The Briar King (17 page)

Neil had noticed the chapel of Saint Lier the day before, distinguished by its mast-shaped spire. It was a modest wooden building right at water's edge, built on a raised stone foundation. As he approached, several rough-looking sailors were on their way out. He greeted them by passing his hand over his face, the sign of Saint Lier. “His hand keep you,” he told them.

“Thanks, lad,” one of them said gruffly. “And you.”

Within, the chapel was dark and plain, all wood, in the island style. The only ornament was a simple statuette of the saint himself above the altar; carved of walrus tusk, it depicted him standing in a coracle.

Neil carefully placed two silver coins in the box and knelt. He began to sing.

He prayed for the souls of his father and mother, for Sir Fail and his lady Fiene, for the hungry ghosts of the sea. He prayed for King William and Queen Muriele, and for Crotheny. Most of all he prayed that he himself might be worthy. Then, after a time of silence, he rose to leave.

A lady in a deep green cloak stood behind him. He started, for in the intensity of his prayers, he hadn't heard her enter.

“I'm sorry, lady,” he said softly. “I didn't mean to keep you from the altar.”

“There's plenty of room,” she answered. “You did not keep me from it. It just that it's been a long time since I heard anyone pray so beautifully. I wanted to listen, I'm afraid, and so it's to you I must apologize.”

“Why?” Neil asked. “I've no shame for my prayers. It's an honor to me if you found something in them. I …”

Her eyes gripped him. Sea-green, they were. Curls of black hair cascaded from beneath her hood, and her lips were a ruby bow. He couldn't guess her age, though if pressed, he would put her in her thirties. She was too beautiful to be human, and with a sudden dizziness, it occurred to Neil that this was no earthly woman, but a vision, a saint or an angel, perhaps.

So strong and certain was the feeling that his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't remember what else he had meant to say.

“The honor is mine, young man,” she said. She cocked her head. “You have an island accent. Are you from Liery?”

“I was born on Skern, my lady,” he managed. “But I am pledged to a lord of Liery, as was my father.”

“Would that lord be the Baron Sir Fail de Liery?”

“Yes, my lady,” he replied, feeling as if he were in a dream.

“A good and noble man. You do very well to serve him.”

“Lady, how could you know—”

“You forget, I heard your prayers. Sir Fail is with you? He is near?”

“Yes, lady. In the inn, just up the way. We arrived yesterday; he intends to present me at court today, unworthy as I may be.”

“If Sir Fail wishes to present you, the only thing unworthy about you is your doubt of him. He knows what he is about.”

“Yes, lady. Of course.”

She lowered her head. “You should know that the court will be on the hill of Tom Woth, today, to celebrate the birthday of the princess Elseny. Sir Fail may not know this, having just arrived. Take the northern gate and ride up the Sleeve. Sir Fail will know where. Tell him to go to the stone circle and wait.”

“You command me, lady.” His heart was thunder, and he could not say why. He wanted to ask her name, but he feared the answer.

“I wonder if you would excuse me now,” the lady said. “My prayers are less elegant than yours. The saint will forgive my clumsiness, I know, but I would rather no one else heard. It's been long since I came here. Too long.”

She sounded infinitely sad.

“Lady, if there is anything I can do for you, please name it.”

Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Take care in the court,” she said softly. “Stay true to yourself. Stay who you are. It is a … difficult thing.”

“Yes, lady. If you ask it, it will be done.”

So saying, he left her there, his feet feeling oddly heavy on the cobbles of the street.

“Quite a sight, isn't it?” Fail de Liery said.

Neil couldn't keep his head still. “I've never see anything
like it. I've never seen clothes like this, so much color and silk.”

Hundreds of courtiers were riding up the greensward, along with dwarves, giants, jesters, and footmen, all in fantastic costume.

“You'll see more. Come, those are the stones ahead.”

They spurred their mounts to a gallop, toward the small circle of standing stones near the forest edge. A large group waited there, mounted and on foot. Neil noticed knights among them, all wearing livery of black and deep sea-green trimmed in bronze. He didn't know whose colors they were, and they bore no devices.

“Sir Fail!” a man called out, as they approached. Raising his hand in greeting, he rode out of the circle. He was unarmored, a man of middle years, his auburn hair held with a plain gold circlet, clearly a fellow of some importance. Sir Fail dismounted, and so Neil did, too, as the newcomer also swung down from his horse, a handsome white Galléan stallion with a peppering of dark spots on his withers and muzzle.

“You old de Liery warscow! How are you?”

“Right well, Your Majesty.”

Neil's knees went suddenly weak.

Majesty?

“Well, I'm well pleased to see you here,” the fellow went on easily. “Well pleased!”

“I'm glad I found you! I would've been going up to an empty palace, right now, if it weren't for my young squire, here. May I present him to you?”

The king's eyes turned on Neil, suddenly, lamps whose light seemed both intense and weary. “By all means.”

“Your Majesty, this is Neil MeqVren, a young man of many talents and great deeds. Neil, this is His Majesty William II of Crotheny.”

Neil remembered to drop to one knee and bowed so low his head nearly hit the ground. “Your Majesty,” he managed to croak.

“Rise up, young man,” the king said.

Neil came to his feet.

“He's a likely looking lad,” the king said. “Squire, you say? This the fellow I've heard so much about, the lad from the battle of Darkling Mere?”

“It is, Sire.”

“Well, Neil MeqVren. We'll have some talks about you, I expect.”

“But not now,” a prim-looking young woman said, sidling up on the back of a delicate-looking bay. She nodded to Neil, and he felt an odd sense that they had met before. Something about her hazel eyes was familiar, or
almost
so. She was a severe beauty, with high cheekbones and glossy hair several shades browner than chestnut.

“This day is for Elseny, and none other,” the woman went on. “But I'll wish a good day to you—Neil MeqVren, is it?”

It took Neil an open-mouthed moment or two to realize she was presenting her hand. He took it, albeit belatedly, and kissed the royal signet ring.

“Your Majesty,” he said. For this was surely the queen.

A laugh trickled through the group, at that, and Neil realized he had made a mistake.

“This is my daughter Fastia, now of the house Tighern,” the king said.

“Hush your laughing, all of you,” Fastia said sternly. “This man is our guest. Besides, it's clear he knows royal quality when he sees it, at least.” Her smile was brief, more of a twitch, really.

At about that moment, another young woman came flying into Sir Fail's arms. He whirled her around and she shrieked delightedly.

“Elseny, what a sight you are!” the old man said, when he managed to step back from her.

Neil had to agree. She was younger than Fastia— seventeen, or thereabouts—and her hair was raven black, not brown. Where Fastia had a hardness to her beauty, this one had eyes as wide and guileless as a child.

“It's so perfect to see you today, Granuncle Fail! You came for my birthday!”

“That part was the work of the saints,” Fail said. “Surely they smile on you.”

“And who is this young fellow you've brought us?” Elseny asked. “Everyone has met him but me!”

“This is my charge, Neil MeqVren.”

Neil's face grew warmer and warmer at all of the attention.

Elseny was clad outlandishly in a colorful silk gown elaborately embroidered with flowers and twining vines, and she wore what looked for all the world like insect wings sprouting from the back. Her hair was taken up in complicated tiers, and each level had a different sort of flower arranged in it: hundreds of tiny violets on the first, red clover next, pale green saflilies, to a crown of white lotus.

Like Fastia, she offered her hand. “Granuncle,” she said, as Neil kissed her ring. “Really! Today I'm not Elseny, you should know! I am Meresven, the queen of the Phay.”

“Oh my! I should have known. Of course you are.”

“Have you come to be knighted?” Elseny asked Neil, quite suddenly.

“Ah—it is my greatest desire, Princess—I mean, Your Majesty.”

“Well. Come to my court, and I will certainly make you a knight of Elphin.” She fluttered her eyes and then, quite swiftly, seemed to forget him, turning back to Fail and taking his arm. “And now, Uncle,” she said. “You must tell me how my cousins in Liery fare! Do they ask after me? Have you heard I am engaged?”

“And here is my son, Charles,” the king said, once it was clear Neil's introduction to Elseny was done.

Neil had noticed Charles peripherally when they first rode up. He had seen such men before, grown adult in length and breadth but with the manner of a child. The eyes were the sign—roving, curious, oddly vacant.

At the moment, Charles was talking to a man clothed from neck to foot in garish robes that looked as if fifteen different garments had been torn, mixed, and patched back together. On his head sat an improbably broad-brimmed, floppy hat
hung with silver bells that jangled as he walked along. It was so large, in fact, the fellow resembled a walking hat.

“Charles?” the king repeated.

Charles was a large man with curly red hair. Neil felt a little chill when the saint-touched stare found him.

“Hello,” Charles said. “Who are you?” He sounded like a child.

“I'm Neil MeqVren, my lord,” Neil said, bowing.

“I'm the prince,” the young man said.

“That is clear, my lord.”

“It's my sister's birthday, today.”

“I've heard that.”

“This is Hound Hat, my jester. He's Sefry.”

A face peered up at him from beneath the hat, a face whiter than ivory with eyes of pale copper. Neil stared, amazed. He had never seen a Sefry before. It was said they would not venture upon the sea.

“Good day to you,” Neil said, nodding to the Sefry, not knowing what else to say.

The Sefry put on a malicious little smile. He began to sing and caper a little, the huge hat wobbling.

The jester's song brought howls of laughter from the crowd. The loudest was Charles, who slapped the Sefry on the back in his delight. That sent the jester flying. He tumbled crazily, grasping the corners of his huge hat and rolling into a ball.
When he came near someone on foot, they kicked at him, and he tumbled off in another direction, hooting. Within instants, an impromptu game of football, led by the crown prince, had distracted everyone from Neil, but his ears still burned from their laughter. Even the king, Fastia, and Elseny had laughed at him, though thankfully Sir Fail had merely rolled his eyes.

Neil tightened his mouth, locking a reply to the jester inside of it. He didn't want to shame Sir Fail with the tongue that had brought him trouble more than once.

“Don't mind Hound Hat,” Fastia told him. “He mocks everyone he can. It's his vocation, you understand. Here, walk alongside me. I will continue your education on the court. 'Tis plain you need one.”

“Thank you, lady.”

“We're missing a sister—my youngest, Anne. She's sulking down that way—see, that's her with the strawberry hair? And, look, here comes my mother, the queen.”

Neil followed her gaze.

She no longer wore a cowl, but Neil knew her in an instant, by her eyes, and by her faint smile of recognition. And now he understood why Fastia and Elseny had seemed so familiar. They were their mother's daughters.

“So, you roused old Fail,” the queen said.

“Majesty. Yes, Majesty.” This time, he did knock his head against the grass.

“You've met already?” Fastia asked.

“I went to the chapel of Saint Lier,” the queen said. “This young man was there, praying like a poet. They teach prayer like that only on the islands. I knew he must be with Fail.”

“Your Majesty, please forgive any impertinence I might have—”

The king interrupted Neil. “You went without an escort? To the
docks
?”

“My guard was near, and Erren just outside, and I was hooded. Disguised, as it were.”

“It was foolish, Muriele, especially in these times.”

“I'm sorry if I worried you.”

“Worried? I did not know. That's what worries, after the
fact. From now on you will not go about without escort. Please.” He seemed to realize that his voice had turned sharp, and calmed it. “We'll discuss it later,” he said. “I don't want to welcome Fail and his young guest with a family quarrel.”

“Speaking of quarrels,” Queen Muriele said, “I hope you will all excuse me a moment. I see someone with whom I need to speak. Young MeqVren, I apologize for my deception, but it was worth it to see your face, just now.” She looked over at her husband. “I'm going only so far as over there,” she said, “if you wanted to know.”

Neil was glad she had switched the object of her conversation so quickly, for he had nothing at all to reply. He felt guilty for something he could not name.