dark brown-haired head bared, helmet under one arm, his gaze directed to the icons of the Child and the Mother of God and the Saints, bathed in soft candle-glow. They watched him back with mystery in their ancient faces, a choir of dark vulnerable eyes rendered in pigment, all trained on him.

“What must I do? Tell me
 . . .” he whispered to the images.

The answer came from the doorway of the chapel. “Beltain, my son, you must do what you always do—what is true to your gut and your spirit,” said the old priest, approaching the kneeling figure.

The son of Duke Ian Chidair turned his head slowly, revealing a drawn exhausted face, the effect of a probably sleepless night. And then he rose, armor creaking, made a sign of obeisance before the altar, and approached the priest.

“Good morning, Father Orweil. I am
 . . . about to be on my way.”

“I know,” the priest replied. “You are on
his
orders. And those unholy orders directly counter the Royal Decree.”

Beltain sighed. “You know about that too?”

“Everyone knows, my son. We are praying on your behalf and on behalf of the poor girls who are sacrificing their lives—their everything—as even now they make their way here and then onward to the Northern Forest in search of Death’s Keep. The same girls whom you go to hunt.”

Father Orweil was a stooped old man, small and frail, his frame a desiccated bundle of twigs wrapped in monastic burlap, his eyes filmed over in the wrinkled face. Beltain Chidair towered over him. And when the priest reached out to take the knight’s large gauntlet-clad hands, it was like an oddly shrunken child holding the palms and fingers of a giant.

“I’ve made my decision, Father. Would you have me be forsworn?” Beltain said softly. In the soft twilight of the chapel his dark eyes had lost their slate-blue coloration and appeared nearly black, glittering with moisture.

“You have sworn to your father, the Lord and Duke of Chidair,” the priest said, still holding the younger man’s large hands in his frail own. “This one—he is not the same one to whom you pledged your loyalty, and you know it. Listen to your instincts, your heart!”

“I no longer know anything,” Beltain retorted, his expression hardening. “I—I have made a promise to him, and he is
different
, yes, but he is still my father. I will not be forsworn! And now, I must hasten to do my Lord’s bidding—the bidding of Duke Hoarfrost, who is still Lord Chidair, Lord of this Keep and of these lands, until Heaven takes him!”

And with those words, Beltain extricated himself from Father Orweil’s grasp and turned away, walking briskly out of the chapel. His metal boots and spurs rang loudly on the floor and the echoes arose against stone.

“But . . .” the old priest whispered in his wake. “But Heaven
has
already taken him.”

He was not heeded.

T
he forest was winter white. Silence, except for the occasional soft fluttering of tree branches as the weight of settling snow overcame them until they sprang back in rebellion, freeing themselves from the icy burden.

The young woman bundled in poor woolens made her way through the snowdrifts. She had lost the road and the smaller north-western path nearly an hour ago, and her small bag of belongings weighed heavily in her arms.

She was lost. North was somewhere ahead, and the forest not particularly thick. All she need do was keep going, she had been told. For the sake of your family, keep going. For the sake of those you love. Just don’t think and keep going; don’t think about freezing, about food, or a warm fire, or even a moment’s rest. Somewhere out there, he waited, Death, in his cold dark Keep.

Somewhere.
 . . .

It was getting colder and the morning had advanced well into the afternoon. Wading through the pristine blanket of snow, nearly up to her knees, she listened to the overwhelming winter silence, and occasionally in the distance she thought there came the howling of wolves.

A lump of alarm formed in her throat.

A sudden bird fluttered noisy wings and burst upwards. The woman gave a scream, gulping lungfuls of freezing air, then laughed out-loud at her own skittishness. She was a bit simple, but not too dense to recognize a harmless robin taking flight.

Then, there was another sound. She could not identify it immediately, and cried out “Hello? Who’s there?”

Her voice left a brief echo.

And then they descended upon her. A tall black warhorse burst from the shrubbery up ahead, bearing a knight, and from all sides came dark menacing figures clad in dull armor, carrying pikes, lances, and occasional swords. Blue surcoats fluttered against metal plate, and although the woman was not learned in such things, she thought she had seen this sky-color somewhere and it had a significance.

But it was all afterthought, because foremost she felt terror.

“Halt!” the knight cried—even though there was no need and she had frozen already of her own volition, bending her shawl-wrapped head downward and simultaneously raising one hand up, as though to avoid a blow.

He was wearing a full suit of war mail, and his helmet visor was lowered so that she could see no face and thus could not judge his intent.

There was only the voice. And it was harsh, virile. Not particularly angry or threatening, but a man’s strong voice was plenty enough for her to cower.

“Please
 . . .” she managed to mumble. “Please don’t hurt me, M’Lord, I’m just passin’ on through, that’s all.”

“What have we got here, eh?” said one of the men on foot closest to her, and neared her, grabbing her firmly by the arm until she went limp with terror. “Who are you, girl? Well, speak up, so the Lord can hear.”

“I’m . . . I’m Annie.”

“What are you doing here, Annie?” another man said, not ungently, coming from behind her. Neither one of them were leering nor acting like the drunken louts she was used to avoiding in her town, but the woman did not see, because she was staring in agony of terror at the ground, at the beaten-down white snow, no longer pristine.
 . . .

“I.
 . . .” She could not answer, for her breath was caught in her throat, and her lungs suddenly refused to expand and take in the next breath.

“Are you on your way to be a Cobweb Bride?” The same male voice sounded suddenly from above, and she knew it was the dark mounted knight speaking.

“Yes, sir . . . M’Lord . . .” she managed. “I suppose I’m that, if Death think ’e might want me, that is.”

“In that case, Annie, you’ll have to come with me.”

And before she could whimper in protest, the two men closest to her took hold of her, and then she was pulled along and eventually lifted with ease to lie across the saddle. She was held tightly.

Then there was movement underneath, and crashing sounds of tree branches all around, so that echoes seemed to fill the forest. Annie began to struggle against the solid rock, the metal-clad body behind her, feeling herself like a sack of potatoes, but it was too late.

“Please, no!” she cried, “I gotta be going, please let me go, I ain’t done nuthin’ wrong, please—”

But the grip of powerful hands around her only tightened, and the forest rushed by.

B
y mid-morning, the Emperor’s splitting headache had turned into a raging beast of a migraine. Less than an hour after the Balmue envoys had left the Silver Court, Josephuste Liguon II received another urgent request for an Audience—this one from his daughter.

He attended her immediately of course, in her own quarters. Squinting from the agony in his head coupled with sleeplessness, he entered with slow paces so as not to collapse, then sat down heavily in a chair. Two servants offered a footstool to prop up his feet, and pillows for his back, while Doctor Belquar brought a foul-tasting but effective elixir to imbibe, and a hot and palate-cleansing cup of tea to follow.

The Infanta had been seated upright as a post in her usual chair near the window. As soon as she saw her father, however, she stood up and approached, then paused, dissolving into her customary stillness several feet away, waiting for the fussing servants to be done.

The Emperor rubbed his forehead while the room seemed to spin around him. He watched his daughter’s once-pristine court dress stained with old blood and her mechanical movements with the same cold horror that had been eating at him all this time, and had only temporarily shifted to the background of his other sensations.

At last he waved for the servants to be gone and the room emptied. The bitter elixir he’d drank still burned the back of his throat and so he sipped the scalding tea once to wash away the taste, then put down his cup that clattered with porcelain fragility against the saucer in his trembling hands.

“Thank you
 . . . Father,” Claere Liguon said. “For . . . coming here to see me.”

“My dear child,” he replied in a rusty voice, breaking into a cough. “What is it, what did you want to see me about? Are
 . . . you—that is, are you feeling—I mean, there is no . . .
discomfort?
”

She stood in silhouette against the pale winter light of the window. For a moment, she said nothing. And then, “My Father, I must leave you and Mother now. I must go and offer myself to Death who waits in the Northern Forest.”

“But,” the Emperor said, knowing that his words were in so many ways ridiculous. “But . . . really, you cannot mean it? I didn’t think you meant it, my dearest, what you said about going, that is. Must you go . . . so soon?”

“If I am Death’s destined Bride, then there is no time to lose. The world waits.”

The headache receded and sobering cold rushed to the forefront again in his mind—cold, fearful, wrenching anguish.

“You would really do this?” he whispered, leaning forward, lifting his silk stocking-clad feet off the footstool so that they could be better anchored on the floor—anything to ground him.

“Yes. . . .”

“But—how?”

And the dead one approached him, and then reached out with one winter-cold hand and laid it on his cheek.

The Emperor felt an icy shock.

“Father,” she said, leaning over him, while the faceted jewels in the Crown that still rested on top of her grand wig caught the faint light from the window and suddenly sparkled above her like a halo. “I require nothing but a fast carriage. And . . . I want Fiomarre—the man who struck me—to be in that carriage as I travel to my final place. He is bound to me somehow—it is his own making—and I have no way to explain, except that I know he must be with me now.”

“What?” the Emperor exclaimed, falling backwards once more against the pillows. “Oh, no, no
 . . . God, no,” he muttered, closing his eyes and wrinkling his brow, while rubbing the bridge of his nose as though to eradicate all pain, all thought.

“Please
 . . . my Father. You
must
allow me this!” Her wooden voice rose in volume and strength as she made the visible effort to inhale air deeper into her lungs. “If you will deny me this, I will walk out of this chamber and this Palace and make my way on foot. . . .”

“But oh, not Fiomarre! He is a traitor and the son of a
 . . . traitor—”

The Infanta was watching him sharply. “Tell me more of him, Father,” she suddenly said. “This betrayal, all of it. What have the Fiomarre done that you hound and persecute their family thus? For I have heard a tale of impossible, unspeakable woe from his lips. And his tale explains to me what motives led him to hurt me so—what horrible, mad hatred in response to an equally horrible, mad tragedy. For, this Fiomarre is a madman and yet, I believe he was driven to it. He has
 . . . just cause to be.”

“How can you say this, child, now after what he’s done to you?” the Emperor said, so as not to answer her question directly. To admit to the whole Fiomarre situation—even now, after all that had happened—was unthinkable. No, he could not divulge any of it, could not compromise the precarious advantage he had with his planted spies in the Sapphire Court. Not even to give a certain peace of mind to his poor daughter.
 . . .

And so instead he said in his most casual statesman-diplomat tone, with only a slight pause in a certain place: “The Fiomarre, Claere, are a despicable lot. As
 . . . was the father, so are his two sons—three I should say. Though the youngest is still a boy, I hear, these days. . . . In any case, do not concern yourself with the details of their betrayal—they are ugly and not for your sweet, innocent ears, my dear girl. Certain matters of the world are not fit for young ladies of Royalty who will one day rule—”

“I am
dead
, father!” she interrupted, her voice also rising but in a manner of labored breathing, barely creating a semblance of living emotion. “For Heaven’s sake, ‘sweet and innocent’ is never again to be said of me! Once, maybe—I was innocent, yes . . . frail and sickly in life, withdrawn and repressed, each living breath taken as though such an act required permission, and all the while waiting for the moment of my death without even knowing it. . . . And now I am
strong!
Dead and strong and
unreal
—an impossibility! And do you honestly think I will, one day, rule anything? Unless—maybe I will rule at Death’s side as his Cobweb Bride.”