The Charnel Prince (48 page)

“
Queeeen, stink of woman, stink of motherhood. Doors stand between us. Will you not come to me
?
”

“I cannot,” she said. “I do not have the key.” Something like black laughter rattled in her skull.

“
No. He has it. The one you made
.
”

Muriele’s heart clenched like a fist in her chest. “The one I made? What do you mean?”

“
I sing of him, I sing and sing. When the world itself cracks, perhaps I will die.
”

“Tell me,” she demanded. “Tell me who it is. You cannot lie to me.”

“
You don’t have the key
. . .
” The voice soughed away, like a wind dying. Muriele’s last impression was of glee.

“Answer me,” she shrieked. “Quexqaneh, answer me!”

But the voice did not return, and by degrees, Muriele calmed herself.

“We have to find out who came here,” Muriele told Berrye. “We must know what he spoke to the Kept about, and I must have my key back.”

“I will do my best,” Berrye said. She sounded a little shaken, and looked very young. Muriele suddenly regretted sharing the secret of the Kept with her, but who else could help her? Sir Fail and his men would be of no help in matters of espionage. Berrye had proved that she had some facility in that area. Constrained as her choices were, telling Berrye was the only thing she could do.

And it was already done, now.

They left the dungeons. She returned to her rooms, summoned her personal physician to attend the Keeper, signed the order for the release of Gramme and her son, and retired early to bed.

Dreams of spiders and serpents and eyeless old men woke her every few hours.

The next day she prepared to hold court, as Berrye suggested. She had avoided it since the attempt on her life, but she couldn’t avoid it forever. So she had Charles dressed, and when Berrye was late, began dressing herself. She chose a gown of purple safnite with a stiff fan of lace around the collar and began working herself into it, though she knew she couldn’t do up the back. It occurred to her that she needed a new maid, but her grief over Unna was still fresh enough that she couldn’t bear the thought of choosing one. She thought she might assign Berrye to the task, and realized just how much she was already relying on the young woman.

She isn’t Erren
, she reminded herself.
She was your husband’s whore.

But there was something about her so like Erren, a certain confidence that could only come from coven training, that Muriele found herself slipping into old habits.

Old habits could be fatal. She still had no proof that Berrye’s intentions were honest. And she was
late
.

She was just getting really irritated when the girl finally arrived. She was opening her mouth to complain when she saw Berrye’s expression.

“What?” Muriele asked.

“He’s here, Majesty,” she said, sounding out of breath. “Prince Robert is here. I have seen him.”

So it was true. Muriele closed her eyes. “He’s in the castle?”

“In the throne room, Majesty, waiting for you.”

“Do you know what he intends?” She lifted her eyelids.

Berrye sat and put her palms to her forehead. Muriele had never seen her so upset.

“He has his guard with him, Your Majesty, forty men. The Duke of Shale and Lord Fram Dagen have at least twenty men each. Every other member of the Comven has his guard with him, and there is word of landwaerden militia in the city.”

The room seemed to pulse, expanding and shrinking with Muriele’s heartbeat. She sat heavily in her armchair, unmindful of her half-finished job of dressing.

“He’s here to take the throne,” she said. Her mouth was dry.

“That is my best guess, Your Majesty.”

“It is the
only
guess.”

“I should have seen this coming,” Berrye said bitterly.

“You did see it coming,” Muriele muttered.

“But not so soon,” Berrye disagreed. “Not nearly this soon. I thought we had time to act, to blunt the blow.”

“Well, we haven’t.” She closed her eyes, trying to think. “Sir Fail has thirty men. There are twenty Craftsmen—if I can trust them—and their men-at-arms, altogether another hundred men I’m not sure I can count on. Indeed, they might well choose Robert as their king.”

“They cannot, by law,” Berrye said. “Not while Charles and Anne live.”

“No one knows Anne is alive, and Charles—they might make exception for Charles due to his nature. Robert might go farther. If he slew the father, he might well slay the son.”

She stood and turned her back to Berrye. “Lady Berrye, would you do my fastenings?”

“You still intend to attend court?”

“I’m still thinking,” Muriele said.

Berrye began latching the fastenings. Muriele could feel the girl’s breath on her hair. Her heartbeat seemed to slow, and an odd calm settled as a plan began sorting itself out.

“You know the passages,” Muriele said, as Berrye latched the third hook. “Do you know the way out of the city?”

“The long passage that goes under the wall? The one that can be filled with water?”

“That is the only one I know,” Muriele replied.

“I know where it is,” Berrye said. “I’ve never been there.”

“But you’re certain you can find it.”

“I studied the plans of this castle at my coven. So far I’ve found no error in them.” She fastened the last catch and the collar.

“Good.”

Muriele strode to her antechamber and summoned the guard outside the door.

“Bring Sir Fail here immediately,” she said.

The knight had taken up residence in Elseny’s chambers, which were just down the hall. He arrived a few moments later.

“Sir Fail,” she said. “I need another favor of you.”

“Whatever you require, Majesty.”

“I need you to take Charles to Liery.”

The old man’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at her for a moment. “What?” He finally managed.

Muriele crossed her arms and regarded her uncle. “Prince Robert, as fate would have it, is not dead at all. He has returned, and I believe today he will seize the throne. I want my son kept safe, Sir Fail.”

“I—surely we can stop him. He has no right—”

“I will not risk that,” Muriele replied. She nodded at Alis Berrye. “You know this lady?”

“Lady Berrye, yes.” He looked puzzled.

“There is a safe way out of the castle, a secret way. She knows it, and will lead you out. You are to collect Charles and leave immediately. Leave me two escorts, and take the rest of your men in case there are enemies at your ship.”

“But of course you’re going with us,” Fail said.

“No, I’m not,” Muriele replied. “That is the favor I am asking, and there is no time to discuss it beyond a simple yes or no.”

“Muriele—”

“Please, Sir Fail. I’ve lost two of my daughters.”

He straightened. “Then yes. But I will return for you.”

“And you will have the rightful king behind you when you do,” Muriele told him. “Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Fail’s eyes misted, and his head sagged. Sighing, she stepped forward and hugged him.

“Thank you, Uncle Fail,” she said.

He squeezed her arms. “Saints be with you, Meur,” he murmured.

Berrye caught her arm. “I’ll be back, after I’ve shown them the way.”

“No,” Muriele said. “Stay with them. Watch my son.”

When they were gone, she returned to her armchair for half a bell, to give them time to get started. Then, taking a deep breath, she rose and left her rooms and marched down the corridor to where Sir Moris Lucas, captain of the Craftsmen, was housed.

He answered her knock with a look of vast surprise.

“Majesty,” he said. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Sir Moris,” Muriele began, “I have not treated you and your men well, these past months.”

“If you say so, Majesty,” he replied, sounding uncertain.

“That being said, I must ask you to bear a few direct and impertinent questions.”

“I will answer any question Her Majesty puts to me,” the knight assured her.

“Are the Craftsmen faithful to me and my son Charles?”

Moris stiffened. “We are faithful to Charles as king and to you as his mother,” he replied.

“And do you recognize any other claim to the throne?”

Moris’ frown deepened. “Princess Anne has a claim, but she is not, to my knowledge, present.”

“You have heard that Prince Robert has returned?”

“There is a rumor to that effect,” Moris said.

“What if I were to tell you that I think he slew my husband and the Craftsmen and Royal Horse who rode with him to the headland of Aenah?”

“I would call that a reasonable supposition, Majesty. And if you’re asking if I would follow Prince Robert, the answer is no.”

“And you trust your men?”

He hesitated. “Most of them,” he finally admitted.

“Then I lay this geis on you, Sir Moris, and on your men. I want you to leave this castle and this city, even if you must fight your way out.”

His eyes rounded like regaturs. “Majesty? We will stand by you.”

“If you do, you will die. I need you alive, outside of the castle, outside of Eslen, where you can find the support you need to enforce my justice. I want you to take Hound Hat, and I want you to dress one of your men in a heavy cloak and hood, so that it appears you have Charles with you.”

“But the king, Majesty—”

“Is still the king. He will be safe, I assure you.”

Moris absorbed that for several breaths. “Do you want us to leave now, Majesty?”

“Now and as quietly as possible. I want no blood spilled unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

He bowed. “By your command, lady. Saints be with you.”

“And with you, sir,” she replied.

She returned to her quarters, thinking that at least now she would know—once and for all—if the Craftsmen could indeed be trusted. Actions proved better than words.

She put on her circlet, collected the two escorts Fail had left her, and went to court.

WHEN STEPHEN BROKE THE praifec’s seal, he knew he had severed himself from the Church. The seal was sacrosanct, to be opened only by the intended recipient. Punishment for a novice or priest who broke that sacred trust began with expulsion from holy orders. After that, they were subject to temporal punishment—which could be anything from a whipping to death by drowning.

But to Stephen, that was nothing. For the Church to prosecute him for the crime, they would have to know he had committed it, and if he wished to hide that from them, he probably could. No, the reason he broke the seal was because he knew in his heart the rot he’d found in the monastery d’Ef wasn’t just a bad spot on a pear—the whole fruit was rotten, through and through, along with the tree it grew on.

If the fathers of the Church were behind the waking of the Damned Saints, the implications were staggering. And if the Church itself was corrupt, he wanted no part of it—or, rather, no part larger than the one he had already played. He would serve the saints in his own way.

“Stephen?” Winna asked. “What does it say?”

He realized he’d been staring past the inked characters without reading them. He tried to clear his mind and concentrate.

Strange
, he thought. Besides the signature and a verse that looked like Vadhüan, the letter was gibberish.

“Ah. It’s some sort of encryption,” he told them. “A cypher.”

“A knot of words
you
can’t untie?” Aspar said. “I doubt that.”

Stephen nodded, concentrating. “Given time, I could read it. It’s based on Church Vitellian, and an older liturgical language called Jhehdykhadh. But written as it is, it doesn’t mean anything. There is this verse here, though . . .” He trailed off, studying it. It
was
Old Vadhüan, or some closely related dialect.

“There’s a
canitu
here,” he said, “in the language of the Warlock Lords, a
canitu subocaum
—ah, an ‘incantation to invoke.’”

“Invoke whom?” Leshya asked.

“
Khrwbh Khrwkh
,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’ve never heard of it, whatever that is. But not all the Damned Saints are commonly known. Actually, it sounds more like a place than a person—it means something like ‘bent mound.’”

“Could it refer to a sedos?” Leshya asked.

“Easily,” Stephen replied. “And given what we’ve seen so far, that makes the most sense. It’s just that they’ve prefixed the name with
dhy
, which usually indicates that the name following will be that of a saint. It’s quite puzzling.”