The Briar King (16 page)

Anne yanked the netting from her locks, threw it vaguely toward the wardrobe, and dived under the covers. Austra hit the mattress at almost the same instant, hairbrush in hand.

“Ouch!” Anne yelped, as the curtain parted and the brush caught in a tangle.

“Hello, you two.”

Anne blinked. It wasn't Fastia.

“Lesbeth!” she exclaimed, leaping out of bed and rushing to embrace her aunt.

Lesbeth gathered her in, laughing. “Saint Loy, but we're almost the same height, now, aren't we? How could you grow this much in two years? How old are you now, fourteen?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen. And look at you—a Dare, through and through.”

In fact, Anne realized she
did
look like Lesbeth. Which wasn't good, because while Lesbeth was very
pretty
, Elseny and Fastia and her mother were
beautiful
. She would take after the wrong side of the family.

“You're
warm
,” Lesbeth said. “Your face is burning up! Do you have a fever?”

That drew a stifled giggle from Austra.

“What?” Lesbeth asked, her voice suddenly suspicious. She stepped back. “Is that a
dress
you have on under your nightgown? At this hour? You've been out!”

“Please don't tell Fastia. Or Mother. It was really all very innocent—”

“I won't have to tell them. Fastia is on the way up.”

“Still?”

“Of course. You don't think she'd trust me with her duty?”

“How long do I have?”

“She's finishing her wine. She had half a glass when I left, and I asked for a moment alone with you.”

“Thank the saints. Help me out of this dress!”

Lesbeth looked stern for a second, then laughed. “Very well. Austra, could you bring a damp cloth? We'll want to wipe her face.”

“Yes, Duchess.”

A few moments later they had the dress off, and Lesbeth was unlacing the corset. Anne groaned in relief as her ribs sighed out to where nature perversely reckoned they ought to be.

“Had that pretty tight, didn't you?” Lesbeth commented. “Who is he?”

Anne feared her cheeks would scorch. “I can't tell you that.”

“Ah. Someone disreputable. A stablehand, perhaps?”

“No! No. He's gentle—just someone Mother wouldn't like.”

“Disreputable, then, indeed. Come on—tell. You know I won't let on. Besides, I have a
big
secret to tell you. It's only fair.”

“Well …” She chewed her lip. “His name is Roderick of Dunmrogh.”

“Dunmrogh? Well, there's your problem.”

“How so?” The corset fell away, and Anne realized her undershirt was plastered to her with sweat.

“It's political. The grefts of Dunmrogh have
Reiksbaurg
blood.”

“So? Our war with the Reiksbaurgs was over a hundred years ago.”

“Ah, to be young and naïve again. Turn, so I can get your face, dear. Enny, the war with the Reiksbaurgs will
never
be over. They covet the throne a thousand covetings for every year that has passed since they lost it.”

“But Roderick isn't a Reiksbaurg.”

“No, Enny,” she went on, wiping the cool rag on Anne's face and neck, “but fifty years ago the Dunmroghs sided with a Reiksbaurg claimant to the throne. Not with arms, so they kept their lands when it was all over—but support him they did, in the Comven. They still have a bad name for that.”

“It isn't fair.”

“I know it's not, sweet, but we'd better talk about it later. Change that shirt and put on your gown.”

Anne ran to her wardrobe and changed the sodden linen for a dry one. “When did you learn so much about politics?” she asked, shrugging back into her embroidered nightgown.

“I just spent two years in Virgenya. It's all they talk about, down there.”

“It must have been terribly boring.”

“Oh—you might be surprised.”

Anne sat on the edge of her bed. “You won't tell anyone about Roderick? Even if it
is
political?”

Lesbeth laughed and kissed her on the forehead, then knelt and took her hand. “I doubt very much it's political for
him
. He's probably just young and foolish, like you.”

“He's
your
age, nineteen.”

“I'm twenty, meadowlark.” She brushed a curly strand from out of Anne's face. “And when your sister comes in, try to keep the left side of your head away from her.”

“Why?”

“You have a love bite, there, just below your ear. I think even Fastia will know what it is.”

“Oh, mercifu—”

“I'll comb your hair, like I was doing when the duchess came in,” Austra volunteered. “I can keep it pulled long over that spot.”

“That's a good plan,” Lesbeth approved. She chuckled again. “When did this happen to our little lark, Austra? When last I saw her she was still dressing up in the stablejack's clothes so she wouldn't have to ride sidesaddle. When did she become such a
lady
?”

“I still ride,” Anne said defensively.

“That's true enough,” Austra said. “That's how she met this fellow. He followed her down the Snake.”

“Not fainthearted, then.”

“Roderick is anything but fainthearted,” Anne said. “So what's
your
big secret, Lez?”

Lesbeth smiled. “I've already asked your father's permission, so I suppose I'll tell you. I'm getting married.”

“Married?” Anne and Austra said, in unison.

“Yes.” Lesbeth frowned. “I didn't like the sound of that! You seem incredulous.”

“It's just—at your age—”

“Oh, I see. You had me reckoned a spinster. Well, I had plenty of sisters, and they all married well. I was the youngest so I got to do something they didn't. I got to be choosy.”

“So who is he?”

“A wonderful man, daring and kind. Like your Roderick, far from fainthearted. He has the most elegant castle, and an estate that stretches—”

“Who?”

“Prince Cheiso of Safnia.”

“Safnia?” Anne repeated.

“Where is Safnia?” Austra asked.

“On the shore of the southern sea,” Lesbeth said dreamily. “Where oranges and lemons grow outdoors, and bright birds sing.”

“I've never heard of it.”

“Not surprising, if you pay no more attention to your tutors now than you did when I still lived here.”

“You love him, don't you?” Anne asked.

“Indeed I do. With all of my heart.”

“So it's not political?”

Lesbeth laughed again. “Everything is political, meadowlark. It's not like I could have married a cowherd, you know. Safnia, though you ladies have never heard of it, is a rather important place.”

“But you're marrying for love!”

“Yes.” She wiggled a finger at Anne. “But don't let that put foolish ideas in your head. Live in the kingdom that is, not the one that ought to be.”

“Well,” a somewhat frosty voice said, as the curtain to the antechamber parted again. “That's better advice than I expected
you
to be giving her, Lesbeth.”

“Hello, Fastia.”

Fastia was older than all of them, almost twenty-three. Her hair was umber silk, now bound up in a net, and her small features were perfect and demure. She was no taller than Anne or Austra, and a handswidth shorter than Lesbeth. But she commanded
presence
.

“Dear Fastia,” Lesbeth said. “I was just telling darling Anne my news.”

“About your betrothal, I suppose?”

“You already know? But I only just asked my brother Wil-liam's permission a few bells ago.”

“You forget how fast news travels in Eslen, I'm afraid. Congratulations. You'll find marriage a joy, I think.”

Her tone said otherwise, somehow. Anne felt a faint pang of pity for her older sister.

“I think I shall,” Lesbeth replied.

“Well,” Fastia asked, “is all in order here? Have you girls said your prayers and washed your faces?”

“They were praying, I believe, even as I entered the room,” Lesbeth said innocently.

Anne nodded. “We're all but asleep,” she added.

“You don't look sleepy.”

“It's the excitement of seeing Lesbeth. She was telling us all about Shanifar, where her betrothed rules. A delightful-sounding place—”

“Safnia,” Fastia corrected. “One of the original five provinces of the Hegemony. That was over a thousand years ago,
of course. A great place once, and still quaint from what I hear.”

“Yes, that's right,” Lesbeth said, as if she hadn't heard the condescension in Fastia's tone. “It's very quaint.”

“I think it sounds wonderful and exotic,” Anne put in.

“Most places do, until you've been to them,” Fastia replied. “Now. I don't want to be the troll, but somehow the duty has fallen to me to make sure these girls get to bed. Lesbeth, may I entice you into taking a cordial?”

Hah,
Anne thought.
You can't fool me. You
love
playing the troll. What happened to you?
“Surely we can stay up a bit. We haven't seen Lesbeth in two years.”

“Plenty of time for that tomorrow, at Elseny's party. It's time for the women to chat.”

“We
are
women,” Anne retorted.

“When you are betrothed, then you'll be a woman,” Fastia replied. “Now, good night. Or, as Lesbeth's Safnian prince might say,
dena nocha
. Austra, see that you are both asleep within the hour.”

“Yes, Archgreffess.”

“Night, loves,” Lesbeth said, blowing them a kiss as the two passed through the curtain into the antechamber. After another moment, they heard the outer door close.

“Why does she have to be like that?” Anne muttered.

“If she weren't, your mother would find someone who was,” Austra replied.

“I suppose. It just galls me.”

“In fact,” Austra said, “I'm something glad they're gone.”

“Why is that?”

A pillow hit Anne in the face.

“Because you haven't told me what
happened
yet, you jade!”

“Oh! Austra, it was quite extraordinary. He was so—I mean, I thought I would catch afire! And he gave me a rose, a black rose—” She broke off abruptly. “Where's my rose?”

“You had it when we came in the room.”

“Well, I don't have it now! I must press it, or whatever one does with roses …”

“I think one
finds
them first,” Austra said.

But it wasn't in the receiving room, nor on the floor, nor under the bed. They couldn't find it anywhere.

“We'll see it in the morning, when the light is better,” Austra said.

“Of course we will,” Anne replied dubiously.

In her dream, Anne stood in a field of ebony roses, wearing a black satin dress set with pearls that gleamed dully in the bone light of the moon. The air was so thick with the scent of the blooms she thought she would choke.

There was no end to them; they stretched on to the horizon in a series of low rises, stems bent by a murmuring wind. She turned slowly to see if it was thus in all directions.

Behind her the field ended abruptly in a wall of trees, black-boled monsters covered with puckered thorns bigger than her hand, rising so high she couldn't see their tops in the dim light. Thorn vines as thick as her arm tangled between the trees and crept out along the ground. Through the trees and beyond the vines was only darkness. A greedy darkness, she felt, a darkness that watched her, hated her, wanted her. The more she stared at it, the more terrified she became of shapes that might or might not be moving, of slight sounds that might be footsteps or wings.

And then, when she thought her terror could be no greater, something pushed through the thorns coming toward her. Moonlight gleamed on a black-mailed arm and the fingers of a hand, uncurling.

And then the helmet came through, a tall, tapering helm, with black horns curving up, set on the shoulders of a giant. The visor was open, and there she saw something that wrenched from her own throat a keening sound somehow more alien than anything she had yet known. She turned and ran through the roses, and the small barbs caught at her dress, and now the moon looked like the rotted eye of a fish …

She awoke, thrashing with the motions of flight, not knowing where she was. Then she remembered, and sat up in her bed, arms wrapped about her middle.

“A dream,” she told the dark room, rocking back and forth. “Just a dream.”

But the air was still thick with anise and plum. In the pale moonlight streaming through her window she saw black petals scattered upon her coverlet. She felt them in her hair. Wet trickled down her face, and the bright taste of salt came to her lips.

Anne slept no more that night, but waited for the cockcrow and the sun.

CHAPTER NINE
ON THE SLEEVE

NEIL WOKE EARLY, inspected his new armor for any blemishing its single wearing might have left on it. He checked his spurs and tabard, and finally drew Crow, his broadsword, then made certain the hard, sharp length of her gleamed like water.

Moving quietly, he slipped on his buskins and padded from the room, down the stairs, and out of the inn. Outside, a morning fog was just starting to lift, and the docks were already alive with movement, fishing crews putting out for the middle shoals, seacharmers and salters and whores looking to be taken on, seagulls and fishravens fighting over scraps.