The Charnel Prince (22 page)

“Yet the bodies—”

“Long buried, and—you’ll forgive me—mostly unrecognizable, in any case.”

“I know that she lives,” Neil said. “I feel it in my heart. Can you at least tell me the direction the largest group of searchers went in?”

Sir Chenzo shook his head. “I am sorry, Sir Etein, I have my own vows and duties. But please, accompany us to the place where we are guested. Take ease for the night. Perhaps you will remember something there that will be of use to us.”

“I’m afraid I must decline,” Neil replied. “I must renew my search immediately, especially now.”

“Please,” Sir Chenzo said. “I insist.”

The look in his eye made it clear to Neil that he was not merely being polite.

They rode from fields of yellowing grass and purple thistle into vast vineyards and finally up to a rambling white-walled estate roofed in red tile. By the time they reached the mansion, the sun had set, and only a faint glow remained in the west.

Servants in plum doublets and yellow hose took their horses, and they passed through a gate and into a large inner courtyard. A few servants in the same livery were sweeping it as they entered, and a page led them through another door and into a hall lit brightly by candles and hearth. A few people were gathered around a long table. The most notable of these was a woman of middle years and large girth, who rose from the head of the table as they entered.

“
Portate az me ech’ospi, casnar Chenzo
?
” she said in a pleasant, jovial voice.

“
Oex
,” he answered, and then he proceeded to make some explanation in Vitellian.

The woman nodded, made various hand gestures, and then looked pointedly at Neil.

“
Pan tio nomes, me dello
?
” she asked.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Neil said, “I do not understand you.”

The woman shot a mock-angry look at Sir Chenzo. “You’ve allowed me to be rude to a guest,” she told him in the king’s tongue. “You should have told me right away that he doesn’t understand our tongue.”

She turned back to Neil. “I only asked your name, my dello,” she said.

“Lady, my name is Etein MeqMerlem, and I am at your service.”

“I am the countess Orchaevia, and this is my house you’ve been brought to.” She smiled again. “My. So
many
guests.”

“I regret the lack of notice,” Sir Chenzo rushed to say, “but we met them just now, near the ruins of the coven. My order will of course reimburse—”

“Nonsense,” the woman said. “Do not become vulgar, Sir Chenzo. The countess Orchaevia does not need to be plied with Church silver to persuade her to host travelers.” Her gaze settled on Neil. “Especially such a handsome young dello as this.” Then she smiled at Sir Quinte. “Or one with the reputation of Sir Quinte.”

Sir Quinte bowed. “Countess Orchaevia, the pleasure is mine. I had a mind to pay you a call, being in the region, even before these gentlemen escorted us here.”

Neil bowed, too. He was reminded of the Duchess Elyoner of Loiyes, though physically there was no resemblance. The duchess was dainty, almost a child in size. Yet the countess Orchaevia had something of her flirting manner.

She set as lavish a table, as well. Fruit came out first, and a dark sweet wine, followed by an earthy yellow soup Neil did not recognize, roasted hare, tender flanks of kid stuffed with parsley, roasted pork with sour green sauce, and pasties filled with wild mushrooms. Next came partridge and capon served with dumplings of ground meat shaped and gilded so as to resemble eggs, then a pie of unlaid eggs and cheese and quail glazed with red honey and garlic.

By the time the fish course arrived, Neil was nearly too full to eat any more, but he persevered, not wishing to insult his host.

“Sir Etein is in search of his true love, Countess,” Sir Quinte said as he plucked out the eyeball of a trout and popped it into his mouth.

“How delicious,” the countess said. “I am an authority on true love. Do you have someone specific in mind, Sir Etein, or is the girl still unknown to you?”

“She—” Neil began, but Sir Quinte interrupted him.

“We believe she was in the coven,” Sir Quinte explained.

“Oh,” the countess said, her face falling. “So many girls, so young. What a horrible thing. And just after the Fiussanal, too. They had just been here, you know.”

“Here?” Neil asked.

“Oh, indeed. The sisters of the coven are—were—my neighbors. I held a feast for the girls each Fiussanal. It was that very night—”

“The night of the purple moon?” Neil blurted before he could think better. Again he saw poor Elseny, her throat cut ear to ear. He felt Fastia in his arms, her heartbeat no stronger than a bird’s. He saw again the greffyn and the Briar King.

He realized that everyone at the table was watching him.

“Yes,” the countess said, “the night of the purple moon.” Her eyebrows descended, and she shook her head. “I hope you are mistaken, Sir Etein. I hope your love was not one of the girls in the coven.”

“Is it possible—if they were here—that they did not all return?”

“I do not think so,” Orchaevia said softly. “The sisters were quite
strict about such things, and the attack came hours after the party had ended.”

“Bless the saints that their attackers did not come here,” Sir Quinte said, quaffing from a cup of dry red wine.

“Yes,” Orchaevia said. “Thank the saints, indeed. What was your lady’s name, Sir Etein? If she was here, I might have met her.”

“Muerven de Selrete,” he replied.

“Of course they did not go by their given names in the coven,” Orchaevia said. “Can you describe her?”

Neil closed his eyes, still remembering Fastia. “Her arms are whiter than thistledown,” he said. “Her hair as black as a raven’s wing. Her eyes were darker yet, like orbs cut from the night sky.” His voice shook as he said it.

“That does not help me much,” the countess said. “You describe your love better than her appearance.”

“I must find her,” Neil said earnestly.

Sir Chenzo shook his head. “We’ve had a few reports of two girls who were seen fleeing with two men. One had hair like copper, the other like gold. Neither sounds like your lady, Sir Etein.”

As he said this, he glanced rather casually at Neil, but something in that glance was searching, watching for him to react.

“I must hope,” he said softly.

But inwardly, he felt a sudden fire. Sir Chenzo had just described Princess Anne and her maid, Austra.

He tried to look disappointed, and thought he succeeded.

After the meal, one of the countess’ servants led him to what he reckoned would be a bedchamber, but he was wrong. The room he was shown to was decorated all in tile, with frescoes of leaping dolphins, eels, and octopi. Set into the floor was a huge tub, already full of steaming water.

The servant stood by, expectantly, as Neil stared at it, knowing how good it would feel.

Knowing also how vulnerable he would be. The room had only one entrance. “I am not in need of a bath,” he said finally.

Clearly puzzled, the servant nodded and led him to a bedchamber. It was as lavish as the rest of the house, but it had a window, and the door could be barred.

The drop from the window was not a long one. He was considering this when a faint sound caused him to whirl about.

The countess was standing there in his chambers. He could not see how she had entered.

“First you refuse the hospitality of a warm bath, and now it looks as if you will refuse my bed, as well,” she said.

“Countess—”

“Hush. Your suspicions are well advised. Sir Chenzo plans to take you into his custody this very night.”

He set his mouth grimly. “Then I must leave at once.”

“Rest a moment. Sir Chenzo is of no danger to you at this instant. This is
my
house.”

When she said it, all frivolity dropped from her, and for a moment Neil felt a tingle of fear—not of something substantial, but of her very presence. It was as if he stood alone in the dark of the moon.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“I am the countess Orchaevia,” she said.

“You are something else.”

A wan smile flitted across her face. “Not all of the sisters of Cer died in the razing of the coven. One lives yet.”

He nodded in understanding. “Do you know what happened?” he asked.

“Knights came by dark, mostly Hanzish. They sought a girl, just as you do. The same girl, yes?”

“I believe so,” Neil replied.

“Yes. She is important. More important than you could possibly
know.”

“I know only that my duty is to find her and keep her safe. It is all I need to know.”

“I can see that. I watched you lie, and saw how it hurt you. You are not skilled at falsehood.”

“I have not practiced it,” he said.

“She lives, she and her maid. I believe two friends of mine, swordsmen who know the country, yet accompany them. My servants tell me they went north, probably to the port of z’Espino. I advise you to seek them there. I also advise you to leave tonight, and alone.”

“Sir Chenzo. Is he a villain?”

“Not as such, though he may serve them. He was not involved in the murders at the coven. But mark this well, Sir Neil—someone in the Church
was
. Someone of importance. The knights that were here were saint-marked, and some were of a very special sort, a sort that the world has not seen in ages.”

“What sort is that?”

“In one of my wine cellars there is a man whose head has been smitten off. He is still alive. He is not conscious, he cannot speak or see or feel, but his body continues to twitch.” She shrugged. “I think Sir Chenzo knows nothing of this, but his superiors might. He was told to watch for someone like you. Your lies, as I said, are quite unconvincing.”

“And Sir Quinte?”

“I don’t know if he has any part in this, but it would be foolish to chance it.”

“He has been a help to me. I do not know the language here. I was lost when he found me.”

“Perhaps you were. Perhaps he merely convinced you that you were. I have a servant I will send with you. He is utterly trustworthy, and will act as your guide and interpreter. He will provision you, as well.”

Then she smiled. “Go. You may leave by the front door. You will be neither seen nor hindered.”

“What of you?”

“Do not fear for me. I can settle any trouble that may arise from your leaving.”

Neil regarded her for a moment longer, then nodded.

As the countess had promised, he encountered no one in the halls or manse other than her own servants, who only bowed or nodded politely, always in silence.

Outside, in the courtyard, Hurricane was waiting, along with a smallish black mare and a brown gelding strapped with provisions. Near them stood a boy in brown breeches and white chemise with long black waistcoat and a broad-brimmed hat.

“If you please, sir,” the boy said. His language was slightly accented king’s tongue. His tone seemed ironic.

“Thank you—”

“You may call me Vaseto.” He nodded at the horses. “All is ready. Shall we leave?”

“I suppose so.”

“Good.” He swung onto his mount. “If you will follow me.”

The land was pale gold where the moon kissed it, but where she did not, the shadows were strange. Some were spread like dark rust, others like bronze blackened in flame or the green of rotted copper. It was as if a giant had wrought the world of metal and then left it too long to the weather. Even the stars looked like steel, and Vaseto—when his face came into view from beneath his brim—was red gold etched in deep relief.

Neil had never known such a night. He wished he could appreciate it, but the many-colored shadows seemed to bristle with deadly quills, and nocturnal sounds parted around them, leaving space to hear something else—something following them. “Do you hear that?” he asked Vaseto.

“It is nothing,” the boy replied. “It’s not your friends the knights, that’s for sure. They would each be as noisy as you.” He smiled thinly. “But you have good ears.”

A few hours later they stopped at an abandoned house hidden by a copse of willows and took turns sleeping. Neil glumly stood guard, watching the shadows shift as the moon went down, now and then seeing one move in a way it shouldn’t.

Dogs bayed in the distance, as if mourning the moonset. A little after daybreak, they resumed their journey northward, Neil with weary eyes, his companion seeming cheerful and rested. Vaseto was a small, dark lad with large brown eyes and hair cropped in a bowl just above his ears. He rode as if born to the saddle, and his mount—though small—was spirited.

Midday they crossed a small river and passed a town on a hilltop. Three large towers stood up from the jumble of roofs, and fields spread to the road and beyond. Houses and inns became more frequent, until the road was nearly bounded by them; then they thinned again. Woodlands crept around the trail, sometimes forming dark, fragrant tunnels of cedar and bay.