The Born Queen (21 page)

“What?”

“The Fratrex Prismo is Marché Hespero.”

“The praifec of Crotheny? The one behind the murders in the woods?”

The older man nodded.

“All the more reason I have to tell her, then.”

Z’Acatto’s frown deepened. “Don’t be a fool.”

“Weren’t you the one who used to chide me for my lack of honor? For using dessrata as a thing to get money and women? For not being half the man my father was?”

Z’Acatto lifted one eyebrow. “Last time we talked about your father, you called him a fool.”

“And now you’re calling me one.”

Z’Acatto put his face in his palm. “Saints damn you, boy,” he said.

Cazio put his hand on his mentor’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he said.

“Oh, shut up. Let’s go steal some horses.”

CHAPTER NINE

T
HE
Q
UEEN
R
IDES

A
NNE REINED
Faster to a halt just before the edge of the tree line. Below her the land dropped away in gently rolling hills. Less than half a league away the land started to climb again, a bit more sharply. A little stream wound its way down the bottom of the dale, and near it was the track of North Ratheren Road.

“I see them,” Artwair murmured softly. “Majesty, I won’t doubt your visions again. We would have been caught between hammer and anvil.”

Anne followed the line of his finger, and now she saw them, too, a vast camp in the fold of the hills, easily noticed from here but probably invisible from the road.

“How could they know we were coming? And coming this way of all the ways we might have come?” Artwair wondered. “Even if some traitor flew to them with wings, they would have still had to march here from Copenwis or Suthschild. Look how settled in they are.”

“They have a Hellrune,” Anne replied. “A strong one.”

Artwair cocked his eyebrow. “I’ve heard those stories,” he said. “It’s Hansan rubbish, meant to frighten us.”

“You’ve come to believe I can see across leagues and time. Why doubt another could?”

“Your visions have proved true time after time,” he replied. “Your Majesty was blessed by the saints.”

“If one can be blessed, so can another,” Anne said. “I thought he was out there. I can’t see him, but sometimes I think I see his shadow.” She laughed. “So I did something I’ve always disliked: I found some books on the matter. It seems some in the Hansan royal line are born with the power, and they raise them from birth on a diet of strange, distilled essences and liquors to make them stronger.”

Artwair still seemed skeptical. “If Hansa really has such seers, why would they ever lose a war? Or make a mistake?”

“Even a Hellrune isn’t perfect, I guess, and some are stronger than others. And sometimes they are assassinated before the war begins.”

“But if they can see the future—”

“Not their own, apparently,” she replied.

“Then we should kill this one.”

“I’m working on it,” Anne told him.

“So he saw us on this road—”

“And I saw the trap they set,
because
of what he saw,” Anne replied. “And now we must set a trap of our own.”

“We need to know their numbers,” he said. “And the composition of their forces.”

“I’ll send my Sefry tonight,” she said. “The moon will be nearly dark. They can discover what we need to know.”

Anne thought she saw a brief look of distaste cross Artwair’s face, but he nodded.

Anne woke before dawn, shivering although summer hadn’t really begun surrendering to autumn yet. She lay there, trying to remember where she was, but the colors and shapes around her didn’t make any sense. She closed her eyes and was creeping out of a hole, stretching her eight legs to tick into the sand, smelling the sweet scent of something with blood nearby. She crouched, waiting, feeling the sick power of the earth inside her, feeling the forest stretch out away from her to the great shallow sea and beyond.

She opened her eyes again and sat up, trying not to vomit, pushing at the bedclothes with only four limbs, trying to regain herself.

Quiet yourself. Don’t panic.

She was there again, the arilac, a brand in the night, and fear crept away.

But she still didn’t know where she was, exactly.

“Mistress?

She knew that voice. Nerenai.

“Dreaming,” she murmured. “Stronger every night. Harder to remember…” She shivered again, wondering what she was talking about, because she’d lost it again.

“What is it?” Another voice asked. It was Emily, her other maid.

“Majesty has had another bad dream,” Nerenai said. “This is what I’m good at. Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll wait to see she’s okay,” Emily replied.

Something warm touched Anne’s lips, and then she tasted something slightly bitter. She liked it and drank more.

“This will help,” the Sefry said. “Was it prophecy?”

“No,” Anne replied. “Those are—sharper. No, this—this is different. Like memories so real, I think they’re mine. Sometimes not even human memories. I think, just now, I was a spider.” She stopped again. “It sounds crazy, but it’s getting harder to remember who I am when I wake up.”

Nerenai was silent for a moment. She gave Anne another sip of the tea. “Nothing vanishes,” she said. “When we die, the river takes it all, but what is in us does not go away.”

“I’ve seen that river,” Anne said. “I’ve seen it take a man.”

“Yes. It swallows us, and in time it pulls us apart and we forget everything. But the things we knew are still there, in the waters—but not in
us
anymore, because the thing in us that holds it all together is gone.”

She was moving her fingers as if sketching.

“There is another river,” she continued, “or perhaps another part of the same one, and there, those with the power to do so can drink and bring those memories and knowledge back into the world, held in new vessels.”

“It’s more than memories,” Anne said. “There is something more there.” She took a longer sip of the tea and realized she did feel better. “It will drive me mad. What use to have the memories of a spider?”

“It sounds dreadful,” Emily said.

“Was it an ordinary spider?” Nerenai asked.

“That’s a weird question,” Emily opined.

Anne considered that. “No,” she said after a moment. “Nerenai is right. I think the spider was like me. I felt power in it, the way I feel when I use Cer’s gifts.”

“Maybe you are the spider, remembering Anne,” the Sefry said.

“Don’t joke,” Anne said, feeling sick again, knowing the Sefry wasn’t joking.

“Yes, Majesty,” she replied.

They sat there for a while in the dark, but Anne didn’t feel like going back to sleep. Not much later, word came that the night patrol had come back, so she rose and dressed and went to the war tent.

She found Artwair, the earl of Chavel, and Captain Leafton of her Craftsmen mulling over and marking on a map. They all bowed when she entered.

“Yes, yes,” Anne said. “What’s the report, Duke Artwair?”

“Heol and his boys make them at about ten thousand,” he said. “Half on either side of the road.”

“That’s only about two thousand more than we have,” Anne noticed.

“Auy. But given surprise and their situation—they expect us between them, in the valley, remember—they could have murdered us with fewer men. A few volleys from the archers and a few charges with heavy cavalry to break our center before the men could be decently ready to fight. They could have done it with six thousand.”

“And so what do we do?”

“There are just over three thousand foot on this side of the valley and about five hundred horse. If we try to move our whole army up, they’ll detect us and have time to bring the other half over and face us with greater numbers.”

“So we send the horse now,” Anne said. “We have what, three thousand?”

“About that. We’ve the earl’s five hundred and fifty, a thousand heavy lancers with Lord Kenwulf, another thousand of mine, your fifty Craftsmen, two hundred light horse, and your hundred Sefry mounted light infantry. If we take them unawares, we can decimate those on this side. By the time the rest come over, our foot will have arrived and we can fight this battle on our terms.”

“It means leaving the foot marching unprotected by cavalry,” Leafton pointed out.

“Who do they need to be protected from?”

The Craftsman shrugged.

“Raiht,” Artwair said. “Better we should leave a small mounted force here. Perhaps that would suit you, Earl.”

“Whatever pleases Her Majesty pleases me,” the earl said, “but I would prefer to ride with the attack. I think that my archers might have been practically invented for this situation.”

“He has a point,” Leafton said. “We’ve archers in the light cavalry, but they and the Sefry generally dismount to fire. We could use archers experienced at actually shooting from horseback.”

Artwair nodded and sent a probing look at Anne.

“Yes, come along with us, Cape Chavel,” she said. “It ought to be fun.”

Preparations went quickly, and before midday they were riding. Anne was surrounded by her twelve Mamres-gifted Craftsmen and her Sefry guard in their broad-brimmed hats and scarves. Ahead of her was the vanguard, Kenwulf’s heavy horse, fifty knights, each with twenty handpicked riders. The light horse and Sefry rode on the right wing, and the earl’s men on her left.

Two bells later they were trotting down the hills. Anne had a brief view of the camp, and her scalp started to tingle. Had they been noticed yet? The ground must be starting to tremble from so many hooves.

They breasted a wide ridge, and there was nothing but a few hundred kingsyards between them and the enemy.

The Hansans were boiling like ants whose hill had just been kicked, trying to make formations, but as of yet she didn’t see a single pike hedge, although a rickety-looking shield wall was forming.

“Give the order to charge,” she told Leafton.

He nodded, lifted his cornet, and sounded it. The heavy horse in front of her formed a line five deep and two hundred wide, massed together so closely that an apple thrown among them wouldn’t find its way to the ground. They began the advance slowly but soon began to gather speed.

The air was already thick with the arrows of her men, and she felt a savage joy as they swept down from the ridge, her guard forming a wall around her.

Joy mingled with the now familiar sick rage of Cer as she reached out toward the Hansans, feeling the wet insides of them. As if with her hands, she softly squeezed.

And as the heavy horse shocked into them, she heard the vast sob of their despair. Some who had lifted their pikes dropped them.

The vanguard tore through the half-formed Hansan lines, and the light horse spread to encircle them. But to her chagrin, the knights around her were drawing to a halt.

“What’s this?” she said.

“We’re to keep you safe, Majesty,” Leafton said. “The duke’s orders. No need for you to be down in there where a stray arrow or lance might find you.”

“Artwair is
my
general,” she replied. “His orders weigh less than mine. Resume the charge, or by the saints, I’ll go down without you.”

“Majesty—”

“Your only possible response, Captain Leafton, is ‘Yes, Majesty.’”

“Yes, Majesty,” he sighed. Then, in a louder voice: “Resume charge.”

They struck what remained of the right flank, but there was little resistance to speak of. In moments the army of Hansa broke and ran, with her knights cutting them down from behind. Anne saw that some of their cavalry had managed to form up and were trying to help cover their fleeing comrades, without much success.

And so she found herself in the center of the camp, the dead and dying spread around her. She felt something swelling inside her, a terrible glee, and realized the woman was there, alive in the power that Anne was funneling through her.

You see? You see what real strength is? And this is only the beginning.

“Good,” Anne said, exhilarated.

“Something’s wrong,” Leafton said.

“How so?”

“This doesn’t look like five thousand men, not even half of that.”

Wait…
The arilac sounded suddenly uncertain, something Anne never had sensed from her before.

“What is it?”

The Hellrune! The Hellrune saw this, too! He’s a step ahead of you! Anne, flee!

Anne turned to Leafton, but he already had an arrow in his eye, and shafts were falling about them like rain from the north. She knew a sharp rush of pain as one cut along her arm, and then there were shields all around her.

“Someone sound the retreat,” she screamed. “We’ve been tricked. We’ve got to get back to the infantry.”

A moment later the cornet shrilled. Her own guard was already in motion, charging back up the way they had come, but there were horsemen there, charging right down at them. It looked like double their number.

CHAPTER TEN

K
AITHBAURG

S
INISTER BLACK WALLS
beneath dark skies surrounded by leagues of desert rubble: That was what Neil expected of Kaithbaurg. That certainly was how it was in the stories his old neiny Eley had told him when he was a little bern. Kaithbaurg, the city of black towers where evil dwelt.

But the road took them through pleasant fields, woodlands, and bustling little market towns. In the nineday it took to reach the heart of Hansa, they camped only once, resting instead in comfortable inns or castles. His Hanzish sharpened until he almost didn’t have to concentrate at all to speak or understand it, even though the country dialects were much softer and less clipped than the coastal vernacular he had learned.

Still, until the road crested a ridge and he actually saw Kaithbaurg, the image of brutal black walls with merlons like shark’s teeth was still in his mind.

Well, there were walls and towers, but that was about as close as his old neiny had come to the truth.

He realized they had drawn to a stop.

“You can see it best from here,” Berimund said. “It’s my favorite view.”

“I can see why,” the queen mother said. “One can really see most of it, it seems.”

It was true. Whereas Eslen was built on a rather dramatic hill, the loftiest point of Kaithbaurg wasn’t terribly higher than the lowest, which was the Donau River. The watercourse cut the city into two roughly semicircular parts: a smaller one on their side of the river and a much larger one on the northern side. Three great spans connected them.

Both parts of the city were surrounded by double walls of grayish-white stone. The outer wall was low and towerless. Just inside of it was a broad canal and then an embanked inner wall that looked about six or seven kingsyards high. The inner walls were guarded by a number of elegant, efficient-looking drum towers.

Towers bristled everywhere, in fact: delicate clock belfries with steepled roofs of black slate or green copper, massive cylindrical bastions wherever the walls met the river, sky-reaching gatehouse spires on the bridges.

More surprising was that although houses of all sorts were packed within the walls, Neil also could make out a good bit of green, as if there were fields in there.

The northern side of the city sloped gently up to another wall of darker-looking stone that encircled the hilltop, and the roof of some sort of keep or palace built of white stone could be partly seen.

“That’s the castle?” Neil asked, pointing to the last feature.

Berimund smiled. “A warrior’s question, eh? That’s the palace, yes. Everything inside of those older walls is Hauhhaim; that was the first city, here before everything else. Come down toward the river, and that’s Nithirhaim. The part nearest us, with all the green, is Gildgards. The west side of town—you can’t see it well from here—that’s Niujaim. On our side of the river, that’s Suthstath.”

“You like your city,” Alis commented.

Berimund nodded. “It’s the most wonderful city in the world. I’m eager to show it to Her Majesty.”

“Let’s hope your father allows that, then,” Muriele responded.

“You’ll see a bit on the way to the palace,” Berimund said.

Neil thought he was sidestepping the queen’s implied question, which wasn’t a good sign.

They entered through the Suthstath gate and found themselves in a busy market square with a fountain pool in the center and a statue, which by his winged shoes and staff Neil took to be Saint Turm. Across the square stood a massive temple with double clock towers.

The people all stopped what they were doing and bowed as Berimund passed. They continued on as the square narrowed back to a street, and moments later they were crossing one of the bridges, the center one, in fact. The river was active with boats of all sorts but mostly barges and medium craft with triangular sails. Neil wondered what defenses he didn’t see in the waters below: chains, probably, or catches that could be raised to hold an enemy to be bombarded from the bridge.

There was nothing like Thornrath or the fastness here, but Neil had to admit that the town was well made. He could only hope the Hansan army hadn’t been built by the same architects.

Muriele’s chest felt tight as they crossed the Donau. She was well and truly here now. Berimund had been willing to let her return home. Why hadn’t she? Once it had been made clear to her that Marcomir had lost any sense of tradition and honor, why had she continued? True, Berimund had promised her protection, but did that really mean anything?

Marcomir must know that keeping her hostage wouldn’t deter Anne. Robert had had her hostage, and Anne had attacked Eslen anyway. Everyone knew that story by now.

She was proud of Anne in a way that she had never imagined. Who could have ever foreseen her returning with such strength and character? Who could have imagined her as queen? But the changes in Anne that had made all that possible also made her very little like the daughter Muriele knew. Anne was distant, surrounded by her Sefry and the Vitellian swordsman, by warriors who loved her. She had become strange, inward, always listening to voices no one else could hear. There was even, at times, something a little frightening about her.

“What is it?” Alis asked.

Muriele looked up, realizing that instead of taking in the fresh sights of Kaithbaurg, she had been staring at her reins.

“I was just thinking what a relief it was, at first, to have the crown off my head,” she said.

“You mean when Anne took it?”

“No, actually when Robert took it. True, I was a prisoner, but that relieved me of any chance of making bad choices. Nothing was my fault anymore.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“I’m just wondering if I’ve done it again.”

“You think you came here to be imprisoned?

Muriele looked up, but Berimund was ahead, explaining his city to Neil, and the other riders were giving the two women plenty of space.

“Anne
sent
me here, Alis.”

Alis frowned. “The embassy was your idea.”

“So I thought. But when I went to her about it, she already seemed to know. She tried to hide it, but she knew. One of her visions, I suppose. And she was very particular that I bring you and Neil along.”

“I would have been with you anyway.”

“But not Sir Neil. He should still be recovering.”

“Interesting,” Alis said. “I wonder what she expects us to do.”

“We shouldn’t talk about this,” Muriele said, remembering that there were monks who could hear a cricket chirp a hundred miles away. Maybe that was why they had been given the space to talk, so that they would. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Probably,” Alis said. “I think you’re worried over nothing. It will be much more dangerous to talk in the castle.”

“I know. How much do you know about the castle?”

“I know it’s called Kunijosrohsn.”

“I mean, was it constructed like Eslen? In the particulars of the walls, I mean?”

Alis shook her head slightly, showing that she understood the reference to Eslen’s secret passages. “I don’t know. Most of it is much younger than Eslen. I don’t think the same, ah, architects were involved. But I can’t be certain.”

“Well, let’s hope we know why we’re here when the time comes.”

“You came here to try to make peace,” Alis said. “Remember?”

“And I will try, earnestly. But I no longer have much hope.”

“The war is only just starting. Things will change when one side or the other begins to have an advantage. Then you will be Crotheny’s voice here.”

“That’s true. Of course, the last war with Hansa went on for ten years.”

“Well, let’s hope the food here is good, then.”

The Kunijosrohsn was something of a surprise, and even Muriele, who did not have the eye of a military man, could see that it hadn’t been built for serious defense. It was rather like a large manse, rectangular in shape, four stories high, and hollowed out by an immense inner courtyard. There were a few towers, but they looked more decorative than useful.

Men took their horses, and Berimund escorted them into the interior, down a series of halls, and up three flights of stairs so that Muriele was certain they were bound for one of the towers. Instead, they were shown into a large suite of rooms with large windows, elegantly appointed.

“Majesty, if this suits you, these will be your rooms.”

Muriele peered out the window. She had a beautiful view of the east side of the city, the winding Donau, and the plain beyond.

“It suits me very well,” she said. “Thank you, Prince.”

“I’ll send some servants for you to choose from. I hope after you’ve had some time to freshen up, you’ll join me at my table tonight.”

“I accept your invitation,” she said. “I wonder if your father will be there.”

“I’m going to talk to him now,” Berimund replied.

“I would like to speak to him at his earliest convenience.”

“Of course, Majesty. I will so inform him.”

But when they arrived in Berimund’s dining hall a few bells later, Marcomir wasn’t there.

Muriele stood politely as she was introduced to a dozen Hansan lords and their ladies standing at the long oaken table. None of them seemed to be above the rank of greft, and they all seemed about the same age as Berimund.

The hall itself was roomy and candle-lit, hung with tapestries of hunting scenes. Two white staghounds prowled hopefully around the table, and beyond all of that she could see the open door of the kitchen and several servants bustling about. Woodsmoke hung in the air, along with delicious odors, familiar and strange.

Mead was brought, which Muriele thought too sweet, followed by some pears and unfamiliar berries that were excellent.

Berimund rose and said something in Hanzish, and all the lords came to their feet. Berimund lifted his goblet and tilted it toward Muriele. Muriele remained seated. She hadn’t retained a lot from her childhood tutoring, but the various etiquettes of the civilized nations had remained with her.

“To Queen Muriele of Crotheny, a matchless beauty. The saints keep you hale and happy.
Whairnei!
”

“Whairnei!”
they all repeated, and, after drinking, took their seats.

“You are all far too kind,” Muriele said, relieved that the toast was short. She wondered how many more she would have to endure.

Fifteen during the first course, as it turned out.

Meat came out next: roasted venison with what she thought was a cherry sauce, suckling pig with leek puree, fried hare in some sort of plum sauce, lamb-and-cheese pie, and a second pie of apples, quinces, and beef.

“Prince Berimund,” Muriele asked as she finished cleaning a venison rib and tossed it to one of the hounds, “I wonder if you gave your father my message.”

“I did, Majesty.”

“And?”

Berimund reddened slightly. “He apologizes that he didn’t find it convenient to come tonight.”

“But tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow.”

“Is the war keeping him so busy?”

“No, Majesty. He, ah—he’s going hunting.”

Muriele felt her blood—and the mead mixing in it—rise hot up her neck to her ears. “I see,” she said.

“We will find some entertainment for you, I promise.”

“I’m sure. What news is there of the war?”

Berimund stopped with a knife full of food halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“The war. You said it’s started. What news have you?”

“I really don’t think I can make Your Majesty privy—”

“Who would I tell?” Muriele asked. “Is someone here going to carry a letter to my daughter for me? I shouldn’t think so. Come, Prince. Tell me of the Hanzish victories.”

“Ah, well.” He looked around at his retainers. “You’re right, I suppose. Well, there’s not much really. A fleet from Liery tried to blockade Copenwis, but we met them in open sea with better numbers.”

“And?” Muriele asked, trying to stay stone-faced.

“They didn’t engage,” he replied. “It would have been stupid of them to. Of course, that was five days ago. There’s no telling what happened since.”

“That was lucky,” Alis said, “to find the Lierish fleet in the open sea.”

Berimund smiled and said something in Hanzish. Muriele followed enough of it to know that he was repeating Alis’ remark.

The reaction was a sort of group smirk.

“Lukka?”
One of the nobles said.
“Nei, sa haliurunna.”

“No, no, enough of that,” Berimund said. “Enough about the war.”

That was interesting. What was a haliurunna? Berimund seemed to have thought it had been a mistake to bring it up.

She would bring it up again when they were all a bit drunker, she thought.

Fish was next: a huge pike stuffed with trout sausage, salmon with grapes and leeks in pastry shaped like a halibut, cold roasted eel in a green sauce, bream in violet sauce.

And the toasts went on, and the mead flowed. Muriele sipped her drink.

By the time the fowl course arrived, the singing had started. A largish fellow who had been introduced as a landrauhtin began it. Berimund tried to wave him down, but the prince was pretty drunk by then, and with a sheepish, apologetic grin at Muriele, he joined in. She didn’t know the song, but Sir Neil stiffened.

“What is it?” she asked. “Do you know this song?”

He nodded. “It’s a naval song about a great victory at sea. They’re celebrating.”

She shrugged. “That’s hardly a surprise.”

“But in front of you? And even without that, this isn’t proper behavior in the presence of a queen.”

She covered his hand with her own. “Most of William’s dinners ended up like this, especially when he had his best men around. I think it’s no different in Liery.”

“I never dined with a queen in Liery,” Neil admitted. “Still, I don’t like it.”

“Keep calm.” Everyone in the room but Neil, Alis, and Muriele was singing loudly now, including the women.

She leaned close. “What’s a haliurunna, Sir Neil?”

“It’s a sort of shinecrafter, one who can see the future. They say Hansa breeds them.”