The Charnel Prince (24 page)

They decamped at the first light of dawn and continued on. The tracks were fresher now—their quarry wasn’t mounted, while they were. Despite his speed, they were catching up.

Midday, Aspar noticed something through the trees ahead and waved the others to a halt. He glanced at Stephen.

“I don’t hear anything unusual,” Stephen said. “But the smell—it reeks of death.”

“Keep ready,” Aspar said.

“Holy saints,” Stephen breathed as they got near enough to see.

A small stone building sat on a rounded tumulus of earth. Around the base of the mound lay a perimeter of human corpses, reduced mostly to bone. Stephen was right, though—the stink was still there. To his saint-blessed senses it had to be overwhelming, Aspar supposed.

Stephen confirmed that by doubling over and retching. Aspar waited until he was done, then moved closer.

“It’s like before,” Aspar said. “Like the sacrifices your renegade monks were making. This is a sedos, yah?”

“It’s a sedos,” Stephen confirmed. “But this isn’t like before. They’re doing it correctly, this time.”

“What do you mean?” Winna asked.

Stephen sagged against a tree, looking pale and weak. “Do you understand about the sedoi?” he asked her.

“You mentioned something about them to the queen’s interrogators, but at the time I wasn’t paying much attention. Aspar was hurt,
and since then—”

“Yes, we haven’t discussed it much since then.” He sighed. “You know how priests receive the blessing of the saints?”

“A little. They visit fanes and pray.”

“Yes. But not just any fanes.” He waved at the mound. “That’s a sedos. It’s a place where a saint once stood and left some bit of his presence. Visiting one sedos doesn’t confer a blessing, though, or at least not usually. You have to find a trail of them, a series of places visited by the same saint, or by aspects of that saint. The fanes—like that building there—have no power themselves. The power comes from the sedos—the fane is just a reminder, a place to help us focus our attention in the saint’s presence.”

“I walked the faneway of Saint Decmanis, and he gifted me with the heightened senses I have now. I can remember things a month after as clearly as if they just happened. Decmanis is a saint of knowledge; monks who walk other faneways receive other blessings. The faneway of Mamres, for instance, conveys martial gifts on those who travel it. Great strength, alacrity, an instinct for killing, those sorts of things.”

“Like Desmond Spendlove.”

“Yes. He followed the faneway of Mamres.”

“So this is part of a faneway?” Winna asked. “But the bodies . . .”

“It’s new,” Stephen said. “Look at the stone. There’s no moss or lichen, no weather stains. This might have been built yesterday. The renegade monks and Sefry who were following the greffyn were using the creature to find old sedoi in the forest. I think it had the power to scent them out, and made a circuit of those which still had some latent power. Then Desmond and his bunch performed sacrifices, I think to try to find out what saint the sedoi belonged to. I don’t think they were doing it right, though—they lacked certain information. Whoever did this did it correctly.”

He passed his palm over his eyes. “And it’s my fault. When I was at d’Ef, I translated ancient, forbidden scrifts concerning these things. I gave them the information they needed to do what you see here.” He shook, looking paler than ever. “They’re building a faneway, you see?”

“Who?” Aspar said. “Spendlove and his renegades are dead.”

“Not all of them, it would seem,” Stephen said. “This was built after we killed Spendlove.”

“But what saint left his mark here?” Winna whispered.

Stephen retched again, rubbed his forehead, and stood straight. “It’s my place to find that out,” he said. “All of you, wait here—please.”

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Stephen nearly vomited again when he reached the circle of corpses. Not from the smell this time, but from the horror of details. Bits of clothing, the ribbon in the hair of one of the smaller ones, juxtaposed with her lopsided, not-quite-fleshless grin. A stained green cloak with a brass brooch worked in the shape of a swan. Little signs that these had once been human beings. Where had the little girl got the ribbon? She was probably the daughter of a woodcutter—it might have been the grandest present she’d ever received in her life. Her father had brought it when he drove the hogs to market in Tulhaem, and she’d kissed him on the cheek. He’d called her “my little duckling,” and he’d had to watch her be eviscerated, before he himself felt the knife, just below where a swan brooch pinned his cloak . . .

Stephen shuddered, closed his eyes to step over her, and felt—

—a hum, a soft tickling in his belly, a sort of crackling in his head. He turned to look back at Aspar and the rest, and they seemed far away, tiny. Their mouths were moving, but he could not hear them speak. For a moment, he forgot what he was about, just stood there, wondering who they were.

At the same time, he felt wonderful. His aches and pains were all gone, and he felt as if he could run ten leagues without stopping. He frowned at the bones and rotting flesh around the mound, vaguely remembering that the sight of them had bothered him for some reason, though he wondered why they should upset him any more than the branches and leaves that also littered the ground.

Musing at that, he turned slowly to regard the building behind him. It was built as many Church fanes were—a simple stone cube with a roof of slate and a perpetually open doorway. The lintel was carved with a single word, and with interest he noticed it wasn’t Vitellian, the usual language of the Church—but rather old Vadhüan, the language of the Warlock Kingdoms. MARHIRHEBEN, it said.

Inside, a small, slender statue carved of bone overlooked a stone altar. It depicted a beautiful woman with an unsettling smile. On either side of her stood a greffyn, and her hands dropped down as if to stroke their manes.

He looked around, but saw nothing else of note. Shrugging, he left the fane.

As he stepped across the line of corpses again, something terrible tore loose and leapt from his throat. The world shattered like glass, and he fell into the night before the world was born.

WHILE THE ARROW WAS still quivering, two men stepped into the road, and Neil guessed there were at least four in the bushes by the side. A faint scuff told him there was one behind him.

The two in front were dressed in faded leathers, and each bore a long-hafted spear. They also had kerchiefs pulled up to conceal their faces.

“Bandits?” Neil asked.

“No, clergymen,” Vaseto responded sarcastically.

One of the men called something out.

“Of what saint?” Neil asked.

“Lord Turmo, I would think, patron of thieves. They’ve just asked you to dismount and strip off your armor.”

“Did they?” Neil asked. “What do you advise?”

“Depends on whether you want to keep your things or not.”

“I’d like to, thanks.”

“Well, then,” Vaseto said, and gave a clear, high whistle.

The man shouted something again. This time Vaseto shouted back.

“What was that all about?”

“I’ve offered them a chance to surrender.”

“Good thing,” Neil replied. “Try to keep low.” He reached for his spear.

At that moment, furious motion erupted on the side of the road. Neil wheeled Hurricane and caught a glimpse of something very large and brown in the undergrowth. Leaves were flying, and someone shouted in anguish.

Confused, he turned back to the men on the road, just in time to see them go down beneath the paws of two huge mastiffs.

“
Oro
!
” one of them screamed.
“
Oro, pertument! Pacha Satos, Pacha sachero satos!
Pacha misercarda
!
”

Neil looked around. There were at least eight of the huge beasts. Vaseto whistled again. The dogs backed up a pace or so from their victims, but kept their teeth bare.

Neil glanced at Vaseto, who was dismounting. “Why don’t you keep that big sword out,” she said, “while I take the weapons from these fellows?”

“Have pity!” one of the men in the road said, in the king’s tongue. “See how I speak your language? Perhaps a kinsman am I!”

“What sort of pity would you have from me?” Neil asked, keeping one eye on the dog that was guarding the fellow as he took his spear and two knives. “You meant to steal from me, yes? Perhaps even kill me?”

“No, no, of course not,” the man said. “But it is so hard to live, these days. Work is scarce, food scarcer. I have a wife, ten little ones—please, spare me, master!”

“Hush,” Vaseto said. “You said it yourself. Food is scarce. If my dogs eat a sheep or goat, I’ll get in trouble. If they eat you, I’ll only get thanks. So be quiet now, thank the lords and ladies you’ll feed such noble creatures.”

The man looked up. Tears were rolling from his eyes. “Lady Artuma! Spare me from your children!”

Vaseto squatted by him and tousled his hair. “That’s disingenuous,” she said. “First you molest a servant of Artuma, then you ask forgiveness of her?”

“Priestess, I did not know.”

She kissed his forehead. “And how is that an excuse?” she asked.

“It’s not, it’s not, I understand that.”

She searched at his belt, came up with a pouch. “Well,” she said. “Perhaps a donation at the next shrine will help your cause.”

“Yes,” the man sniffled. “It might. I pray it might. Great lord, great lady—”

“I’m tired of your talking now,” Vaseto said. “Another word, and your throat will be cut.”

They disarmed the rest of the bandits and remounted.

“Shouldn’t we take them somewhere?” Neil asked.

She shrugged. “Not unless you’ve got time to waste. You’d have to stay and wait for a judge. Without weapons, they’ll be harmless for a while.”

“Harmless as a lamb!” the man on the ground seconded; then he screamed when the dog lunged at him.

“No more talk, I told you,” Vaseto said. “Lie there quietly. I leave my brothers and sisters to dispose of you as they see fit.”

She trotted her mare down the road. After a moment, Neil followed.

“You might have told me about the dogs,” Neil said after a few moments.

“I might have,” she agreed. “It amused me not to. Are you angry?”

“No. But I’m learning not to be surprised.”

“Oh? That would be a shame. It fits you so well.”

“Will they kill them?”

“Hmm? No. They’ll stay long enough to give them a good scare, then follow us.”

“Who are you, Vaseto?” Neil asked.

“That’s hardly a fair question,” Vaseto said. “I don’t know
your
name.”

“My name is Neil MeqVren,” he said.

“That’s not the name you gave the countess,” she observed.

“No, it isn’t. But it is my real name.”

She smiled. “And Vaseto is mine. I’m a friend of the countess Orchaevia. That’s all you need to know.”

“Those men seemed to think you are some sort of priestess.”

“What’s the harm in that?”

“Are you?”

“Not by vocation.”

Which was all she would say in the matter.

Midday the next day, Neil smelled the sea, and soon after heard the tolling of bells in z’Espino.

As they rode over the top of a hill, towers came into view, slender spires of red or dark yellow stone rising above domes and rooftops that seemed to crowd together for leagues. Nearer, fields of darker olive green contrasted sharply with golden wheatland and delicate copses of knife-shaped cedars. Beyond, the blue sliver of the sea gleamed beneath a pile of white clouds.

To the west of the city stood another jumble of buildings, this one more somber, with no towers and no wall. That would be z’Espino-of-Shadows, he reckoned.

“It’s big,” Neil said.

“Big enough,” Vaseto replied. “And too big for my taste.”

“How can we ever find two women in all that?”

“Well, I supposed we’d have to think,” Vaseto replied. “If you were them, what would you do?”

Hard to say, with Anne
, Neil reflected. She might do almost anything. Would she even know what had happened to her family?

But even if she didn’t, she was lost in a foreign country, pursued by enemies. If she had any sense, she’d be trying to get home.

“She would try to reach Crotheny,” he said.

Vaseto nodded. “Two ways to do that. By sea or by land. Does she have money, this girl?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I should think it would be easier to go by land. You ought to know—you just came that way.”

“Yes, but the roads are dangerous, especially if those men are still hunting her.” He shifted in his saddle. “The countess said something about a man who had his head cut off, and was yet still alive.”