The Born Queen (7 page)

“Done,” Anne pronounced.

“Well. Forget it, then. But you aren’t the first worldly ruler to try this, you know. Twenty years ago, Marhgreft Walis bribed the monks to let his bodyguard walk this faneway.”

“And?”

“There were ten of them. Seven died walking it. Another went mad immediately.”

“And the other two?”

“Were very good bodyguards. But the sacrifice—”

“Even bribed, I expect, the monks were loath to give up the power they guarded,” Anne said. “I imagine they neglected to mention some sacaum or such that needed doing. We have a few of them to question on the matter, so we won’t be missing any information.”

“I’m just urging caution, Majesty.”

“I know. But the enemy has Mamres monks and knights that cannot die and other monsters in number. I feel we need some of the same benefits.”

“Nor do I dispute it. Just be cautious.”

“I shall. And then I shall return to Eslen, I promise you, Cousin.”

Artwair left, and Cazio stayed close on his heels, looking more than a little relieved to be leaving her presence. She poured herself more wine, took a swallow, and went to the window.

“What have I done?” she whispered to the faintly visible evening star. She closed her eyes, but lightning seemed to flash there and made her mind busy. Her body was humming head to toe with desire.

She and Austra had been best friends for all of her life. She loved her like a sister and in a moment had betrayed her.

She wasn’t entirely stupid. She’d known her feelings for Cazio had been changing these last few months. Despite her first impressions of him, he’d proved more reliable and noble than any knight she had ever known with the possible exception of Neil MeqVren. He was also handsome, amusing, and intelligent.

And Austra’s now. She’d tried to keep that firmly in her mind. But Austra should have known better, shouldn’t she? Austra knew what Anne felt before she did. Austra, her best friend, had snapped up the swordsman before Anne could sort out her own feelings.

“What sort of friend is that?” she wondered aloud.

She knew that she probably wasn’t being completely fair, but who was there to hear her?

Austra had no place in a fighting force and had proved that by getting injured on their first ride against the gallows of Brithwater. Nothing serious, but she’d sent her back to Eslen. These last few weeks, without her maid around, she’d felt that something was happening between her and the swordsman, something inevitable.

And when he’d kissed her back, she’d been really happy, like a girl again, ready to forget her duties, the coming war, the strange things happening in her mind and body as she gained more and more command of the powers Saint Cer had given her.

But no, he’d been surprised, and he’d remembered Austra
very
quickly, and so she had been wrong about their growing closer.

How foolish that must seem to him, and how intolerable to seem foolish.

And how tiring, how very tiring, to be still a virgin. Maybe she should have someone she didn’t give a fig about fix that for her and then have him exiled or beheaded or something so that she could see what the fuss was about. Austra knew well enough, didn’t she? Because of Cazio.

She shook that away. With all that was going on in her kingdom—in the world—didn’t she have better things to worry about? If Eslen fell, if the dark forces gathering against her triumphed, it wouldn’t matter who Cazio had or hadn’t loved.

“Majesty?” a soft voice whispered. She turned to find Cauth regarding her.

“Yes?”

“We’ve found the map of the faneway.”

“Excellent,” she replied. “We should begin immediately. Have you picked your men?”

“I—Majesty, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Sefry cannot walk faneways. Our constitutions forbid it.”

“What does that mean?”

“No Sefry has ever survived the attempt,” he replied.

“Really? Not just this faneway but any?”

“That’s correct, Majesty.”

“Wonderful,” she said sarcastically. “Send for the Craftsmen, then.”

“Very well. Is there anything else?”

Anne turned and rested her head against the windowsill.

“I’m changing, Sir Cauth,” she said. “Why is that?”

“I haven’t known you long,” he said, “but I expect being queen changes you.”

“No. That’s not what I mean. How much did Mother Uun tell you?”

“Not everything, but enough. You mean your blessing.”

“Is it a blessing?” she asked. “I’m stronger, yes. I can do things. But I’m changing. I think things I never thought before, feel things I’ve never felt…”

“You are touched by great powers,” he said. “That’s only natural.”

Anne shivered. “Some of my visions are terrible.”

“I’m sorry for your pain,” he said. He sounded sincere.

She shrugged.

“It’s lonely,” he ventured. “No one understands you.”

“That’s true,” she murmured, taking a sideways glance at the Sefry.

She had first seen Cauth when he and his troops had saved her from her uncle Robert’s men and, much to her surprise, he had pledged his life and loyalty to her. The Sefry had enabled her to win back her throne. She owed Cauth and his men a great deal.

But the Sefry were so strange, and despite their help and constant presence, she hadn’t really gotten to know any of them.

Nor had any of them spoken to her as Cauth was speaking now. It was a surprise but also something of a relief. The Sefry always had walked in that borderland between the mundane and the very strange. The unnatural was natural to them.

“People fear to speak to me,” she said. “Some are calling me the witch-queen. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” he said. “But your friends—”

“My friends,” she repeated. “Austra has always been my friend. But even she…” She shied away from the subject. Who had really betrayed whom?

“We are less now.”

“What of Casnar de Pachiomadio?”

“Cazio?” She shrugged. “He doesn’t understand, either.”

“But he might.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he was touched by great powers, as you are. Then perhaps—and forgive my impertinence—then he might truly be worthy of you.”

She felt her face go hot. “That
is
impertinence.”

“I beg your forgiveness, then.”

“And it is dangerous, I’m told.”

“Not for a true swordsman,” Cauth replied.

“You know this?”

Cauth bowed. “I’ve spoken when I should have kept silent,” he said. “Please understand; it was only my concern for you speaking.”

“I forgive it,” she said. “When we are alone, you may speak your mind. I need that, I think, to stay honest myself.” She tilted her head. “Sir Cauth, why do you serve me?”

He hesitated. “Because you are our only hope,” he replied.

“You believe that?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you did not. I wish no one did.”

He smiled thinly. “That’s why you are worthy.”

And then he went. She returned to the window to think.

Cazio as a knight of Mamres, at her side.
Her
knight, not one on loan from her mother. Cauth was right: She needed someone more than merely mortal, someone else touched by the saints.

A knight of the dark moon for the Born Queen,
a woman’s voice whispered. Anne didn’t bother turning. She knew she would find no one there.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
ESTAMENT

S
TEPHEN HAD SPENT
months expecting Fend to kill him. Now that the moment had arrived, he felt that he had no right to be surprised, but there he was, watching in frozen shock as the kneeling Sefry’s blade came free of its ancient sheath. Stephen tried to back away, but of course he was sitting down in a chair carved of granite. He wondered if the guards behind him were rushing toward the assassin or if they were part of the plot. He wondered if Fend would kill Zemlé, too, and hoped not.

The weapon darted toward him—and stopped. Stephen realized that it was the hilt end and that the one-eyed Sefry was holding the blade in his black-gloved hand.

The shock passed through him, pulling rage in its wake.

“What?” he heard himself snap. “What the
sceat
—” He cut himself off. “Sceat” was not a word he used. In the dialect he had grown up speaking, it wasn’t even a word. No, he’d gotten that from Aspar White, and his Oostish brogue.

He swallowed, feeling the anger already replaced by relief.

“What is this, Fend?” he asked, more controlled.

Fend’s eye glittered. “I understand we aren’t the best of friends,” he began.

Stephen coughed a mirthless laugh. “No, we’re not,” he affirmed.

“But you are Kauron’s heir, and I am the Blood Knight. It is my duty to serve you. But since your distrust for me stops you doing what you must, I see I will serve you best by letting another bear this sword and wear my armor.”

“You’re the Blood Knight because you drank the blood of the waurm,” Stephen said, “not because of those arms. And the waurm is dead.”

“The waurm’s blood is still quick in mine,” Fend said. “So drive this sword into my heart, collect my blood, and feed it to a champion you like.”

Stephen stared at the hilt of the weapon and, almost without thinking, took hold of it. He felt dizzy and odd and thought he smelled something sharp and dusty.

Killing Fend seemed like a good idea. The man was a murderer many times over. He nearly had killed Aspar, had treated Winna with great cruelty, and had had a hand in the slaughter of two young princesses.

Oddly, Stephen found himself reviewing those facts without much passion. The best reason to kill Fend was that he, Stephen, could rest easier at night. He shrugged and started to thrust.

What am I doing?
he suddenly wondered, and stopped.

“Pathikh?” Fend gasped.

Stephen felt a little smile play on his lips. He’d frightened Fend.
He
had frightened
Fend.
He dropped the tip of the weapon.

“I don’t believe you,” Stephen said.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t believe you’re willing to sacrifice your life for a higher purpose. I think you expect to get something out of this or, rather,
more
out of it, since the waurm’s blood has already made you something more than you were. No, Fend, you have a goal, and it isn’t to die.”

“I’ve offered you my life,” Fend said.

“What happens when I stab the Blood Knight? I don’t know. I’ve seen a man that no blade can kill.”

“I’m not like that.”

Stephen lifted his hands. “You know I don’t trust you. You just said so. Do you imagine this charade has changed that?”

Fend’s eyebrows rose.

“What?”

The Sefry grinned a little. “This isn’t the Stephen Darige I met at Cal Azroth,” he said. “You’re getting some steel.”

Stephen started to retort, but Fend’s words struck home. He wasn’t afraid of the man anymore. He hadn’t actually been afraid even when he had thought Fend was about to kill him.

“This is about the faneway, then,” Stephen said.

“Exactly, pathikh.”

“I’ve walked one faneway and been nearly killed by another,” Stephen said. “I’m reluctant to travel this one until I know more about it.” But even as he said it, he suddenly felt like the old, timid Stephen again.

“What do you need to know?” Fend challenged. You are Kauron’s heir. The power of this mountain is yours. It is well past time for you to take it.”

“I haven’t found the Alq yet,” Stephen temporized. “I’ve found some interesting texts in the old section.”

“Pathikh,” Fend replied. “The Alq will show itself to you after you’ve walked the faneway and not before. Didn’t you know that?”

Stephen stared at the Sefry while he tried to absorb that.

“Why hasn’t anyone mentioned this?” he asked, glancing back at Adhrekh, his valet.

The other Sefry looked surprised, too. “We thought you knew that, pathikh,” he replied. “You’re Kauron’s heir.”

Stephen closed his eyes. “I’ve been looking for the Alq for three months.”

“That wasn’t clear to us,” Fend replied.

“What do you think I’ve spent all of my time doing?” Stephen asked.

“Reading books,” Fend said. “Reading books when you’re right here in the mountain.”

“It’s a big mountain…” Stephen started, then waved it away. “From now on, don’t take for granted that I know anything, please.”

“Then you’ll walk the faneway?”

Stephen sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Have someone show me the route.”

Fend blinked. His mouth opened, and his eyes darted past Stephen to Adhrekh.

“What?” Stephen asked.

“Pathikh,” the Aitivar said, “we don’t
know
where the faneway is. Only Kauron’s heir knows that.”

Stephen turned and stared at the man for a moment and saw he was serious. He looked back at Fend, and then the absurdity was suddenly too much to contain, and he started to laugh. Fend and Adhrekh didn’t seem to think it was funny, which made the whole thing even funnier, and soon he had tears in his eyes and the back of his head had begun to ache.

“Well,” he said when he could finally speak again, “there we go. Quite a situation. So my answer to you, Fend, is that I will walk the faneway when I find it. Do you have any further dismissive comments regarding the need to do research in the library?”

Fend glowered for a moment, then shook his head.

“No, pathikh.”

“Wonderful. Now leave me, please, unless you’ve got another bit of absolutely crucial information you’ve failed to mention to me.”

“Nothing I can think of,” Fend replied. He knelt, stood, saluted, and returned his weapon to its sheath. Then he held up a finger. “Except this. I’ve word of where Praefec Hespero is hiding,” he said. “I’d like to personally take charge of his capture.”

“Favor for an old friend?”

Fend stiffened. “Hespero was never my friend. Only a necessary ally for a time.”

“Find him, then,” Stephen said. “Bring him here.”

He watched the Sefry leave. Was he really going after Hespero?

It didn’t matter. Fend was leaving, and that was good.

He retired to the library, where he felt safest. His guard of four followed quietly behind him.

They made him almost as nervous as Fend did. Sefry were nothing new to Stephen. When he was growing up in Virgenya, they had been a fact of life.

But at a distance. The Sefry of his experience traveled in caravans. They danced, sang, told fortunes. They sold things from far away and counterfeit relics. He’d rarely seen one with a sword.

They did not come calling, they did not go to school, they did not pray in chapels or visit fanes. They moved in the world of men and women, but rarely did they socialize with them. Of all the former slaves of the Skasloi, they were the most apart.

The Aitivar did not sing or dance, so far as he knew, but they could fight like monsters. Twelve of them had routed three times their number in the battle below the mountain. They were decidedly unlike any of their race he had ever known, but then, he never had really known a Sefry, had he? Aspar had. He’d been raised by one, and he held that they were all liars, absolutely not to be trusted. Fend certainly bore out that assertion. But the Aitivar—he still didn’t know what motivated them. They claimed to have been waiting for him, Kauron’s heir, but they were a bit gray as to why.

He noticed they were still bunched around him.

“I’m going to do a bit of research,” Stephen said. “I don’t need you right at my elbow.”

“You heard him,” Adhrekh said. “Take posts.”

Stephen turned to the vast collection of scrifti. A better collection he had never seen, not in any monastery or scriftorium. At this point, he had only the faintest idea of what was here or how it was organized. He’d found a very interesting section in an early form of Vadhiian he had never encountered before, and there were at least fifty scrifti in the section. Most seemed to be accounting records of some sort, and as much as he wanted to translate them, it seemed more pressing to divine the secrets of the mountain.

Still, daunting as the scriftorium was, the instincts and intuition of his training and saint-given gifts seemed to lead him roughly toward what he wanted. When he thought of a subject, there seemed a certain obvious logic that took him to it, although he found he couldn’t explain to Zemlé the workings of that logic.

And now, considering the mysteries of the Sefry, he found himself standing before a wall of scrifti, some bound, some rolled and sealed in bone tubes, some of the oldest placed flat in cedar boxes.

Sefry Charms and Fancies. Alis Harriot and the False Knight. Secrets of the Halafolk. The Secret Commonwealth…

He scanned along, looking for a history, but most of the books continued in the same vein until he came across a plain black volume with no title. He felt something like the sort of shock one often got on cold winter days when walking on a rug and touching something metal. Curious, he drew it forth.

The cover was only that, a brittle leather case enclosing a lacquered wooden box. The top lifted off easily, revealing sheets of lead tissue. He suddenly knew he had something very old. Excited, he peered more closely.

No one had ever heard the Sefry language; under the Skasloi, they seem to have abandoned their ancient tongue or tongues and adopted cants based on the Mannish languages around them. But Stephen had a sudden hope that that was what he might be holding, for the faint script impressed into the metal was not one he had ever seen before. It was flowing and beautiful but utterly unknown.

Or so he thought until he noticed the first line, and there something looked familiar. He had seen this script before, in simpler form, not flowing together but in distinct characters carved in stone.

Virgenyan tombstones, the oldest.

He blinked as the first line suddenly jumped out at him:

“My Journal and Testament. Virgenya Dare.”

He choked back a gasp. This was the book he’d been sent here to recover. It was the reason he’d been trying to find the Alq, the hidden heart of the mountain, because he’d assumed that was where such a treasure would be.

Maybe it wasn’t the real thing. Surely there had been many fakes.

Hands trembling, he took the box to one of the stone tables, lit a lamp, and found some vellum and a pen and ink to take notes. Once that was all assembled, he gingerly lifted the first sheet and held it to the light. The impression was faded, the script very difficult to make out, and the Virgenyan incredibly archaic. Without his saint-touched sense, he might not have been able to read it.

M
Y JOURNAL AND
T
ESTAMENT
. V
IRGENYA
D
ARE.

M
Y FATHER HAS TAUGHT ME TO WRITE, BUT IT IS DIFFICULT TO FIND SOMETHING TO WRITE ON OR THE CHANCE TO DO IT
. I
WILL NOT WASTE WORDS
. M
Y FATHER HAS DIED OF GALL ROT IN THE
F
ESTER
. H
ERE IS HIS ONLY MONUMENT, AND
I
GIVE IT WITH THE YEAR AS HE RECKONED IT.

A
NANIAS
D
ARE

H
USBAND AND
F
ATHER.

B
. 1560
D
. 1599

I
HAVE FOUND MORE LEAD TISSUE.

F
ATHER SAID
I
SHOULD WRITE, BUT
I’
M NOT SURE WHAT TO WRITE.

I
AM
V
IRGENYA
D
ARE, AND
I
AM A SLAVE
. I
WOULD NOT EVEN KNOW THAT WORD IF MY FATHER HAD NOT TAUGHT IT TO ME
. H
E SAID NO ONE USES IT BECAUSE HERE, THERE IS NO OTHER CONDITION TO COMPARE OURS TO
. T
HERE ARE THE MASTERS, AND THERE IS US, AND THERE ISN’T ANYTHING ELSE
. B
UT
F
ATHER SAID THAT WHERE WE COME FROM, SOME PEOPLE WERE SLAVES AND SOME WERE NOT
. I
THOUGHT AT FIRST HE MEANT THAT IN THE OTHER WORLD SOME MEN WERE ALSO MASTERS, BUT THAT ISN’T WHAT HE MEANT, ALTHOUGH HE SAID THAT WAS TRUE ALSO.

I
HAVE LIVED WITH THE MASTER SINCE
I
WAS FIVE
. I
DO WHAT PLEASES HIM, AND IF
I
DO NOT
, I
AM HURT, AND THAT SOMETIMES PLEASES HIM, TOO
. H
E CALLS ME
E
XHREY
(I
INVENT A SPELLING HERE), WHICH MEANS “DAUGHTER
.” T
HE MASTERS DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN OF THEIR OWN, BUT MY MASTER HAS HAD MANY
M
ANNISH CHILDREN, ALTHOUGH ONLY ONE AT A TIME
. I
HAVE FOUND THE BONES OF MANY OF THEM.

I
SLEEP ON A STONE IN HIS CHAMBER
. S
OMETIMES HE FORGETS TO FEED ME FOR A FEW DAYS
. W
HEN HE WILL BE GONE FOR A LONG TIME, HE LEAVES THE DOOR OPEN SO THE OTHER HOUSE STAFF CAN TAKE CARE OF ME
. I
T WAS TIMES LIKE THAT
I
USED TO SEE MY FATHER, FOR THEY WOULD SMUGGLE HIM TO THE OUTER COURTS
. I
HAVE TEACHERS, ALSO, WHO SCHOOL ME IN THE ANTICS THAT PLEASE THE MASTER
. I
N THE WAYS OF THE
S
KASLOI CHILDREN WHO ARE NO MORE
. S
OMETIMES
I
AM LEARNT OTHER THINGS.