The Born Queen (25 page)

“I just said that I have not,” Berimund gritted out.

The old king straightened a bit. “Very well,” he said. “Then you take her to Wothensaiw and strike off her head for me.”

Berimund went pale. “Father, no.”

“You are my son and my subject,” Marcomir said. “As neither can you refuse me.”

She actually heard him swallow. “Father, you’re angry now. Take some time—”

“Berimund, before the Ansus and all my men, do this or you are not my son.”

“It’s not right, and you know it.”

“I am king. What I say is right.”

Muriele felt the tightness in her chest and realized her breath had been caught there for a while. As she let it out, she seemed to be drifting away with it, watching it all from above.

Berimund’s head bent and then nodded.

When he looked up, his eyes were brimming. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Berimund—”

“Hush, Majesty.”

As they led her off, she saw Robert moving his lips, perhaps taunting her, perhaps trying to tell her something. Either way, the glee on his face was obvious.

Neil and Alis were escorted back to Berimund’s “rooms,” where they were free to wander in what amounted to a small mansion. He walked about restlessly, learning the floor plan, finding the ways in and out.

Worrying about Muriele.

Alis had managed to charm one of the retainers into giving her an extended tour of the castle. He would rather remain here, where he could greet the queen when she returned.

Of course, it might be days. He wished he could have gone.

He found a window facing east and watched the Donau flow toward the sea.

Night came, and he reluctantly took to his bed.

As the door burst open, Neil was already on his feet and reaching for Battlehound. He shook back the Queryen webs from his eyes, trying to remember where he was and who might be coming at him with blinding lanterns.

“Lay your arms down,” a voice commanded. “In the name of Marcomir, king of Hansa, give up that sword.”

Neil hesitated. There were a lot of them. He had slept in his gambeson, which would afford a little protection, but he couldn’t see how they were armored.

“I am Queen Muriele’s man,” he said. “I am here on embassy and claim the rights that come with that.”

“You’ve no such rights, not anymore,” the man behind the lanterns said. “Give up that weapon and come with us.”

“I will see my queen first.”

“She isn’t here,” the man replied.

Neil charged.

Something heavy came from behind the light and smacked him on the side of the head. He stumbled, and hands gripped his sword arm. He swung his left fist and connected with someone and was rewarded by a grunt. Then they were all over him, punching, pummeling, kicking. His hands were lashed behind his back, a blindfold was tied on his face, and they dragged him from the room and through the castle for what seemed like an infinity. Then they were out of doors for a while, then back inside, in a place where the air felt very heavy. He was finally pushed roughly to the ground and heard the slamming of a metal gate. The floor smelled like urine.

He lay there for a bit and then started working at the bonds. It didn’t take much. They had gone on quickly and sloppily, and he’d kept tense as possible while they had tied them. Once they were off, he removed the blindfold.

It didn’t help much. It was still utterly dark.

By feel he discovered that he was in a stone cell barely large enough to lie down in and not quite tall enough to stand in.

His heart picked up a bit. He’d grown up on the moors and mountains and open sea. Even spacious rooms with no windows made him feel trapped.

This—this would drive him mad right quickly.

He lay back down so that he couldn’t feel any of the walls and tried to imagine he was on the deck of a ship, with the clouds rolling overhead.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before he heard footsteps. He both fastened on them and tried not to hope. What hope was there? That Alis had followed, killed whatever guards there were, and was ready to spirit him to safety?

Then he heard a feminine voice, and the ridiculous hope suddenly found roots.

It wasn’t Alis, of course, but a large gray-haired woman dressed in a peculiar black robe. Four other women in similar habit and a large man who stank as much as the floor accompanied her.

“I am Walzamerka Gautisdautar, the king’s inquisitor,” she said. “You will not struggle. You will answer my questions. If you want any answers at all, if you want to live until tomorrow, you will hang on my every word, as if I were the mother who gave you life, for I am surely the one who can take it away.”

“I’m at your mercy,” Neil said. “Only tell me how my queen is.”

“Your queen has been kidnapped,” the woman said. “We are searching for her now.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Yes, by Prince Berimund, if you can believe it.”

“They were going hunting—”

“Indeed. Instead he abducted her. Do you have any idea why?”

“None. It makes no sense to me.”

“To me, either.” She paused. “You should know we’ve captured your little coven-trained spy, as well.”

Neil didn’t say anything to that.

“Very well,” Walzamerka said. “Come along and mind your manners.”

The inquisitor led him down past a line of cells like his, up some stairs, and into a long, narrow hallway. Then they went up two minor staircases and finally ascended a long winding one, so he reckoned he was in one of the towers.

They emerged at last into a room lit with gentle candlelight. He blinked, and for a moment he felt a strange movement of time, as if he had gone back months and was waking on a certain ship. The chamber was warm, wood-paneled, and close, the light dim and golden.

A woman stood there, clothed in a black gown. She wore an ivory mask that did not cover her mouth. Her hands were alabaster; her white hair was fine and came only as low as her throat.

And he knew her.

“Sir Neil,” the woman said in her familiar, throaty voice.

“Take a knee, Sir Neil,” the inquisitor said. “Take a knee before Her Highness, the Princess Brinna Marcomirsdautar Fram Reiksbaurg.”

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE
A
NGEL

R
OMMER
E
NSGRIFT
backed away from Mery, who watched him go without much expression.

“A word outside,” the thin, almost skeletal leic muttered to Leoff.

He followed obediently. Once on the stoop, Ensgrift mopped his forehead with a rag.

“I’ve heard stories,” he said, his voice quivering. “Maryspellen. But I never thought there could be any truth.”

Leoff couldn’t think of anything to say or do until the leic composed himself, which he did in a moment.

“She’s half-alive,” he said.

“Half-alive,” Leoff said, repeating the nonsensical phrase.

“Auy. Her heart beats, but very slowly. Her blood crawls through her veins. She should never be able to walk or talk like that, but she does, and I can only think that is because she is half-animated by something else, something other than breath.”

“Something else?”

“I don’t know. I set bones and give herbs for the gout; I don’t deal with things like this. A demon? A ghost? This is for a sacritor, not me.”

Leoff flinched. For years he hadn’t had much interest in the organized Church. Since being tortured by one of its praifecs, he hadn’t had any use for it at all. Even if he did, given the present climate in the holy institution, they more likely than not would burn her immediately. If he could even find a sacritor, which in Crotheny wasn’t an easy thing these days, given the queen’s ban on them.

“Isn’t there anything you can suggest?” he asked.

The old fellow shook his head. “There’s nothing natural about this. I can’t see that anything good can come from it.”

“Thank you, then, for your time,” Leoff said.

The leic left in a fuss of relief, and Leoff reentered the house. Mery still was sitting where he had left her.

“I’m sorry if I frighten you,” the girl said in a small voice.

“Do you know what happened to you, Mery?” he asked.

She nodded. “I was at the well. I thought I might see my mother again, but I didn’t. There was an angel there instead.”

“An angel.” It was an old word, one that people didn’t hear much outside of Virgenya. It was a sort of keeper of the dead, a servant of Saint Dun or Under.

“Mery, what did it look like?

“I didn’t see anything. I felt him all around me, though, and he talked to me. He told me I was on my way over anyway, that if I crossed to where the singing was, I could hear it better and even sing with them. He said I would be able to help you better, too.”

“Help me?”

“Write your music. To heal the law of death.”

“And then?”

“It hurt at first, when I first breathed in, but then it was all right. And then I went to sleep and woke up in my room.”

That she spoke so matter-of-factly about the whole thing was the most awful part, the thing that was hardest for him to accept.

Was she like Robert, then? But the queen said that Robert had no heartbeat, that when stabbed he didn’t bleed. How many varieties of the walking dead were there?

But the leic had said that Mery
wasn’t
dead. She just wasn’t fully alive, whatever that meant.

He was a composer. All he had wanted to do was write music, hear it played, live a decent life. His hiring by the court at Eslen had been a proud moment, the opportunity of a lifetime. But he had walked straight into a Black Mary of terror and death, and now this. Why had the saints put this on him?

But then Areana laid her hand on his, saying nothing, and he remembered that if he hadn’t come to Eslen, he wouldn’t have met her. And although he had written the most hideous thing of his life, he also had written the most sublime.

And he had befriended Mery and come to love her. Mending the law of death was an awfully big thing, too big for him to comprehend. The angel—whether it was real or Mery’s own genius coming out again—knew that. The saints had given him something smaller to do, something real to him. They had suggested a way to save Mery or at least to make a start at it.

“Mery,” he said. “Go find your thaurnharp. You and I are going to play.”

And for the first time in a long while, she smiled at him.

CHAPTER THREE

S
UITOR

A
NNE STOOD
on the battlements, gazing across the Great Canal down on the fires of the enemy camps. They went to the horizon, it seemed, a bloody mirror of the clear, starry sky above.

The wind had a lot of autumn in it. The unseasonably long summer had relinquished its hold on the world in a nineday, and now winter was looking for a home.

Winter that might freeze flooded poelen and let armies walk across them. Had the Hellrune foreseen an early hard freeze? Was that what the Hansans were waiting for?

She had been out of bed in a nineday; the wound was completely healed, and she was feeling fine. For another ten days she had been watching the army growing below her. Artwair had it numbered at fifty thousand, with more marching from the north every day.

Her own forces were swelling, too, as the landwaerden sent her the cream of their men and the knights from the Midenlands arrived.

A glance around showed her she was alone.

I shouldn’t feel bad about this,
she thought.
They’ll only kill my men, invade my kingdom. And I need the practice.

Still, it felt odd. It was one thing when someone had a lance pointed at you; it was another—

No,
she thought.
No, it isn’t. It’s the same.

So she reached through the night and spread her senses out, feeling the flow of the twin rivers and the terrible beauty of the moon, concentrating, breathing deeply, holding herself together as the poles of the world sought to pull her apart and past and future melted into a single unmoving moment.

Then she was done, her heart faltering in her chest. She was drenched in sweat despite the chill in the air.

“There,” she whispered. “Only forty-nine thousand of you now. Did you foresee
that,
Hellrune?”

Then she went down to her chambers and had Emily fetch her some wine.

Duke Artwair spread butter and soft cheese on a slab of brown bread and took a healthy bite of it. Anne dolloped clotted cream on a spongy slice of sweet mulklaif and nibbled at it. With the morning sun peeking in through the eastern window and a pleasant coolness in the air, Anne was enjoying breakfast for the first time in a long while.

“Your Majesty looks well,” Artwair commented. “You must have slept better last night.”

“I slept all night,” she said. “I can’t remember the last time that happened.”

“And the nightmares?”

“None.”

He nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Thank you for your concern,” she replied.

She tried one of the rather large blackberries on her plate and was surprised at the tart, sweet flavor. Had it been so long since she had had a blackberry?

“Something happened in the Hansan camp last night,” Artwair said.

She thought it rather abrupt. “I’m sure a great many somethings happened,” she said.

“A particular something happened to a great many people,” Artwair said. “About a thousand men died.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Your Majesty—” He stopped and looked uncomfortable.

Anne reached for another berry. “If you had a siege engine that could reach them across the Dew, would you use it? Would you be bombarding them even now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” she said, and popped the fruit in her mouth.

His frown was small but obvious. “Why not just kill them
all
in their sleep, then?”

“I can’t yet. It takes too much out of me. But I think I can kill another thousand tonight. I’ll try for more, in fact.”

“Majesty, the Hansans claim their cause is a holy one and say you are a shinecrafter and all manner of things. This sort of thing only gives that weight.”

“My power comes from the saints,” Anne said. “That is why the Church fears me, and that is why they spread these lies about me. Was Virgenya Dare a shinecrafter? She was not, and neither am I. My people know that. The Hansans choose not to believe it, but so what? They made this war long before they had me as an excuse, and you know that as well as anyone else.”

“I do, but it’s our allies I’m thinking of.”

“Allies? You mean Virgenya. Everyone else is pretty much off the fence by now, I think.”

He tilted his head in agreement.

“You’re a warrior, Artwair. Killing for you comes from a sword or spear. It seems natural to you. What I do does not, and that bothers you. But the dead, in the end, are still dead. Do you think I want to kill anyone? I hate the idea. But I don’t intend to lose this war. Hansa may have started off with the upper hand, but that’s not going to last. If a thousand or more of them die every day before the first arrow of this siege is even loosed, how long will they remain squatting on our property?”

“It may incite them to attack sooner.”

“Before they’re ready.”

“Madame, they are ready.”

“No. They have a flotilla coming down the Warlock. It’s about three days away. Forty barges, maybe ten thousand men, and a lot of supplies. They will disembark at Bloen and cut us off from Eslen. Or at least that is their plan.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I just saw it this morning.”

“I thought you said you didn’t dream last night.”

“I didn’t,” Anne said. “I don’t dream my visions anymore. I’m in better control of them.”

“So, then these new forces played no role in your decision to exterminate a thousand men.”

“No,” she said, unable to prevent a little grin, “but it might still have that effect.”

“Might?”

“They’ll try to cross the river tomorrow morning,” she said.

“You saw that, too?”

She nodded and pushed the bowl toward him. “Try these blackberries. They’re very good.”

Artwair looked more than anything, puzzled.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“You just seem…Are you really well? You don’t seem yourself.”

“Why do people keep saying that?” Anne asked. “You really want the old me back, the girl who was too selfish to look past her own nose? I’ve feared this power of mine for too long, only using it when I absolutely had to, out of fear or anger. But the saints
want
me to use it. Do you think it’s an accident that I didn’t have nightmares last night? It’s keeping it inside that’s made me ill. Now I feel fine. I’m still Anne, Cousin. I haven’t been gobbled up from the inside by some booygshin or ghost. I know; I worried about that myself. I even thought I might be a walking dead, like Uncle Robert, until last night. I’m not. I heal fast because the saints will it, but my heart beats and my blood flows. I get hungry and thirsty. I eliminate, sweat, cough. No, all that’s happened is that I’ve learned to accept what I am rather than be afraid of it. And that is good for Crotheny, I promise you.”

Artwair took another bite of his bread. “Thank you for your candor, Your Majesty. And now I suppose I had better see to that river crossing.”

He lifted himself from the chair, bowed, and left. When he was gone, she signaled for Nerenai and Emily to enter.

“Do either of
you
think there’s something wrong with me?”

Nerenai shook her head. “No. As you said, you’re starting to come to terms with your power. You rely less and less upon the arilac, yes?”

“I see less of her,” Anne said. “And when I do see her, she seems…faded.”

“Did you—” Emily began, but then stopped and put her hands in her lap. “What, Emily?”

The girl looked back up. “Did you
really
kill a thousand men?”

Anne nodded. “Does that bother you?”

“Bother me? It’s amazing. The saints really have touched you. It’s like you’re Genya Dare reborn, come to lead her heroes against the Scaosen, to tear the doors off their palaces and grind them into the dust.”

“I don’t quite have
her
power,” Anne said.

“No, but you will,” Nerenai said.

“My uncle Charles is so stupid,” Emily said. “He said you were just a silly girl. If he could see—”

“Wait,” Anne said. “Your
uncle
Charles? Do you mean Charles IV?”

Emily’s hand flew to her mouth, and she reddened.

“I see,” Anne said. “This is what I get for not learning those tedious royal lineages, I suppose.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Emily said.

“On the contrary,” Anne said, “you should have told me that long ago. And so I think now you should tell me anything else you might have failed to mention, or I might become very, very cross. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

Anne stood on the battlements of the south tower again the next morning, clad in a suit of black plate trimmed with gold. She left the helm off so that she could see better.

The view was wonderful. Directly below her was the Yaner Gravigh, the northernmost canal of Newland, hewing from east to west. A wall four kingsyards high stood on the southern birm and went off beyond sight in either direction.

Beyond were the vast downs of Andemuer, gently rolling hills tilled and terraced by a hundred generations of plowmen.

The host of Hansa was a bit of an eyesore, but at the moment, even that was beautiful to her because for almost a league the canal was clogged with their wrecked and burning boats.

They had come before dawn, dragging light watercraft from behind the hills. In a few places they had tried to float bridges, but those had fared no better. Artwair reckoned that more than three thousand Hansans had been slaughtered in the attempt, falling to siege engines and archers massed upon the birm wall.

The cost to Crotheny could be counted on a pair of hands.

“You sent for me, Majesty?”

Anne didn’t turn, but she nodded. “Good morning, Cape Chavel.”

“A glorious victory,” he ventured.

“I’m very pleased,” Anne said. “Of course, they’ll try again tomorrow, two leagues upstream.”

“Why not farther?” he asked. “I understand they need to reduce Poelscild, but why try to cross here, under our engines?”

“More than two leagues upstream the ground around the river gets low and swampy, or so they tell me,” Anne replied, “and beyond that they would have the Dew to reckon with. South, we’ve flooded the poelen nearest the canal, so they would cross it only to find a lake.”

“But the force coming on the Warlock—”

“You’ll meet them,” Anne said. “You, Kenwulf, and Cathond and his light horse. You’ll stop them, won’t you?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Cape Chavel?”

“Yes, Majesty?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re third in line for the Virgenyan throne?”

For a moment he just stood stupidly. Then he clasped his hands behind his back.

“Ah,” he said. “You’ve been checking up on me.”

“No,” Anne replied. “Emily let slip that your uncle is Charles. Once that was out, I made her tell me everything. She mentioned, for instance, that you actually came here to propose marriage.”

She leveled her gaze on him.

“Yes,” he replied, looking abashed. “Yes, that is the case.”

“I don’t like being deceived,” Anne said. “Explain yourself, please.”

The earl tilted his head apologetically. “My uncle sent that insulting delegation as a negotiation,” he said. “He reckoned you would be desperate, and his lack of respect would make you more so. My role was to offer a marriage in return for the troops you’ve requested.”

“So you’ve lied about several things. You didn’t come here to fight for me.”

“No,” he said, “but I decided to the moment you spoke. You were right, and my uncle was wrong. I was too ashamed of my original mission to mention it to you, and the only deception I’ve engaged in has been to prevent that shame from being exposed. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Your Majesty.”

Anne nodded, not quite sure what she should feel.

“If you had made the proposal—and if I had accepted—would your uncle have sent troops?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth.”

“Well, let’s find out,” Anne said. “Send word that you’ve made your proposal and I received it favorably. Court me, and I will discover what sort of man your uncle really is.”

“You’re going to answer one lie with another?” the earl asked.

“It’s the same lie,” Anne said. “I just want to expose the whole thing. Anyway, would it be so difficult for you to feign interest? I know I’m not the most beautiful of women, but I am the queen.”

Cape Chavel’s eyebrows went up “I have no need to feign interest, Majesty. I’ve never met a woman like you, and I’m sure I never will again. And it’s only because you
are
queen that I haven’t told you that. I’m dead in love with you, Queen Anne.”

As he spoke, an odd warmth suddenly spread down her limbs.

“You needn’t overdo it,” she said, suddenly not so sure of herself. “No one is listening.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” he said.

“Be careful, Cape Chavel,” Anne said. “I’ve been badly betrayed by someone who claimed to love me. I found out he was merely using me for political gain. I won’t feel like that again, ever. So be honest.”

He stepped closer, and suddenly he seemed to enclose her, blotting out everything else around her.

“I am honest,” he said. “I refused to court you for political reasons, remember? And I won’t pretend to court you now when you so plainly have no interest in me. So let us keep things as they are: You my queen and I one of your knights.”

Anne thought she had a reply, but she lost it somehow. She had believed she’d hit on a clever political ploy, but it was suddenly very much out of control. The earl sounded
hurt.
Was he really serious?

“May I go, Majesty?” Cape Chavel said stiffly.

“Yes, go,” she said.

She heard his footsteps start off. “Wait,” she said.

The footfalls stopped, and she felt a giddy sort of fear.

“I never said I didn’t care for you,” she said softly.

“Do you?”

She turned slowly. “Since we’ve met, I’ve been very…busy,” she said. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“I know,” he said.

“And as I’ve told you, I’ve been hurt before.” She paused. “Not just once. And there is—was—someone else. I admire you, Cape Chavel. I like you very much.”