Dyfrig swayed and I tightened my grip more, casting an anguished look at Jusson. But the king was watching the descending player.
“So the very thing you hated you have become, honored elder,” Wyln said. “What are you going to do about it?”
“What can he do?” Rosea asked, her voice lilting, her frozen gaze avid. “He’s like an old, forgotten barrow. Green, grassy slopes on the outside, but inside full of dead men’s bones. Will his prayers be heard? Or is he anathema? What do you believe, Priest?”
“That’s the question,” Dyfrig whispered. “What do I believe?” He looked at me. “The world dying, Rabbit?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Reverence,” I said. “If we fail.”
Dyfrig nodded, his face grim. Then, pulling from my grasp, he picked up the bell from the altar and rang it. Hard. Unlike all the other sounds, this was bright and strong, the peal cracking around the square like the sound of great ice floes breaking. On the hall steps Rosea went very still. Dyfrig took a deep breath, then his baritone filled the humming silence.
“Hear all who will, my confession of sin. In the second year of my doyenship, I watched a person slain and did nothing—”
“No!” Rosea flew down the rest of the steps, her snow-white hands stretched out for Dyfrig. I quickly moved in front of the altar, bringing the Staff of Office before me and the player abruptly halted, snarling. Out the corner of my eye, I saw Jusson come up on her flank, Thadro and Wyln with him, while Beollan and Ranulf closed in on her other side. I tapped the staff against the ground, causing the bells to jangle.
“By the Holy God and His Saints,” I said, Arlis and Jeff joining me.
Seeing Rosea trapped against the steps, Helto lifted an arm, calling out: “Shoot!” On the parapet, Bram and the others immediately loosed their bolts. Thadro quickly raised the shield over the king and, at the same time, a flight of arrows arose from the archers in the square, causing the bravos on the rooftop to duck behind the parapet’s merlons, while Gawell, Ednoth and the others on the portico went down, the mayor with a visible bounce. Only Helto remained standing, but before the arrows could reach him, they shattered in midflight, those on the town hall steps crying out as frozen slivers rained down on them. The taverner didn’t bother to flinch as he snatched a crossbow from a cowering henchman and aimed it at Jusson. But Thadro kept the shield over the king, its device blazing in the cold light, while the Own formed a turtle around them both. Our archers swiftly nocked arrows, loosing another volley, and our ad hoc army surged forward, parting on either side of Dyfrig as they passed the altar, swords and various other weapons raised. However, the second volley was destroyed midflight like the first, and those on the portico steps rose up to to meet them with a muted clash of arms. And in the muffled background, like a surreal dream, the horses in the corral screamed and kicked at the fence slats, maddened by the sights and sounds of battle.
As Dyfrig continued to confess of his decades-old sin, I took another step towards Rosea, Jeff and Arlis at my back, Laurel joining us. The Own lowered their shields and moved aside to allow Jusson to emerge, the king’s sword in his hand, his gaze fixed on the player. Thadro and Wyln stayed with him, the enchanter outlined in blue fire. On the other side, Beollan and Ranulf continued their flanking approach; Beollan also with sword, Ranulf with his battleaxe. Rosea’s eyes darted first to the Staff of Office I held. She then glanced at Laurel with his fangs bared and his own staff. She finally turned, but not to flee back up the steps. As the near-silent battle raged around us, the player smiled at Beollan and Ranulf, her hands clasped demurely before her.
“My lords. It is good to see you too.”
Beollan’s silver eyes overwhelmed his narrow face. “It’s over, Rosea,” he said. “Let us take you home.”
My gaze snapped to the Marcher Lord, but just as quickly I looked back at the player. Rosea hadn’t moved. Hands still clasped, she shook her head, the pearls woven into her hair shimmering. “It’s not over, Uncle. There are still plot twists and turns to uncover. Why, we are just at the scene about the Lord of Bainswyr and his curious relic from the last Border war. A keepsake that has been passed from father to son.” Rosea’s smile stretched wide, her eyes triangular holes that glittered green as she looked at Ranulf.
“That’s your cue, my brother. Change for me.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Ranulf screamed, his battleaxe falling with a clatter as he dropped to his hands and knees. His clothes began to rip and tear, the leather ties on his armor snapping, his boots splitting, all of it falling away. Fur appeared, rippling over his body and sprouting on his contorting face, and he screamed again, pointing an elongating muzzle to the sky, muscle and bone shifting under his thickening pelt. The fighting faltered, all involuntarily stopping to watch the translating Marcher Lord.
“Ranulf!” Beollan reached down, but Ranulf swiped out a mutating hand, knocking Beollan against the stone steps.
“Bones and bloody ashes!” Jeff’s eyes were wide. “We didn’t change like that, Rabbit.”
I made a shocked sound of assent. The translations in the embassy and later in the Border had happened easily, in a blink of an eye. They were not pain-wracked and prolonged. Ranulf screamed once more, his voice deeper, wilder.
Rosea turned her too-stretched smile on us. “Sometimes you just can’t believe your eyes, Jeffen, son of Corbin.”
Suddenly one of our archers shrieked—and Magistrate Ordgar fell, an arrow sticking out of his back. Then a bowman on the roof also gave a muted cry and shot one of his fellows. There were more cries and the bully boys and henchmen’s swords flashed out at each other, while around us our ad hoc army disintegrated into small battling groups, pitting walking sticks against carving knives. Gawell and Ednoth, still cowering on the portico step, hurriedly got to their feet, the mayor gaping at the madness spreading before them while the head merchant turned a frightened eye on the mayhem happening behind.
Rosea’s agile tongue once more darted out to lick her lips. “And sometimes you can.”
“Illusion!” Laurel bellowed. “You are seeing things that aren’t there!” He raised his staff and rushed at Rosea, but Helto shot his crossbow even more quickly. The quarrel spun Laurel around, his staff falling to the paving stones with a rattle and clatter.
“Laurel!” The staves I held fell as pain bloomed in my chest. I caught the cat, but his weight bore me to the ground. Letting go of the spent crossbow, Helto grabbed another and aimed it at Jusson. The Own had started to lift their shields over the king once more, but they wavered and then broke apart, one crying out that he was on fire, another beating about himself as he screamed about snakes. The other guards, swamped with nightmares only they could see, attacked each other or dropped, curling in on themselves in terror. There was a clash of arms behind me as Jeff and Arlis fought people rushing the altar. At first I thought my personal guards had escaped the madness, but then Jeff started shouting about giant Pale Deaths while Arlis moaned about being buried alive.
Ranulf gave a roar that sounded like nothing human. An archer rose up, her eyes wild as she aimed at the Marcher Lord, but before she could shoot, someone grabbed her by her hair and dragged her back into the roiling fray.
The Own disintegrating about them, Thadro once more shoved in front of Jusson, but before he could lift the king’s shield in place, he too went down with a bolt in him. Helto, smiling, picked up another crossbow and aimed it at Jusson. The king snatched up his shield from Thadro’s slackened grasp and, stepping over his Lord Commander’s body, started running up the steps, Wyln with him. Just then, however, a wave of people from the square flowed up, engulfing king and enchanter in a deadened clangor of swords against swords and shields.