CHAPTER SEVEN

THE TOWN BETWEEN

HIS BLOOD soaks this ground. But his soul is with the Draugs.

Muriele stared at the sungilt waves and wondered what to feel. William had been a good man, a fair king.

As husband he hadn’t been mean or abusive, but he often hadn’t much been there, either. Maintaining several mistresses tended to be draining. Against the grain she had loved him, and she mourned for him.

She could remember the scent on his clothes even now.

Alis took her hand. It felt good, the young, honest warmth of it. She looked at the girl, a pretty brown-haired creature of twenty.

“Robert came one night,” Muriele said. “When I was alone. When he thought you dead. He was drunk and even more cruel than usual, and he told me how William died.”

“He might have lied,” Alis said.

“He might have,” Muriele agreed. “But the details make me think he was telling the truth.” She took a step so that they stood at the edge of the cliff. She looked at the waves breaking far below.

“It was an ambush, and William had fallen wounded from his horse. Robert dragged him here and meant to gloat and kick him over the edge. But William managed to enrage him with taunts, tricked him into stooping down, and then Wil struck him in the heart with his echein doif. That was how Robert learned he could not die.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “Why would Robert tell a lie so unflattering to himself?”

“Robert does not like himself very well,” Alis said. Her voice sounded odd, and when Muriele looked up, she saw tears in the younger woman’s eyes.

“You loved my poor husband,” she said.

“I don’t know,” Alis admitted. “But I miss him.”

“Well, at least he has Gramme to keep him company,” Muriele said, feeling suddenly mordant.

“Muriele…”

“Hush. It’s past. To tell the truth, if I could have him back, I wouldn’t mind if you were his mistress. At least not so much as I did before.”

“I hope your next husband feels the same,” Alis said lightly.

Muriele gave her a hug, then turned back to the sea.

“Good-bye, William,” she called.

Together they walked back to where the others waited.

Neil watched the two women stride toward the party, remembering his own recent ghosts: Fastia, Muriele’s eldest daughter, who had died in his arms; Erren, the coven-trained assassin who had protected the queen when he first had met her. He had loved the first and respected the second, and both had been lost to the lands of fate the same day King William was slain.

Erren and Muriele had been together so long when he met them that they had seemed sisters to Neil. Alis was something different. She had been one of William’s mistresses, for one thing. And now, suddenly, she was Muriele’s maid, bodyguard, best friend. Aside from Muriele, he was the only one in the party who knew the girl claimed coven training. But what coven? Who was her mestra? She wouldn’t say.

“Thank you, Aradal, for that detour,” Muriele said to the archgreft.

“It hardly took us out of our way,” the Hansan replied. He gestured north and east. “The old Nean Road is just over that hill, and that will bring us to the Vitellian Way in a few bells.”

“Thank you just the same.”

“William was a good man,” Aradal said. “An opponent, usually, but I liked him. I am sorry for his loss, Muriele.”

She smiled a thin smile Neil had come to understand was her alternative to screaming.

“Thank you,” she said. “And now, by all means, let us go. I would not have us miss the feast you describe that awaits us at the inn at Bitaenstath.”

“I would not have you miss your first taste of Hansan hospitality,” the duke replied.

Muriele’s smile tightened, and this time she did not reply.

And so they went on, the road taking them through fields of spelt and wheat that rose high enough to hide an army of murderers. Neil saw a malend high on a hill, its four great sails turning rather quickly in the breeze from the sea. It was the first he had seen since leaving Newland, where they were used to keep water out of the poelen. But what was this one doing? Why was it here?

As promised, within a few bells they met the Vitellian Way, the longest road in the world. It had been built by the Hegemony a thousand years before, and it stretched more than a hundred leagues from z’Irbina in Vitellio to Kaithbaurg in the north.

Neil had traveled the southern portion of the road and had found it well kept, stoutly embanked, and wide enough for two carriages to pass.

Here it was hardly more than a pair of deep wain ruts. The old Vitellian bed of the road seemed barely there.

The women stayed in saddle for a bell or so and then retired to the carriage that the Hansans had brought along with their twenty horses.

Why only twenty?

He became aware of another rider at his flank.

“Sir Neil,” the young man said. “I don’t know if you remember me.”

“I know the name of every man in this party, Sir Edhmon,” Neil assured him. “When I saw that you had joined the Craftsmen, I picked you for this duty.”

“But you hardly know me, Sir Neil.”

“You fought on my left flank at the battle of the waerd,” Neil replied. “I do not need long walks in the gardens with you to know what I need to know.”

The young man blushed. “It was my first battle,” he said. “You inspired me to something I never dreamed myself capable of.”

“Whatever you are, it was in you before you met me,” Neil replied.

“I don’t know about that,” Edhmon said, shaking his head.

“Well,” Neil said, searching for a reply.

They rode on in silence.

They reached the looming fortress of Northwatch while the sun was settling into a bed of high western clouds. The sky was still blue, but the slanting light was copper and brass, and the white walls of the castle, the verdance of the fields, and the still-blue sky made such a pretty picture that war seemed very far away.

And yet Northwatch, despite its sunset patina, had been built for nothing but war. Its walls were thick and from the top it would appear as a six-pointed star, so that the outside of each section of wall was defensible from the inside of another. It was a new design, and Neil reckoned the ramparts were no more than ten years old.

The keep was a different story. Its weathered and vine-etched stone formed four walls with a squat tower at each corner. Clearly a fancy new fortification had been thrown up around a very old castle.

Six riders met them, four of them in lord’s plate. As they approached, they doffed their helmets, and the oldest-looking one let his horse step forward.

The carriage door swung open, and Muriele stepped out. The riders dismounted and knelt.

“It’s good to see you, Marhgreft Geoffrysen,” Muriele said. “Please rise; let me embrace you.” The marhgreft looked to be sixty-five at least. His iron-gray hair was cropped to his skull, and his eyes were that blue that always startled.

“Highness,” he said, rising. Muriele crossed to him and gave him a perfunctory embrace. Then the marhgreft bowed again, this time to Aradal, with a good deal less enthusiasm.

“My lord,” Aradal acknowledged.

“I rather expected to see you riding in from the other direction,” Geoffrysen said.

“Well, if one comes, one must go back,” Aradal replied.

“Not necessarily,” Geoffrysen said with a wicked little smile.

“But today,” Aradal replied, wagging a finger.

“Today,” the marhgreft agreed. “And I’d be pleased if you would take the hospitality of my house.”

“We’ve accommodations arranged in town,” Muriele told him. “But your offer is more than kind.” Geoffrysen looked surprised. “In town? Not in Suthschild?”

“It will be too dark before we reach Suthschild and past the dinner hour,” Aradal said. “No, we shall be at the Wexrohzen.”

“On the Hansan side.”

“I suppose it is. But can you think of a better accommodation?”

“Mine,” the marhgreft said stubbornly.

“I am in good hands, Marhgreft,” Muriele assured the old man. “Aradal is my escort to Kaithbaurg. I leave these matters to him.”

“Better leave the watching of piglets to a wolf,” Geoffrysen blurted. “Stay here, Majesty, and tomorrow let me escort you safely home.”

Neil tensed and with a sidewise glance caught Sir Edhmon’s eye.

“Marhgreft,” Muriele said softly, “that is uncalled for. For one thing, I am not a piglet.”

“Majesty, they have gathered troops at Suthschild. They are marching even now in the north.”

“That will be enough, my lord,” Muriele said. “I hope to enjoy your hospitality on my return.” Geoffrysen was red in the face. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “As you say, Highness.”

“It is,” Muriele gently agreed.

Neil could almost hear muscles relaxing. He nodded a salute at the marhgreft as they rode past.

After a moment’s thought, Neil rode up alongside Aradal.

“Sir Neil,” Aradal acknowledged.

“My lord. May I have a word with you?”

“Of course.”

“What did the marhgreft mean by ‘the Hansan side’?”

“Ah. Never been to Bitaenstath before?”

“No, my lord.”

“Well, there it is.”

They had been riding over an old earthwork, probably the remains of an earlier castle, but now Neil could see houses and shops. Most of them hugged the road closely, but some sprawled out from it.

Beyond, perhaps a third of a league distant, he saw the towers of another castle.

“That’s Suthschild, our counterpart to Northwatch,” he said. “The border of our countries is out there. I think long ago there were two towns, one near each fortress, but over the years they’ve grown together.

After all, a miller doesn’t care which side buys his flour, nor a whore whose soldiers she’s servicing.”

“But what happens during war?”

“It hasn’t come up in a hundred years,” Aradal pointed out. “But castles always have villages, and villages are always at risk when war comes.” He nodded. “This is Southmarket. When the marhgreft needs beer or broadcloth, it’s here he’ll likely get it. But if he throws a feast, he’ll want mead or svartbier, and to get that he’ll send to Northmarket.”

“There are no border guards?”

“Do you see a border?”

Neil didn’t. There was no wall, no standing stones, no pickets to mark where Crotheny became Hansa.

Most of Southmarket seemed to be shutting down for the evening, except for the inns and bierrohsen, from which issued cheerful singing and the savory scents of roasting beef. Some of the patrons had taken their cups into the street and stood in little circles, talking and laughing. Many looked like farmers, still in their sweat-soaked shirts. Others were cleaner and more neatly dressed and seemed likely to be tradesmen. The few women he saw appeared to be working, not drinking.

As they moved toward the center of town, the look of the people appeared richer. The taverns had tables and chairs outside and lanterns to keep the night away. The houses and shops were grander, too, some with glass windows. The road went from dirt to gravel to paved, and not much later they found themselves in a largish village square, which at one end had an imposing, high-timbered hall with great doors swung open and dance music playing within.

“Just in time,” Aradal said, pointing up.

Neil looked and saw the first stars appearing in the rose sky.

“That’s our destination?”

“The Wexrohzen. I promise you, you’ll find no better bread, butter, pork, or ale in the world than right there.” He slapped his rotund belly. “And I’ve looked.”

“Not even in Kaithbaurg?”

“Fancier. Not better. Too many dumplings.”

“This hardly seems the place for the queen,” Neil said, lowering his voice. “Too busy, too crowded.”

“William stayed several times,” Aradal said. “Muriele was with him at least once, and I don’t think she complained.”

Neil felt a hand settle on his shoulder.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Muriele told him.

“Majesty…”

“As I told Geoffrysen, we’re in the archgreft’s care now.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

And so they entered the Wexrohzen, and the music dropped away as every head in the hall turned toward them.

Aradal raised his voice. “Welcome, all, Her Majesty Queen Muriele.” To Neil’s surprise, a great shout went up, and flagons were raised as the crowd answered with a welcome.

Aradal patted his shoulder and leaned close to his ear. “They don’t, after all, know who will win the war,” he said.

“I suppose they don’t,” Neil replied, but he already was frowning as some commotion seemed to be moving toward them, and space suddenly was cleared on the dance floor.

And in that space stepped a man with close-cropped red hair and a sharp beard. He wore a sable tunic displaying a lion, three roses, a sword and helm.

The hairs on Neil’s neck pricked up, because he knew the man.

The fellow lifted his chin and addressed Muriele.

“Your Majesty, I am Sir Alareik Wishilm af Gothfera, and your knight and I have unfinished business.” CHAPTER EIGHT

THE NATURE OF A SWORDSMAN

ANNE FOUND Cazio in the hen yard of the monastery, thrusting and stamping on the packed, swept earth. The chickens at the edge of the yard clucked protests but kept a respectable distance.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, and Anne waited a moment, watching his graceful movements. If she hadn’t seen him kill so many people with those deft, clever movements of his feet, she might think he was practicing some sort of dance.

She remembered the first time she had seen that dance, when two armed and armored knights had attacked her. Against such machines of war, Cazio had stood little chance, yet he’d put himself between her and them, anyway, and since then he’d never stopped.

But it hadn’t just been her, had it? Austra had been there, too.

The color of the sunlight seemed to change, becoming less like gold and more like brass.

He is Austra’s love, but he is my man, she thought.

“Cazio,” she said.

He stopped in midaction, turned, and saluted her with his sword.

“Majesty,” he said.

For a moment she felt breathless and silly. Her attempt to seduce him flashed vividly in her mind’s eye.

She cleared her throat. “I’m told it requires three days to walk the faneway of Mamres, and as you know, I am pressed to return to Eslen.”

He nodded, an odd look on his face, but didn’t answer. She felt a flash of pique. Surely he understood what she was getting at. Did she have to make everything clear?

Apparently.

“You need to start walking the faneway today,” she said. “Within the hour.” Cazio sheathed his sword.

“I don’t want to,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

But he didn’t sound apologetic.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You said I could walk it if I wished,” he replied. “I don’t wish.” Now she thought she understood his tone. “You’re angry?”

He paused, then stared her in the eye. “I’m offended,” he replied. “When has my sword failed you?

When have I not defeated your enemies with my own strength and skill?”

“You would have failed yesterday if I hadn’t helped you.”

You will fail when he comes. You will die; I have seen you dead. But she couldn’t say that.

He flushed brightly. “Maybe so,” he admitted. Then: “Probably. But I am a dessrator, Majesty. I am not a killer or a mere swordsman but an artist. Would you give a singer a different voice? A painter a different pair of eyes?”

“If they could make better work, yes.”

“But it wouldn’t be theirs, would it?”

“Cazio, with the skills you already have and the blessing of Saint Mamres, you could be invincible.”

“I have beaten such invincible men. Their physical abilities made them foolish.”

“But you are not so foolish.”

“I think if I had that power I might become so.”

“Cazio…”

“Majesty, whatever gifts this faneway can give me, I do not want and I do not need.”

“But I want them, Cazio. I want them for you. I’m sorry if I’ve offended your pride. You are certainly the greatest swordsman I have ever known. I only want you to be the best swordsman you can be. How else can you guard me against the things that are to come? How else can you survive them?”

“The way I always have. With my blade and my wits.”

“That is no longer good enough,” she said softly.

“If you wish another bodyguard—”

Something had been welling up in her throughout the whole conversation, something hard in her belly and throat. She felt deeply shaken by something, frustrated by Cazio’s inability to listen. Now she suddenly convulsed and felt tears on her face.

“Cazio,” she managed. “Do not be so selfish. I need you. I need you with the blessing of Mamres. Would it be so bad to be lustrated by a saint? How is that wrong?” He stepped toward her. “Don’t cry,” he said.

“I’m angry,” she snapped. “Sometimes I cry when I’m angry. Do not mistake these tears. I’m offering you something, something—you aren’t afraid, are you?”

“Afraid?”

“Of the faneway. Afraid you might die?”

One of his eyebrows lifted. “You’re calling me a coward?”

“Ten of my Craftsmen are walking it as we speak. Three of them are already dead.”

“That’s terrible.”

“They just weren’t worthy, Cazio. You are. By the saints, if anyone was ever worthy of the blessing of Mamres, it is you.”

“Who has died, Majesty?”

“I told you. Some of my Craftsmen.”

“Which ones? What were their names?”

It hit her like a punch in the gut, pushing the anger out of her. Her knees went weak, and she felt as if there were no longer anything in her at all. She put her hand against the wall, but it would not support her, and the next thing she knew, she was on the ground.

What was happening to her?

But then Cazio had her cradled in his arms. He smelled both clean and sweaty, which seemed odd.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No,” she managed. “I should know, shouldn’t I? I should know who died. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me, Cazio.”

“There’s a lot going on,” Cazio said. “A lot to worry about.”

“I feel—I’m sorry I asked you to walk the faneway, Cazio. I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

“I want you to understand—” he began.

Something suddenly tumbled into place, and Anne nearly gasped with understanding.

“No, hush,” she said, knowing what she needed to do. “We won’t talk of this again.” She tapped his shoulder. “You can put me down now,” she said. “I’m fine. Pack your things. We’ll leave for Eslen by noon. Time for me to really act like a queen.”

Cazio cast a look back over his shoulder at the monastery. Besides the Craftsmen still walking the fanes, they had left it invested with nearly two hundred men. The Church was sure to attempt to take it back.

He glanced at Anne. Her face was composed and freshly powdered. He had no idea what she was thinking.

He wasn’t sure what he was thinking. First the sudden kiss, then her request that he make himself unnatural.

It had been very simple once. He had pledged to keep two girls alive, and with the help of his mentor, z’Acatto, he had managed to do it. But since Anne had come back into her kingdom, surrounding herself with knights, lords, and Sefry, he had been less sure of his footing. He had found his place in continuing to be her bodyguard, and he thought he had done tolerably well at it.

But she didn’t seem to think so. He had shocked her into withdrawing her request, but she had made it and could not take it back.

He glanced back again. Should he?

But the mere thought sickened him.

They traveled all day, following the banks of the Warlock River, stopping for the night at Tor Aver, a small castle just beyond the edge of the forest. They had stayed there a few nights before when preparing the assault on the monastery, and the knight who had charge of it, Sir Robert Taverner, had a feast prepared for them by the time they arrived. It wasn’t bad, but one of the discoveries Cazio had made in his travels was that good cooks were vanishingly scarce in this part of the world. The meat was heavy, greasy, more often boiled than roasted, and rarely provided with a proper sauce. The bread was grainy and dull, fruit nonexistent, cheese depressingly similar from place to place and meal to meal. The fare was better and more varied at court, of course, but then, he had spent hardly any time at court.

The wine was often undrinkably sweet, especially the white, and so far he hadn’t found much to like about beer or mead, which tasted to him like rotted bread and bear piss, respectively. Not that he had tasted bear piss, but now he didn’t have to.

Sir Robert’s meal did not set itself above the standard, but Cazio managed to fill himself without any unpleasant incidents. He didn’t feel much like talking, so he watched Anne, trying to gauge her mood. He had known her for more than a year and in many trying circumstances, but he had never known her to be so suddenly changeable as in these last few days.

But she seemed at ease, chatting with Sir Robert and the guests he had invited. The anger and remorse of the morning seemed forgotten.

And so, feeling heavy with the sweet wine, he excused himself to the chamber provided for him and lay there, wishing he were drunk on a better vintage, wishing for other things.

He was nearly asleep when the door cracked open. Blinking, he saw Anne’s face in the candlelight, and with a guilty start he realized that one of his wishes had come true. He opened his mouth to attempt another denial, but the words glued themselves there.

“Cazio?”

“Majesty.”

“Just Anne, for the moment,” she said.

“Ah,” he managed. “Anne.” How was it he once had felt comfortable saying her name?

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I haven’t come to test your virtue again. May I enter?”

“Of course.”

He was still in his clothes, but he somehow felt he ought to cover himself.

She stepped in, shuffled her feet another half step, and stopped.

“I was wrong to ask you to walk the faneway, Cazio. I want you to know I understand. There are so many people around me I don’t really know, much less trust. But I trust you. Today you’ve only proved that I can trust you to protect me, even against myself.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

She nodded, and something odd worked behind her eyes. She cleared her throat softly. “So,” she said.

“I need you to go to Dunmrogh.”

Cazio blinked, wondering what he had missed. His king’s tongue was still not so good.

“Dunmrogh.”

“Yes. I want you to take a garrison there to guard the fane. I want you to command it.”

“I don’t understand,” Cazio said. “I’m not a commander. I’m a swordsman, that’s all.”

“You’re a swordsman I trust,” she said.

“To guard you, ” he said.

“I have my Sefry,” she said. “And the Craftsmen.”

“Mamres knights.”

“Two or three of them might make one of you,” she said. “But I shall have to make do.”

“This doesn’t make sense to me,” he said. Was she trying to shame him into walking the faneway?

“It’s only for a while,” Anne said. “I know you’ll miss Austra, but I’ll send her to be with you. I know you want to guard me. But I’m asking you, as my friend, to do this.” Cazio struggled for something to say. His chest was tight. This felt like an attack from nowhere, one he had no parry and riposte for.

“Won’t you reconsider?”

“Cazio,” she said softly, “you aren’t one of my subjects. Everything you’ve ever done for me, you did because you wanted to. I’m not ordering you to do this, just asking.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I had a vision. I need you there.”

Her eyes remained shut for a long moment, and he examined her face, thinking how familiar it had become and how strange that was. How had he come to this place? Shouldn’t he be back in Vitellio, sunning himself in some piato, seducing girls and starting duels? Guarding her was one thing, but this war—was it really his? Did he care about it if Anne and Austra were removed from the equation?

He didn’t know.

But he nodded when she opened her eyes. “Very well,” he sighed. “I shall do as you ask.” Even as he said it, he felt something turn in him and knew that he had never agreed to anything in his life that felt more wrong.