The Briar King (48 page)

“Ah. You're going to learn to milk them.”

“Is sheep's milk of some use in physic?”

“No. At the end of the first month, each sister is assigned a duty. This is to be your job, milking and making cheese.”

Anne stared at her, then laughed aloud.

Tears stung Anne's eyes as the switch laid a bright strip across her bare shoulders, but she did not cry out. Instead, she fixed her tormentor with a glare that would have sent any courtier scurrying.

Sister Secula was no courtier, and she did not so much as flinch at Anne's expression.

Another lash came down, and this time a little gasp escaped Anne's lips.

“So,” Sister Secula exclaimed. “Only two for you to find your breath? You don't have the bravery to suit your attitude, little Ivexa.”

“Switch me all you want,” Anne said. “When my father finds out—”

“He'll do nothing. He sent you here, my dear. Your royal parents have already agreed to any medicine I administer— and that is the last time I shall remind you of that. But I won't switch you again, not just now. I've already learned what I wanted. Next time, you may expect more than three strikes of the switch. Now—back to the task set for you.”

“No, I will not go,” Anne told her.

“What? What did you say?”

Anne straightened her back. “I won't milk sheep, Sister Secula. I was born a princess of the house Dare and a duchess of the house de Liery. I will die as such, and I will be those things all the years between. However long you keep me in this place, and however you choose to treat me, I remain who I am, and I will not be lowered to menial tasks.”

Sister Secula nodded thoughtfully. “I see. You're protecting the dignity of your titles.”

“Yes.”

“As you protected them when you ignored your mother's wishes and rode like a wild goat all over Eslen? As when you were busy spreading your legs for the first buck to spout poetry at you? It seems you've discovered the dignity becoming your station right quickly and conveniently when asked to do something you find distasteful.”

Anne laid her head back down on the chastising table. “Strike me more if you wish. I do not care.”

Sister Secula laughed. “That is another thing you will learn, little Ivexa. You will learn to care. But perhaps it is not whipping that will make you do so. Who do you think the ladies of this coven are, lowborn peasants? They are from the best families in all the known lands. If they choose to return to the world, they will find their titles waiting. Here, they are members of this order, nothing more and nothing less. And you, my dear, are the very least of them.”

“I am not the least,” Anne replied. “I will never be the least of anything.”

“Absurd. You are the least learned in every subject. You are the least disciplined. You are the least worthy of even that novice robe you wear. Listen to you! What have you ever
done? You have nothing that was not given to you by your birth.”

“It is enough.”

“It is if your only ambition is to be the brood mare for some highborn fool, for brood mares neither need nor have brains enough to want more than they were born with. Yet my understanding is that the very reason you were sent to me is that even that lowest of ambitions escapes your thick head.”

“I have talents. I have a destiny.”

“You have inclinations. You have desires. A plow-ass has those.”

“No. I have more.”
My dreams. My visions.
But she didn't mention those aloud.

“Well, we shall see, shan't we?”

“What do you mean?”

“You think yourself a creature apart, better than every other girl here. Very well—we shall give you the chance to prove that is so. Yes, we will. Come with me.”

Anne gazed down into the utter blackness and tried not to tremble. Behind her, three sisters tightened a series of ropes supporting the leather harness they had strapped on her.

“Don't do this,” Anne said, trying to keep her voice low.

None of the sisters answered, and Sister Secula was already gone.

The air wafting out of the hole was cold and metallic.

“What is it?” Anne asked. “Where are you putting me?”

“It is called the womb of Lady Mefitis,” one of the initiates answered. “Mefita is, as you know, an aspect of Cer.”

“The aspect that tortures damned souls.”

“Not at all. That's a common misconception. She is the aspect of motion in rest, of pregnancy without birth, of time without day or night.”

“How long am I to be down there?”

“A nineday. It is the usual penance associated with humility. But I urge you to use your time in meditation, and in perceiving the glory of our lady. After all, her fane is there.”

“A nineday? I'll starve!”

“We're going to lower food and drink sufficient for that time.”

“And a lamp?”

“Light is not permitted in the womb.”

“I'll go mad!”

“You won't. But you'll learn humility.” Her smile hid an uncertain emotion. Triumph? Grief ? Anne thought it could be either. “You must learn it some time, you know. Now, in you go.”

“No!”

Anne kicked and screamed, but for naught. They had her strapped well, and in no time the initiates had her out over the black well and descending into it.

The opening was as wide as she was tall. By the time her descent ended and her feet touched stone, it seemed no larger than a bright star.

“Keep near, where the stone is flat and level,” a voice floated down. “Do not go beyond the wall we have built, or you will find danger. The caves are empty of beasts, but full of cracks and chasms. Stay in the wall, and you will be safe.”

Then the circle vanished, and the only light remaining was the illusion of it painted on her eyelids, a single spot fading quickly from green, to pink, to deep red—gone.

And Anne screamed until her throat felt torn.

CHAPTER NINE
THE KEPT

PRINCE CHEISO OF SAFNIA spasmed and coughed flecks of blood onto the stone floor as his torturer drew a score across his back with a red-hot iron, but he did not scream. William could see the scream anyway, buried in the Safnian's face, digging to get out like the larvae of an earth wasp struggling to emerge from a paralyzed spider. But it stayed prisoned in that proud, dark face.

William could not help but admire Cheiso's bravery. The man had been whipped and burned, the flesh of his back sanded raw and rubbed with salt. Four of his fingers were broken, and he had been dunked repeatedly in a vat of urine and offal. Still he did not beg, or cry out, or confess. They were made of sterner stuff than William had known, these Safnians. He doubted that he would have held up so well.

“Will you speak now?” Robert asked gently. He stood behind the prince and stroked his brow with a damp rag. “You have sisters yourself, Prince Cheiso. Try to imagine how we feel. We degrade ourselves when we treat you thus, but we will know why you betrayed her.”

Lying there on a table turned upright, Cheiso lifted his eyes then, but he did not look at Robert. Instead, his black eyes focused steadfastly on William. He licked his lips and spoke.

“Your Majesty,” he said, in that faraway accent of his kind, “I am Prince Cheiso of Safnia, son of Amfile, grandson of Verfunio, who turned away the Harshem fleet at Bidhala with two ships and a word. I do not lie. I do not betray my honor. Lesbeth your sister is my dearest love, and if any evil has
come to her, I will live to find who did it and make him pay. But you, Emperor of Crotheny, are a fool. You have supped on lies, and they have fattened your wits. You may dig with your prick of iron down to my very bones and carpet your floor with my blood, but there is nothing I can tell you save that I am innocent.”

Robert gestured, and the torturer took the Safnian's ear in a grip of red-hot tongs. The prince's lean body arched, as if trying to break his own back and bend double, and this time a ragged sigh escaped him, but nothing more.

“'Twill take but a little time,” the torturer told Robert. “He will confess to us.”

William clasped his hands behind his back, trying not to fidget.

“Robert,” he grunted. “A word.”

“Of course, dear brother.” He nodded to the torturer. “Continue,” he said.

“No,” William said. “Respite, until we've spoken.”

“But brother dear—”

“Respite,” William said firmly.

Robert lifted his hands. “Oh, very well. But this is an art, Wilm. If you ask the painter to lift his brush in midstroke—” But he saw William meant it, and broke off. They moved away, into the dank and vaulted hall of the dungeons below Eslen, where they could speak unheard.

“What troubles you, brother?”

“I am altogether unconvinced that this man is dishonest.”

Robert folded his arms. “The birds that twitter in my ear say otherwise,” he said.

“Your birds have been magpies before,” William said, “leading us astray. Now is such a time.”

“You cannot be certain. Let us continue until all doubt is cleared away.”

“And if we find him innocent after all? They have ships in Safnia, you know. They might lend those ships to our enemies, and in a time when war approaches, that is no small thing.”

Robert's eyebrows arched. “Are you joking with me, Wilm?”

“What joke can you possibly hear in that?”

“I have already given it out that the prince and all of his retainers were killed by Rovish pirates in the Sea of Ale. Word of what we do here will not travel.”

“You don't expect me to have this man murdered,” William said incredulously.

“What sort of king are you? What sort of brother?”

“If he is innocent—”

“He is
not
,” Robert exploded. “He is Safnian, born of a thousand years of oily southern lies. Of course he seems convincing. But he will confess, and he will die, and Lesbeth's betrayal will be avenged. My sources are not mistaken, Wilm.”

“And how does this bring our sister back to us, Robert? Revenge is a sad feast next to a loved one restored.”

“We will have both, I promise you, Wilm. You have met Austrobaurg's conditions; twenty ships have been sent to the basin of the Saurga Sea already.”

“And you trust Austrobaurg to keep his word?”

“He is an ambitious coward; there is no more trustworthy sort of man, so long as you understand them. He will do as he says.”

“Austrobaurg maimed Lesbeth, Robert. How can he hope to stay our revenge if he returns her to us?”

“Because if you try to take revenge, he will send word to the lords of Liery that you have been aiding his cause against their allies. Certainly he can produce proof.”

“And you did not foresee this?”

“Indeed I did,” Robert said. “And I saw it as the only guarantee of Lesbeth's safe homecoming.”

“You should have been clear about that, then.”

Robert lifted his nose a fraction. “You are emperor. If you cannot see the consequences … I am not your only councilor, brother.”

“Liery must never know what we have done.”

“Agreed. For that matter, it must never be known abroad
that Lesbeth was ever taken captive. It would make us seem weak, which we can ill afford even in the best of times. No, this entire business must be erased. Austrobaurg will not talk. Lesbeth is our sister.”

“And that leaves Cheiso,” William grunted. “Very well.”

Robert bowed his head, then lifted his eyes. “You need not witness the rest. It may take some time.”

William frowned, but nodded. “If he confesses, I'll want to hear it. Do not kill him too quickly.”

Robert smiled grimly. “The man who betrayed Lesbeth shall not die easily.”

William's steps through the dungeon were slow ones. The vague fear that had lived in him for months was deepening, and at last it was beginning to take sharper form.

His reign had known border squabbles and provincial uprisings, but it had escaped real war. On the surface, this affair with Saltmark seemed another such petty dispute, yet William felt as if he and the empire were balanced on the tip of a needle. His enemies were striking somehow into his very house—first Muriele and then Lesbeth. They were laughing at him, the impotent king of the most powerful empire in the world.

And while Robert spun dark webs to snare their troubles, William did nothing. Maybe Robert
ought
to be king.

William paused, suddenly realizing that his steps had not taken him nearer the stairway that led to the palace, but rather, deeper into the dungeons. Torches still flickered here, clouding the dank air with scorched oil, but the passage faded into darkness. He stood there a moment, peering into it. How many years since he had been that way? Twenty?

Yes, since the day his father first showed him what lay in the deepest dungeon of Eslen castle. He had never returned.

He knew a moment of panic, and checked himself from fleeing back up into the light. Then, with something at least pretending to be resolve, he continued on a bit, until he came to a small chamber that was not a cell, but that did have a
small wooden door. Through it, William heard a faint, sweet music, a not-quite-familiar tune played on the strings of a theorbo. The key was minor and sad, with small trills like birdsong and full chords that reminded of the sea.