The Charnel Prince (31 page)

He hobbled silently after her, clearly puzzled but unwilling to ask any questions.

“How is my commission coming along?” she asked, largely to break the strained silence.

“Very well, Majesty.” A note of excitement entered his voice, which even under these circumstances was charming. She was struck by how much he resembled Neil MeqVren—Neil was passionate and excitable, a true knight with nothing cynical in him. This composer was like that, too, though his passion was of an entirely different nature. But they were both—authentic.

She desperately wished Neil were here now, but she had been right to send him after Anne. He was the only one she could trust with Anne’s location.

“You will be done with it soon, I hope,” she said. “I’ve already arranged for a performance and an accompanying banquet in the Candle Grove, about three weeks hence.”

“Three weeks? Well, yes, it’s nearly done. But I’ll need to start rehearsing immediately.”

“Just let me know what you need.”

“I’ve wanted to talk to you about something, actually,” he said.

“In regards to what?”

“The size of the ensemble, Majesty.”

“Make it whatever size you wish,” she replied.

“What I’m hoping for is a bit unusual,” he said, a little uncertainly. “I—the composition I’m working on—I think it would be best done by thirty pieces.”

She stopped and glanced curiously at him. “That’s rather large, isn’t it?” she asked.

“There has never been an ensemble of its size,” he said.

He made it sound very important, and all of a sudden she was struck by the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Here she was in fear of her life and her kingdom, and she somehow found herself discussing how many musicians she ought to engage.

But her heart had slowed to its normal pace, and she felt almost eerily calm.

“Then why should ours be so large?” she asked.

“Because there has never been a piece written like this,” he replied.

She stopped for a moment to study him, to see if there was any pride or haughtiness to be found in that statement. If it was there, it did not show.

“I’ve no objection to a large ensemble,” she said finally. “Even the largest.”

“The Church might, Majesty.”

“On what grounds?”

He grinned, looking suddenly very boyish. “On the grounds that it’s never been done before, Majesty.”

She felt a wry smile twitch her lips. “Make it as large as you want,” she said. “Larger, even.”

“Thank you, Majesty.”

She nodded.

“Majesty?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Is something wrong?”

She closed her eyes, then opened them and began walking again. “Yes, Fralet Ackenzal, something is very wrong. There is someone in my suite, someone I did not invite there.”

“You think— I mean, Majesty, do you believe it was an assassin?”

“I can’t think what else it might be.”

He paled. “That’s— Well, shouldn’t we call a guard, Majesty?”

“Unfortunately,” she replied, “I don’t trust most of the guards.”

“How can that be? How can a queen not trust her guards?”

“Are you that naive, Fralet Ackenzal? Do you know how many kings and queens have died at the hands of their own servants?”

“But I’ve heard the royal guards of Eslen—the Craftsmen?—that they are incorruptible.”

“In the past few months, on different occasions, two of them have tried to kill me.”

“Oh.”

“They were bewitched, as it turns out, by some sort of encrotacnia, and they are now supposed to be protected against such shinecrafting. Nevertheless, I find it hard to put faith in them, since they killed two of my daughters.”

“I can understand that, Your Majesty. I’m sorry.”

“Beyond that there is the fact that one of them was stationed outside my door. It follows that he either let the assassin in, he is the assassin, or he’s dead.”

“Oh, saints.”

“Precisely.”

“And so—ah—I’m your bodyguard at the moment?”

She smiled at him. “Indeed you are.”

“Majesty, I wouldn’t be much use to you if you were attacked.”

“But you are the hero of Broogh, Fralet Ackenzal. Surely the mere sight of you would frighten off most attackers.”

“I think that rather unlikely,” Ackenzal opined. “But I will protect you as best I can, Majesty. It’s just—if you think there is a coup in progress, you ought to find better help and more of it.”

“I know,” she said. “And that’s what we’re going to do. But I don’t like it.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m going to have to apologize.”

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Fail de Liery waved her apology away.

“You were right,” he said. “I went beyond my bounds, and more to the point, beyond my heart. Sometimes when more than one duty calls, it’s difficult to decide which to follow. Glorien de Liery is my liege, but William was my emperor and you are my empress—and my beloved niece. It is I who owe you an apology—and my allegiance, if you will still have it.”

She wanted to hug him right then and there, but at the moment they were queen and subject, and she did not want to spoil that moment.

“Now, tell me why you’re here, Majesty,” Fail said. “You look as if the dead are calling your name.”

He listened as she explained.

When she was done, he nodded grimly.

“You’ll have to come with us,” he said at last. “Even if the Craftsmen are loyal, they won’t let a party of armed men into the royal suites.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Fail nodded. “When you are ready, Majesty.”

“I’m ready.” She turned to Ackenzal. “You are excused,” she said. “And I thank you for your company.”

He bowed, less clumsily this time. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I am always pleased to be of service.”

“When will my commission be ready?”

“It is more than half done already,” he replied. “By the end of the month, I should think.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Thank you, Majesty. Saints be with you.”

She watched him limp off, as Sir Fail roused his men.

They left Sir Fail’s chambers with eight men-at-arms, and though the party encountered a number of puzzled looks, they met with no resistance.

They found two Craftsmen standing guard at the entrance hall of the royal residence. As they approached, one stepped forward, eying the men from Liery with evident suspicion.

“Stand aside, Sir Moris,” Muriele commanded. “These men are accompanying me to my chambers.”

Moris, a round-faced man with a blond mustache, reddened. “Majesty, I cannot allow that,” he said. “No one but the royal family and the Craftsmen are allowed to bear arms beyond this point.”

Muriele drew herself a bit higher. “Sir Moris, someone has invaded my chambers, apparently underneath your nose. You will let us pass, do you understand?”

“Invaded your quarters?” Sir Moris said. “That simply isn’t possible.”

“Yes, one would think,” Muriele said dryly, “and yet I assure you it is so.”

Moris chewed that for a moment. “If Your Majesty will permit us to look into the matter—”

She shook her head and brushed past him. “Strike any of these men with me, and I’ll have your head,” she said.

“Majesty, this—at least let me come with you.”

“As you wish.”

They found a Craftsman crumpled outside the door to her suites. His eyes were open, and blue, and very dead.

With a bellow, Sir Fail burst through the door, his men behind him.

On the other side of the door lay Unna’s body, her little nightshirt a mess of blood. She would not see her twelfth year.

Muriele sat staring at Unna’s body as Fail’s men searched her apartments, but they found no one, and no sign of anyone other than the rather obvious corpses.

When it was certain, Sir Fail placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head and looked up into her uncle’s eyes.

“No more of this,” she said. “Sir Fail, I wish to induct you and your men as my personal guard.”

“Done, Majesty.”

She turned to Sir Moris. “Discover how this happened,” she said, “or the head of every single Craftsman will roll. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Majesty,” Moris said stiffly. “But if I may speak, every man among us is loyal to you.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to prove that, Sir Moris. Start with this: Bring me Alis Berrye, and bring her to me now. Alive and in secret.”

She turned back to Sir Fail. Through her eyes he must have seen what was burning in her.

“Are you all right, Majesty?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I am sick. Sick to death of being a target.”

She went to the window and threw it open, looking out over the few lights still twinkling in the dark city below.

“I believe,” she said, “that I will start finding targets of my own.”

AS NEIL SANK THROUGH THE emerald waters, he heard the draugs begin to sing. It was a far-off song with no words, but he could still hear the bitter loneliness of it, the avarice. They sang from Breunt-Toine, the land beneath waves, where the only things of light and love were those that sank there to be devoured.

Now they sang of Neil MeqVren and his coming.

Neil beat against his slow fall, kicking with his legs and rowing up with his arms, but his armor took him down like an anchor, and he had little experience with swimming anyway, having grown up around seas far too frigid for such exercise. He couldn’t even tell which direction was up anymore, so murky was the water. He reached for the catches of his armor, knowing he would never get it off in time, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

He held on to his last breath, but it was gone, turning black inside him. The sea wanted in, and the sea could never be long denied.

You have me, foam-father
, he thought.
I have always been yours. But there is more I need to do here
.

Yet Lier did not answer, and the dirge of the draugs grew nearer, until they were all around him. Still, he could see nothing of their cold eyes and shark’s teeth through the lightless depths.

His lungs opened and the sea rushed in. At first it hurt, like nothing he had ever felt, but the pain was brief, and he felt a peace settle. He had failed the queen for the last time.

He was done.

His fingers had gone numb, and he could no longer feel the fastenings of his armor, but strangely, it felt as if it were falling away, as if someone else were taking it off for him, and a pale light rose around him. He felt himself settle upon a surface as soft as a down mattress, but as cold as winter breakers. Fingers traced across his bare back and down his arm, and though they had no more warmth than the sea, he knew the touch.

“Fastia,” he groaned, and found it strange that he could speak when he was full of water.

“You have forgotten me,” she whispered. It was her voice, but brittle and somehow distant, though she spoke in his ear.

“I have not,” he said. “My love, I have not.”

“Have. Will. It is the same.”

The light was stronger. He grasped her hand and pulled, determined that now, at least, he should see her.

“Do not,” she said. But it was too late. When he saw her, he screamed, and could not stop screaming.

He was still screaming when yellow light struck, and a face before him appeared as if in a sunrise. It was a woman’s face, but it was not Fastia.

At first he saw only her paradoxical eyes. They were so dark a blue that her pupils were lost. She seemed both blind and capable of seeing to the heart of anything. There was a nearly unbearable sadness there, and at the same time an uncontainable excitement. They were the eyes of a newborn and of a tired old woman.

“Be calm,” she said. Her voice had a faint husk to it. She was holding his arm, but suddenly she let go and stepped away from him, as if he had done something to make her fearful. Her eyes became shadows beneath her brows, and now he saw her face was strong, with high, broad cheekbones carved of ivory and hair like spider silk, cut very short, just beneath her ears. She glowed like a brand in the light of the lantern she held in one pale hand, but her gown was of black or some other dark color, and seemed not to be there at all.

Confusion gripped him. He was in a bed, and dry. It was air in his lungs, not brine, but he was still in the belly of the sea, for he could feel it all around him and hear the creak of timbers. He darted his gaze about the bulkheads of dark lacquered wood and understood that he was in a ship’s cabin.

“Be calm,” the woman repeated. “You are alive, if not entirely well. You only dream of death.” Her free hand went to her throat and fingered a small amulet there.