The Ale Boy's Feast (17 page)

But this plan too had failed. Cyndere and Partayn, with the help of Abascar meddlers, had uncovered the conspiracy even as the knives were sharpened. The Seers had fled into their Keep, sealing it with sorcery, while soldiers sought Ryllion and Cesylle, whose lies and treachery were condemned.

The song Cesylle heard from the Heir’s Tower was a love song—a sail-maker’s lament. The sail-maker sounded distraught, for if he stitched a perfect sail, the ship would carry his true love far away to work for months on an island. But if he did
not sew a binding line, storms would overcome his lover’s ship. She might perish in the Mystery Sea.

The woman’s voice answered. She sang of how every stitch in her lover’s sails reminded her of his love. She declared her faith that these sails would carry her ship safely to the island and back. And then she sang that every wave breaking against the prow reminded her of her lover’s sighs.

How long has it been
, he wondered,
since I heard Emeriene’s voice?

Then horns and lutes! Stringed instruments strummed in steady percussion, simulating the incoming tide—a new, compelling sound.

What house has a king who sings in his tower when he should be attending to matters of state? Clods! When Partayn becomes king, he’ll make a queen of some swooning admirer. A head full of barnacles, the fool
.

Cesylle arrived at the doorstep of a suite, and he paused. The door was unguarded, which surprised him. What is more, it seemed unfamiliar. He glanced up the stairway.
Can I have forgotten? Has it been that long since my departure for Mawrnash?

He and Emeriene had painted their door together, according to tradition, the morning after their wedding. Emeriene had chosen bright yellow. This door was a fierce shade of red.

A message, is it?

He wiped his sweating neck with his sleeve. Boot scuffs marred a dusting of sharpenweed scraps, where guards had pipe-smoked long hours while they waited for him to appear and justify their vigilance. Had Emeriene dismissed them?

They must assume that Ryllion and I are off at sea. Or hiding in the Cragavar. Or dead
.

He slipped the flexible wire from his sleeve and shoved it around the door’s edge. Its hooked tip caught the latch bar. He pulled the wire up, heard the bar release. He’d done this before, planting mawrn crystals in chambers throughout the house for the Seers’ surveillance.

Clods, I’m a fool. They’ll be waiting for me inside
.

As if it suddenly recognized him, the door opened. Curtained chamber doors wavered in surprise. After a moment he stepped inside and closed the door quietly. The song in the Heir’s Tower continued while Cesylle took silent steps through
the curtains and into the sitting chamber. The couches were clean, pillows neatly arranged, blankets folded. If Emeriene had replaced him, there was no hint of it. The mawrn crystals and the colorful liquor bottles in which he had concealed them were gone, of course—part of Queen Thesera’s mandatory housecleaning to rid Bel Amica of the Seers’ spy-stones.

Clever girl, Emeriene. You knew they were watching. I’m glad. I don’t want to be watched anymore
.

Even so, Cesylle could not relax. He had lived with the Seers too long. They had planned to fill the Expanse with mawrn, that they might watch the world. He had managed the mawrn mine’s schedules and money, keeping careful records of how much mawrn was taken from the crater, believing he would earn privileges and power. Now he knew the value of a Seer’s promise. He’d seen them disregard and abandon Ryllion, their most passionate servant, in an instant.

From the roll of maps, Cesylle withdrew the parchment on which he had scribbled what would probably be his last words to Emeriene and their sons:
Get out of Bel Amica. The Seers will release a new curse. Worse than beastmen and Deathweed. Sail away swiftly. I’m sorry
.

He folded it and placed it on the table, then shoved the maps behind the couches. Sitting down, he breathed deeply to quell the shaking.

The smooth stone floor was busy with chalk drawings. He recognized his sons’ frenzied imaginations. But he saw no sketches of himself nor of the Seers he’d taught them to admire. Instead, he saw images of Cyndere with a flaming arrow set to her bow.

They hate me. And why not? I placed them in the care of liars and destroyers
. He kicked a slippered toe at the image of a beastman, drawn in such familiar detail that it could only have come from Cyndere’s hand. Who else would draw a Cent Regus monster as if it bore some dignity?
Maybe she can save my boys
.

And there—his sons had drawn their mother. Emeriene, her leg wrapped in a cast, held a bright red arrowcaster. She looked heroic.

He admired the likeness a long time. The large eyes beneath thin eyebrows. The tiny red mouth. Her stature, small as a girl, but seductive and strong. Her feisty
smile. He had provoked Emeriene just to distract her from her tasks and to become the subject of her beautiful gaze.

It has been so long since I looked at her—really looked at her
.

Ryllion had looked at Emeriene too. But Cesylle had fixed a card game and won the chance to woo her first. With the help of Seers’ potions, he had dissolved Emeriene’s resistance and replaced it with a passion that seemed to come from something outside herself. Tears had run down her face when they kissed, born of bewilderment rather than the joy he would have preferred. In less than two years’ time, she’d given him two boys. But any love she’d had for him was gone.

“I meant to earn enough to make things better tomorrow,” he said. “I lost sight of today.”

In the remaining mirror—a tall glass oval in an ornate wooden frame—he saw a figure haggard and worn. How ugly he would seem to her now. His eyes were yellow as yolks in black eggs. His bruises made a bandit’s mask, the marks of managing Mawrnash through a thousand nights, kept awake by the Seers’ fierce elixirs.

In a feeble rehearsal he whispered, “Forgive me.”

“You’re joking.”

She appeared in the mirror, standing just behind him, arrowcaster raised—an illustration come to life.

He laughed softly and leaned forward to grasp the mirror’s wooden frame. “I thought you might be waiting.”

The arrow went straight through his right wrist, pinning him to the frame. As he cried out, his knees buckled, and he hung from the spike, seething and shouting and trying to stand.

“Where’s Ryllion?” roared Emeriene.

Blood burned down Cesylle’s arm. “Clods! I’ve come to save you!”

“We’re already saved! Where’s Ryllion?” She advanced, notching another arrow to the caster’s string. He felt the arrow’s tip against his temple, and he closed his eyes.

“Ryllion’s dead. We ran. He got ahead of me. I found him. He’d been tortured. Malefyk Xa had him out by the lake.”

“The Seer?”

“Malefyk beat Ryllion. To death’s edge. He would’ve killed the clodder. But I said I’d do it.”

“You killed Ryllion?” One of her neat, thin eyebrows twitched.

“Threw his body off a cliff. So I could live. Live to make amends.”

She laughed in disbelief. She had good reason. He was a weakling, and Ryllion was strong as a fangbear.

But it was almost true. The bloody scene had filled Cesylle with rage against the Seer and compassion for the Bel Amican champion. So, stepping between the two, he had asked to kill Ryllion. Malefyk Xa, perversely delighted, gave him a knife of mawrn crystal. But Cesylle had only pretended to run the blade through Ryllion’s heart. Ryllion, perceiving the ruse, had suffered the shallow stab, flailed fiercely, and gone limp.

To the cold song of the Seer’s laughter, Cesylle had dragged Ryllion away—no cargo had ever seemed so heavy—and vowed to cast the soldier to the rocks of Deep Lake’s shore far below. “You must catch yourself,” he’d whispered to Ryllion just before he shoved the heavy soldier over the precipice.

Had their deception succeeded? He had no proof. He’d seen Ryllion’s body unmoving and bent at an unnatural angle while Malefyk Xa had hurried to look down upon it.

But that story would not help him now.

Emeriene’s eyes narrowed. “If I ever see Ryllion again, I’m going to kill you both.” She spoke each word neatly, as if clipping her nails. “Even our sons use your likenesses for target practice now. And they’re not yet five years old.” Then a sneer twisted her face. “Oh, did no one tell you? I’ve given them back their proper names—Cesyr and Channy. No one will again call them by the names that the Seers gave them. They have better teachers now.”

So you’re not going to kill me now
. Cesylle felt darkness encroaching, and he wanted to pull it over himself like a blanket to escape the surging pain. “I would’ve run forever,” he wheezed. “But I came to save you from the trap.”

“You haven’t heard?” She laughed sharply. “Thesera’s banished the Seers. Tabor Jan and Cyndere spoiled their trap.”

“Not that trap.”

“Then what?”

“Malefyk Xa said that soon … they’ll
turn them loose.
”

She drew back an inch. “Turn what loose? More beastmen?”

“No. Something else. Em, you have to let me go.”

“Why?”

“They’ll let me into the Keep. I can learn their secret plan.”

“Why did you climb up here then?”

“To warn you,” he gasped. “Go with the queen. Sail away with the boys. Get out.”

Emeriene’s lip quivered. “I can’t trust you. Ryllion served the Seers, and he murdered Deuneroi. Who knows what you’ll do?”

“I’m a fool,” Cesylle wept. “A clodhead. I bet a bad gamble.”

“No gamble as bad as your wager against Ryllion,” she spat. “Your wager for me.”

Cesylle recoiled as if she’d shot him again. “He … told you?”

“Know what’s worse? I had no trouble believing him. I was just another prize. Then you sold our sons to the Seers for your advantage.”

“Let me go.”

“So you can take refuge in that Keep? And escape judgment? You’ll be tried before Partayn and Cyndere. Nothing you can say will bring me back to you, Cesylle. Whatever bond we made, you broke it. I’ll find a future for Cesyr and Channy. A life where they will forget”—she gestured to the window—“this place.”

He slumped against the mirror frame. She was just a blurring silhouette. “Where will you go?”

“To find someone with a heart.” Emeriene was staring out the window as if the wisping clouds carried new hope. “To see if that heart will still have me.” Her steady grip on the caster gave way to a tremble.

“This heart,” he sighed, “is failing. Before it stops, let me try to ruin the Seers.”

Troubled waters slapped at the base of Bel Amica’s rock, splashing one of the stone stages that had served as a loading dock until the harbor’s evacuation.

“How long do we stay?” muttered a guard to Captain Henryk. He dipped an arrow in a pitch pot, ready to ignite it in the fire barrel between them if Deathweed surfaced. “Bel Amica’s cut off. We can’t survive here. We should go to the islands.”

“This is home,” said Henryk. “And if we can’t stop Deathweed here, it’ll follow us seaward.”

The hood of his wall-patcher’s cloak hiding his face, Cesylle listened to the officers as he waited at the foot of the stair that descended from the marketplace to this grim platform. As he gripped his bandaged wrist and fought to remain conscious, he watched the inlet’s wavering surface.

Fire archers held a constant vigil around the rock, but the Bel Amicans’ way of life was destroyed. The maze of wooden walkways and docks was gone. Seabulls, grawlafurrs, tidehounds—so many remarkable sea creatures had vanished, either snatched by the scourge or escaping to safer waters. His suspicions that the Seers controlled the Deathweed were growing into certainty.

“I hear that you can get everything on the islands,” said the officer. “They’re covered in fruit-bearing trees. Clouds of game birds darken the sky. We can live as we please. Might not even need any laws.”

“I don’t trust any society where people live as they please,” muttered Henryk. “When people strive for such indulgence, they’re speaking in greed—not out of concern for the crumb-pickers. Our new rulers are different. They know what we need.”

“Some say Bel Amica’s new rulers aren’t fit for the task. Partayn’s not training armies. He’s helping beastmen and Abascar stragglers.”

“Some say? Or you say?” Henryk rigged the cord of his arrowcaster. “If you want a fight, I’ll give you one.”

Their casters whipped up as a rootlike tentacle burst from the water. Unseeing, it lurched toward the harbor caves. A heartbeat later, it recoiled in spasms, scorched where the arrows had struck.

I should get myself on a boat and disappear
, Cesylle thought.

Fingers of fierce cold burned his shoulder. Disguised in a sailor’s raincloak, face wrapped in a scarf inside the cloak’s hood, Malefyk Xa sat down beside him.

“I’ve no patience for delays,” the Seer hissed. “I’m expected in the Keep. Did you recover the mawrn from the tower?”

“It was gone.” That much, at least, was true. Cesylle pondered the lies that lay ahead. Malefyk Xa had a reputation as the most powerful and difficult of the six Seers. The others called him “the Rider,” for he traveled the Expanse, making secret bargains. But here, deprived of the mawrn dust, he seemed weaker, anxious. The Keep would be full of mawrn.

“I serve my moon-spirit,” said Cesylle, and this time that old refrain was bitter in his mouth. “And she won’t let me forget—you promised me a winged steed. I told Emeriene we would fly. And I haven’t failed you.”

Malefyk’s unblinking eyes searched him for dishonesty. “We’ve caged thirteen such creatures. One more remains. Our mawrn will spy it eventually. When we have them all, you might yet see the world from the clouds.”

Cesylle clenched his teeth. “You failed to take Bel Amica’s throne.” His audacity was a gamble. He hoped to convince the Seer that he still clung to vain ambitions. Perhaps they would keep him alive like an old but dutiful dog.

Malefyk actually patted his head. “Come. See what I’ve captured in the wild. You’ve earned that much.”

With discs of mawrn glass pressed to his eyes, Cesylle could see in the Keep’s cold dark. And so he could discern the cold outlines of the Seers’ laboratories. He felt as if his bones had turned to ice.