Sympathy softened the queen’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Neil shrugged. “It is one story of many,” he said. “Many times we tried to rise against our Hanzish masters. Always we failed, until the day Fail de Liery came over the sea with his boats and brought us arms, and fought beside us, and drove the duke and all of his men back to their homeland. Perhaps Liery fought for Skern due to some petty dispute—I do not know. I only know that now my people can feed and clothe themselves and are not hanged for speaking their native tongue. I know we can live now like men and not like Hanzish lapdogs. This is a small thing, perhaps, compared to what happened on this plain. But in my heart, Majesty, I know tyranny did not end with the Skasloi, and the fight for what is right did not end with the men who marched across Mey Ghorn. I know my opinion lacks education—” He felt suddenly as if he had said far too much. Who was he to contradict the queen?
“No,” she said, a small smile brightening her face. “The only thing your opinion lacks is the jaded view from the towers of the highborn. Thank the saints for you, Neil MeqVren. You put me in my place.”
“Majesty, I never meant to—”
“Hush. I’m done brooding, thanks to you. Let’s speak of this no more, but go down and make merry. It’s the eve of Fiussanal, you know.”
Memory flashed, of a blue dress and a face glancing up at him, and eagerness and trepidation exchanged blows on the battlefield of his heart.
But when they reached the horz, Fastia was nowhere to be seen.
Night gentled upon the fortress, and by the toll of the eighth bell the preparations for Fiussanal were done and even the excited Elseny was quiet in her chambers awaiting sleep.
Sleep eluded Neil, however. The memory of Fastia by moonlight haunted him, but something besides that nagged him. Perhaps it was the queen’s talk of the host of ancient dead around Cal Azroth that drew him back outside, to the rampart of the tower in which she had her apartments. From there he would notice any who might come and go into the royal residence, and so prosecute his duty. But he could also gaze over the haunted, moonlit plain, studying it for any wisps of mist or light that might remark some sign of ghosts.
After the tenth bell tolled, his eyelids were finally drooping and the moon was setting on the horizon. Neil was considering a return to his quarters when, with a faint thrill, at the corner of his eye he detected motion.
Staring straight on, he saw nothing at first, but from the periphery of his vision he made out several figures moving swiftly toward the castle.
He did not think they were ghosts.
He descended the tower as far as the battlements, hoping for a better view and to alert the watch. What he had seen could have been anything—a pack of wild dogs, a Sefry band, messengers from the court—but his watchword was suspicion.
He saw no better from the battlements, but in the courtyard below them he noticed something that raised his hackles. Two human figures lay there unmoving. The moon was not yet risen, so he couldn’t make out who they were, but the positions in which they lay made him doubt they were merely asleep from too much drink.
He hesitated only long enough to wonder if he should put on the rest of his armor. He wore his leather gambeson and a light chain hauberk, and donning the plate would take far too long. Grimly, heart pounding, he started toward the stair, keeping his steps light.
Down in the courtyard, he found his worst fears realized; the massive double gate stood open, and he could see stars beyond. Now, too, he could see the insignia of the Royal Footguard on the fallen men, and the pools of blood that pronounced them dead.
A man he hadn’t seen from above lay crumpled against the base of the stairs. He was still alive, though his breath wheezed strangely. Neil approached carefully, gaze sweeping the compound. To the right of the open gate stood a second portal, still closed, beyond which lay the causeway leading to the garrison. To his left was the queen’s tower. When he detected no one, and no movement in either direction, he turned his attention to the injured man.
With a start, he saw it was Sir James Cathmayl. His throat was cut, and he was trying futilely to stop the flow of his life’s blood with his own two hands. His eyes fastened on Neil, and he tried to say something. No sound emerged, only more blood, but the downed knight gestured at something behind Neil, and his dying eyes glittered bright warning.
Neil flung himself to the right, and steel smote the cobbles where he’d knelt. He turned and brought Crow to guard.
A man stood there, a fully armored knight. “Death has found you,” the knight told him.
“Death has found me many times,” Neil replied. “I’ve always sent her away hungry.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted, “Alarm! The gate is breached, and enemies are within!”
The knight laughed and stepped closer, but didn’t raise his weapon, and with a thrill of astonishment, Neil saw it was Vargus Farre.
“Traitor,” Neil rasped, leaping forward, scything Crow in a hard blow down.
The knight merely retreated, now bringing his weapon to guard.
“Don’t you feel it, Sir Knight?” Vargus asked. There was something wrong with his accent, with the way he spoke, and despite the fact that the man wore Sir Vargus’ face, Neil suddenly doubted it was really the man he knew at all.
“Don’t you?” Sir Vargus repeated. “Death arriving in you?”
“What is this, Sir Vargus, or whatever you be? For whom have you opened the gate?”
“You’ll feel it soon.”
And suddenly, Neil did. Something struck him like flame between the eyes, but a flame that ate out from within. He heard a voice that wasn’t his, inside his ears, felt a will not his own scratching within his skull. With a shriek he fell to his knees, Crow clattering beside him.
The knight who could not be Sir Vargus laughed again, and something behind Neil’s lips bubbled a sardonic reply.
9
Night Visitors
“Well, that was rather dull,” Anne muttered, lighting a taper to illuminate the tower room she shared with Austra.
“Really?” Austra said, her voice somehow faraway sounding. “I found it entertaining enough.”
“I would go so far as to call it quaint,” Anne replied.
“Quaint,” Austra repeated, nodding. She went to the window and looked out at the night. Anne sighed and began changing out of her dress.
“It was nice to wear a gown again, at least,” she said, “even one in such questionable taste.” She held the empty dress up before her, then, shrugging, folded it carefully. She pulled her coarse sleeping shift over her head.
“It’s back to lessons tomorrow,” she said, trying to distract herself from the lingering disappointment that Cazio hadn’t been Roderick, and the uneasy feelings the shameless Vitellian had stirred in her. “We’re learning the uses of alvwort, I hear, which I’m much looking forward to.”
“Uh-huh,” Austra murmured.
Anne turned a suspicious glance on her friend.
“We’re also having a lesson on changing babies into puppies, and the reverse.”
“Good,” Austra said, nodding. “That will be interesting.”
“Saints, what’s wrong with you?” Anne demanded of her friend. “You aren’t even listening to me.”
Austra turned guiltily from the window.
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just sleepy.”
“You don’t look sleepy. You look positively excitable.”
“Well, I’m not,” Austra insisted. “I’m sleepy.”
“Yes? Then what’s got you so interested outside?”
“Nothing. It’s just pretty, tonight.”
“There’s no moon. You can’t see anything.”
“I can see plenty,”Austra replied. “Maybe I’ll see Roderick riding up.”