The Briar King (21 page)

“Amidst all this? That would be difficult.”

“As difficult as
me
finding Roderick.”

“I have confidence in you, Austra. Now hurry.”

Austra rustled off, and Anne continued through the labyrinth on her own.

She knew how to work mazes, of course. Some of her earliest memories were of her aunt Elyoner's estate of Glenchest, in Loiyes, and the vast hedge labyrinth there. She had feared it until her aunt explained the secret. You simply trailed a hand on one wall and walked, always keeping contact. In that way you would work through the entire thing. Slow it might be, but not as slow as bumbling confusedly around in the same corner for four bells.

She was in no hurry, but from habit, she trailed her left hand along the floral wall.

Meanwhile, children and court dwarves dressed as boghshins and kovalds ran by, squealing and making fierce faces. Many of the court giants were dressed as pig-headed uttins with tusks and green-skinned trolls with bulging eyes. Hound Hat, her father's Sefry jester, tipped his huge brim to her as she went by, his shadowed face the only flesh visible, the rest of him clad in voluminous robes that swallowed even his hands.

She hoped Austra would find Roderick. The kiss in the orchard had been far different from that first peck in the city of the dead. Or rather, the
kisses
in the orchard, for she seemed to have lost more than half a bell, when she was with him. It wasn't just the lips, with kissing, as she had always imagined. It was the face, so close, the eyes so near they could hide nothing if you caught them open.

And the warmth of bodies—that was a little frightening. Confusing. She wanted more.

Anne paused, her hand still on the wall.

Something was different. She seemed to have entered a corner of the maze no one else had found, not even the “monsters” who were supposed to inhabit it. She had been so deep in thought that she had failed to take notice. Now, straining her ears, she couldn't even
hear
anyone else.

Just how big could this maze be?

The flowers had changed, too. The walls here were made of scarlet and white primrose—and they were denser. She couldn't see through them at all. In fact, at their bases the stems were quite thick, as if they had been growing for a very long time. But she had been on Tom Woth in midwinter, and there had been no trace of a maze. Sunflowers could grow more than head high in a few months, but a thick stand of primrose? That seemed unlikely.

Her breathing quickened.

“Hello?” she called.

No one answered.

Frowning, Anne turned around, so that her right hand was touching the wall she had been following. Walking quickly, she retraced her steps.

After a hundred paces or so, she lifted her skirts and broke into a run. The maze was still primroses, now sunset red, then sky blue or snow white, pink and lavender. No sunflowers or twining peas, no jesters or goblin-dressed children, no giggling courtiers. Nothing but endless corridors of flowers, and her own sharp breathing.

Finally she stopped, trying to stay calm.

Obviously she wasn't on Tom Woth anymore. Where was she, then?

The sky looked the same, but something
was
different. Something other than the maze.

She couldn't place it at first, but when she understood, she gasped and, despite herself, began to tremble.

She couldn't see the sun, which meant it must be low in the sky. Yet there were no shadows. Not from the maze, not from her. She lifted her skirt. Even directly underneath her, the grass was lit as uniformly as everything else.

She slapped herself. She pinched herself, but nothing changed.

Until behind her she heard a faint, throaty chuckle.

Time slowed, as it often did for Neil in such moments. The Craftsman's horse seemed almost to drift toward the queen, its great shanks rippling and glistening like black waters beneath the moon.

The queen hadn't yet noticed anything unusual, for the black-and-green-clad knight was approaching from behind her, but Fastia was facing the oncoming rider, and her face was slowly transforming from puzzlement to horror.

For the Craftsman's target was the queen herself. His sword was drawn back, level with his waist and parallel to the ground, in preparation for the strike known as
reaper
, aimed at kissing Her Majesty's neck and making a fountain of her lovely white throat.

In that long, slow moment of calculation, Neil was suspended between possibilities. If the Craftsman didn't flinch, Neil would never stop him.

The Craftsman didn't flinch, but his horse did, seeing Hurricane bearing down so fast. A single hesitation, less than a heartbeat, but it was enough.

Hurricane crashed into the other horse's hindquarters, striking from the side with such force that it spun the Craftsman clean around. For this, Neil's own decapitating blow went high, but Neil managed to get his left arm around, and the two steel-clad men hit with a noise like a ton of chain being dropped from a watchtower onto cobblestones.

Then there was a tangle of limbs and no weight, and Neil discovered that there was, indeed, an edge to the hill. A very steep slope, and he and the knight were flying out over it like the clumsiest, most improbable birds in the world.

Thunder smote repeatedly as they hit the grass-dressed hill and bounced, bounced again, and rolled. He lost his hold and they came apart. Crow wasn't in his hands anymore. He finally fetched to a stop against a rock, flashes like anvil sparks filling his vision.

He didn't know how long he lay there, but it couldn't have been long, because he and the royal guardsman were still alone, though the distant hilltop bristled with figures.

Neil got to his feet a few breaths before the Craftsman, who lay some ten paces away. Crow, by good chance, rested halfway between them. Less fortunately, the knight still held his blade.

Neil didn't get Crow up in time, and he had to take that first blow on his forearm. Sheathed in steel as it was, the heavy blade would still have shattered the bone, but Neil angled it so the blade skidded aside. The force struck like lightning all the way to his hip, and for an instant time paused again.

Then Neil lifted Crow, his bird of slaughter, and brought her straight up from the ground, one-handed, a weak blow, but it struck directly beneath the knight's chin. The helm caught it, but his head snapped back, and now Neil had two hands on his weapon.

He hammered in right, hit the helm again, this time just about where the man's ear should be.

The knight fell.

Neil waited for him to get up.

He did, but his helm was deeply dented, and he limped a little. He was a big man, and by the way he set his middle guard, Neil could tell he knew how to fight without a shield.

The Craftsman struck, coming straight on, feinting a head cut, dropping to strike under the arm instead. It was well done, but Neil saw it coming and took a fast, long step to his right, and the other blade bit only air. Crow, on the other hand, lifted as if to block the feint, then came back and once again struck the conical helm, in the same place it had before.

This time, blood spurted from the visor. His foe tottered and fell, trying to curl around his head.

Neil sighed, walked a few steps, and sat down, badly in need of a few deep breaths. It wasn't easy. His beautiful new armor was stove deeply in from below his left arm all the way to his hip, and he was pretty sure the ribs underneath were cracked, too.

He heard shouts above him. Too steep for horses. Five Craftsmen were clanging down the slope as best they could in their armor. Neil lifted Crow again, ready to meet them.

Her gown was of a red so dark it seemed nearly black, and it was hemmed with strange scrolling needlework that glinted ruby. Over it she wore a black robe, embroidered in pale gold with stars, dragons, salamanders, and greffyns. Amber hair fell in a hundred braids to her waist. She wore a mask of red gold, delicately wrought; one eyebrow was lifted, as if in amusement, and the lips carried a quirk that was almost a sneer.

“Who are you?” Anne asked. Her voice sounded ridiculous to her ears, quivering like a baby bird.

“You walked widdershins,” the woman said softly. “You have to be careful when you do that. It puts your shadow behind you, where you can't look after it. Someone can snatch it—like
that
.” She snapped her fingers.

“Where are my friends? The court?”

“Where they always were. It's we who are elsewhere. We shadows.”

“Put me back. Put me back right now. Or …”

“Or what? Do you think you are a princess here?”

“Put me back. Please?”

“I will. But you must listen to me first. It is my one condition. We have only a short time.”

This is a dream,
Anne thought.
Just like the other night.

She drew a deep breath. “Very well.”

“Crotheny must not fall,” the woman said.

“Of course it shan't. What do you mean?”

“Crotheny must not fall. And there must be a queen in Crotheny when
he
comes.”

“When who comes?”

“I cannot name him. Not here, not now. Nor would his name help you.”

“There
is
a queen in Crotheny. My mother is queen.”

“And so it must remain.”

“Is something going to happen to Mother?”

“I don't see the future, Anne. I see
need
. And your kingdom will need you. That is blazed on earth and stone. I cannot say when, or why, but it has to do with the queen. Your mother, or one of your sisters—or you.”

“But that's stupid. If something happens to my mother, there will be no queen, unless father remarries. And he cannot marry one of his daughters. And if something happens to Father, my brother Charles will be king, and whoever he chooses for wife will be queen.”

“Nevertheless. If there is no queen in Crotheny when
he
comes, all is lost. And I mean all. I charge you with this.”

“Why me? Why not Fastia? She's the one—”

“You are the youngest. There is power in that. It is your trust. Your responsibility. If you fail, it means the ruin of your kingdom, and of all other kingdoms. Do you understand?”

“All other kingdoms?”

“Do you understand?”

“No.”

“Then remember. Remembering will do, for now.”

“But I—”

“If you want to know more, seek with your ancestors. They might help you when I cannot. Now go.”

“No, wait.
You—
” Something startled her, and she blinked. When her eyes fluttered open again, Austra was standing in front of her, shaking her.

“—nne! What's wrong?” Austra sounded hysterical.

“Stop that!” Anne demanded. “Where did she go? Where is she?”

“Anne! You were just standing there. Staring no matter how hard I've been shaking you!”

“Where did she go? The woman in the gold mask?”

But the masked woman was gone. Looking down, Anne saw that she had a shadow again.

PART II
DEMESNES OF NIGHT AND FOREST

THE YEAR 2,223 OF EVERON
THE MONTH OF TRUTHMEN

As the armies of man defeated the Skasloi, the saints defeated the old gods. With their defeat, the ancient sorceries of the Skasloi were greatly diminished, but not destroyed. It was the Sacaratum—that most holy crusade that brought the blessings and wisdom of the church to all the kingdoms of Everon—that finally purified the world of that evil. The only lingering of it are phantasms that exist in the minds of the ignorant and heretical.

—FROM THE Naration Lisum Saahtum: The Proclamation of Holy Law, REVISED IN 1,407 E. BY THE SENAZ MAIMS OF THE CHURCH.

Niwhan scalth gadauthath sa ovil
Sleapath at in werlic
Falhath thae skauden in thae raznes
Af sa naht ya sa holt.
Evil never dies
It merely sleeps
Shadows hide in the demesnes
Of night and forest
.

—INGORN PROVERB

CHAPTER ONE
THE HALAFOLK

LIGHTNING SHATTERED A TREE, so near that Aspar felt the tingle in the damp soil and smelled the metallic scent of scorched air. Ogre shivered and Angel shrieked, prancing madly. So did Pie Pony, Winna's horse, so that she had to knot her free hand in her mane.