The Briar King (20 page)

“I know where it is.”

“Could you make it there on your own? I don't like asking it, but if I take you all the way there and then come back, I'm afraid I might lose the greffyn's trail.”

“I'm not going to Tor Scath.”

“It's too far back to Colbaely with things like that roaming the woods. In fact—” He broke off. The greffyn hadn't had hands, had it? How would it nail people to trees and make a corral from their intestines?

“In fact, I'm not thinking clear.
I'll
take you to Tor Scath. The greffyn's trail will keep.”

“Aspar, if you take me to Tor Scath, I'll slip off first chance I get, and I'll follow
you
again. If you take me all the way
back to Colbaely, I'll do the same. If you don't want me wandering the woods alone, you'll take me with you, and that's that.”

“Take you
with
me?”

“If you're fool enough to hunt this thing, I won't let you hunt it alone.”

“Winna—”

“It's not an argument,” she said. “It's fact.”

“Sceat! Winna, this monster is the most dangerous thing I've ever heard of, much less seen. If I have to worry about you as well as me—”

“Then you'll be that much more careful, won't you? You'll think more carefully before doing something foolish.”

“I said no.”

“And I said it's not an argument,” Winna finished. “Now— we can talk about something else, something more pleasant, or we can get some sleep and an early start. Which will it be?”

Aspar stirred the fire with the tip of the greasy skewer. Nearby, Ogre grumbled something.

“Do you want the first watch, or the morning?” he asked finally.

“Morning,” she said immediately. “Throw me that blanket. And don't fail to wake me.”

Minutes later she was asleep. Aspar shouldered his bow and walked out of the circle of light. He had taken them back into the Brogh y Stradh, and a short distance away one of the many upland meadows showed through the trees. He stepped to the edge of it and regarded the rising moon. It was huge and orange, three-quarters full. A nightbird called to it, and Aspar shivered.

He had loved the forest at night, found leaves the most restful bed in the world. Now the dark felt like a cave full of vipers. He remembered the greffyn's eye, its awful disdain. How did you kill something like that? Would the young priest have known? Probably not, and even if he did, it was too late. He'd be a day's travel toward d'Ef by now.

Would that Winna were that far away.

Would that she had never found him.

No matter how earnestly he told himself that, it still felt like a lie. Disgusted, he turned his back to the evil-looking moon and returned to the edge of the firelight and Winna's slow, regular breathing.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
WIDDERSHINS

BY THE TIME THEY HAD REACHED the festival grounds, Fastia had filled Neil's head with the names of so many lords, ladies, retainers, grefts, archgrefts, margrefts, marascalhs, sinescalhs, earls, counts, landfroas, andvats, barons, and knights he feared it would burst. He spent most of his time nodding and making noises to let her know he was listening. Meanwhile, Sir Fail, still speaking with the king, drew farther and farther away. The rest of the royal party outpaced them until only he and Fastia and a few of the deviceless knights were left.

When they reached the hilltop, with its gaudy and bewildering collection of tents, plant growth, and costumed servants Fastia, too, excused herself. “I need to speak to my mother,” she explained. “Details about the celebration. Do try to enjoy yourself.”

“I will, Archgreffess. My deepest thanks for your conversation.”

“It is little enough,” Fastia said stiffly. “It's rare we get a breath of fresh air in this court, and well worth breathing it when it comes along.” She began to ride away, then paused, turned her horse back, and brought her head quite near his, so that he could smell the cinnamon perfume she wore. “There are others in the court you haven't met. I pointed out my uncle, Robert? My father's brother? My father has two sisters, as well. Lesbeth, the duchess of Andemeur, and Elyoner, the duchess of Loiyes. You'll find the first sweet-tempered and pleasant in conversation. Elyoner I advise you to avoid, at
least until you are wiser. She can be dangerous for young men like you.”

Neil bowed in the saddle. “Thank you again, Princess Fastia, for your company and your advice.”

“Again you are welcome.” This time she rode off without looking back.

That left him alone, which gave him time to let it all sink in, to try to understand the seeming chaos around him.

And to struggle with the fact that he had actually met a king. No, not just
a
king, but
the
king, the
Amrath
, the
Ardrey
— the emperor of Crotheny and the kingdoms that served it, the greatest nation in the world.

He began a brief prayer of thanks to Saint Lier.

“Look how Sir Bumpkin sits his horse,” someone said, behind him. “Praying to stay in the saddle, Sir Bumpkin?” Another man guffawed in response. Neil finished his prayer, then looked about to see who “Sir Bumpkin” might be, and found two of the sable-and-green-clad knights regarding him. The one who had spoken had a hawkish nose and a small black beard. His companion was pox-scarred, with chipped teeth and eyes like blue ice. Nearby, another of the knights started drifting toward them.

“You are wrong on at least one count,” Neil replied. “I am not titled, and thus no ‘sir’ of any sort.”

“It's just plain Bumpkin, then? A pity,” the knight said, pulling thoughtfully at his goatee. “Seeing how poorly you sit a horse, I had a mind to see how you fall off of one. But I suspect if I watch long enough, that will happen of its own accord.”

“Have I given you offense, sir?”

“
Offense
is too strong a word. You amuse.”

“Well, I'm happy, I suppose, if I can give such a great lord as yourself amusement,” Neil replied evenly.

“You
suppose
? You don't even know who I
am
, do you?”

“No, sir. You wear no device.”

“This braying island ass doesn't know who I am, fellows.”

The third knight arrived, a huge, bearlike man with a bristly blond beard. “Sometimes your own mother pretends
she don't know you either, Jemmy,” he ground out in bass tones. “Leave the lad be.”

The man Neil gathered to be Jemmy pursed his lips as if to make retort, then laughed. “I suppose I must,” he said. “And he is, after all, too far beneath me to muck about with. Go along, Bumpkin.” He kneed his mount, turning dismissively away.

“I pray, sir, that you
do
tell me your name,” Neil called after him.

The fellow turned slowly back. “And why is that, Bumpkin?”

“So when I take the rose and don my spurs I can call on you.”

The knight laughed, and his companions with him. “Very well,” he allowed. “I am Sir James Cathmayl. I will be happy to kill you, just as soon as you wear the rose. But rumor has it that you're merely a lost puppy, nipping about the heels of Sir Fail, with no house, lands, title, or good name. Is it true?”

Neil drew himself straighter. “All but the last. My father gave me this name, and his father before him, and we have faithfully served the Toute de Liery for three generations. MeqVren is a good name, and he who disputes that is a liar.” He cocked his head. “And if I'm of so little count, why are there rumors about me already?”

Sir James tweaked his mustache. “Because Sir Fail, however eccentric, is one of the most important men in the kingdom. Because you spoke to both His and Her Majesty.”

“And because it's said you made three squires of that oaf Alareik Fram Wishilm shit themselves,” the blond-bearded giant added.

“That, too,” Sir James admitted. “You're a curiosity, is what you are.”

“And who are you fellows? What lord do you serve?”

Blond-beard chuckled good-naturedly; the other two sneered. “He
is
a babe, isn't he?” Sir James grunted, rolling his eyes. “Who do you
think
we are, boy?” He didn't wait for an answer, but turned and rode away. Poxy-face went with him.

Neil blushed, but stood his ground.

“We're the Craftsmen, lad,” Blond-beard said. “The royal bodyguard.”

“Oh.” Of course, he had heard of the most famous guard in the land. How stupid that he hadn't known their colors. “My apologies. I should have known, by your very presence around the king.”

The blond man shrugged. “Never mind Jemmy. He's not a bad sort, when you get to know him.”

“And may I ask your name, sir?”

“Why? So you can call me out, too?”

“Not at all. I'd like to know the name of the man who showed me kindness.”

“Well. Vargus Farre, at your service. I'm pleased to meet you, and I wish you luck. It's only honest to tell you this, though: I've never heard of an ungentle man being knighted, and if by some miracle you are, you'll know little peace. You'll be seen as an affront, and every knight in the country will bring challenge against you. Take my advice—stay with Sir Fail as his man-at-arms. It will be a good thing for you.”

“I'll take what the king gives me, and desire no more,” Neil replied. “My only wish is to serve His Majesty as best I can.”

Sir Vargus smiled. “Those are words I've heard often enough to render 'em as meaningless as geese honking. And yet I think you mean them, don't you?”

“I mean them.”

“Well, then. Saints smile on you. And now I must attend to my duties.”

Neil watched him go, still feeling stupid. He noticed them, now, watching from afar. Even though the king and Sir Fail looked as if they were alone, in fact there was a circle of Craftsmen around them—at a distance, yes, looking almost uninterested. But when someone moved toward the king, so did they.

He looked for the queen and found her near the edge of the hill, talking to two ladies. There, too, vigilant Craftsmen kept both their range and their guard.

It was said these men renounced all lands and property upon entering the royal bodyguard. It was also said that they
felt neither pain nor desire, that none could stand against them, that their weapons had been forged by giants.

Perhaps that's why he hadn't recognized them right away. To Neil, they seemed like any other men.

Alone again, Neil had the leisure to reflect on just how out of place he felt. In Liery, he had known who he was. He was Neil, son of Fren, and since the destruction of his clan, the fosterling of Fail de Liery. More than that, he had been a warrior, and a good one. Even the knights of Liery had recognized that, and complimented him on it. He had been one of them in all but title. None had successfully stood against him in single combat since he was fourteen. No enemy of the de Lierys had ever stood against him at all, not since that day on the beach.

But what use was he here, in this place of frilly tents and costumes? Where even the most civil of the royal bodyguard spoke to him with such condescension? What could he do here?

Better that he serve the empire as he always had, as a warrior of the marches, where it mattered little whether or not one wore a rose, and mattered much how one wielded a sword.

He would find Fail de Liery and ask him not to recommend him. It was the only sensible course of action.

He looked about and saw Sir Fail break away from the king.

“Come, Hurricane,” he told his mount, “let's tell him, and hope it's not too late.”

But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of the queen. The sight of her held him momentarily.

She was still mounted, silhouetted against the blue sky. Beyond her, the land dropped away to a distant green, still misty with morning. A breeze ruffled her hair.

He realized he had stared too long, and began to turn, when a motion caught his eye. It was one of the Craftsmen, his mount at full gallop, careening across the green toward her, a long silver flash of steel in his hand.

Neil didn't think but kicked Hurricane into motion. Clearly the knight was rushing to meet some threat. Frantically, Neil
searched with his eyes as he galloped forward, but saw nothing the warrior might be responding to.

And then he understood. He drew Crow, flourishing her and uttering the piercing war cry of the MeqVrens.

Austra giggled as Anne shooed away some great lout dressed as an ogre, brandishing her willow-wand sword.

“This is fun,” the maid said.

“It's good of you tell me,” Anne replied. “Else I might never have known.”

“Oh, foo. You're having fun.”

“Maybe a little. But it's time we part company, fair lady.”

“What do you mean?” Austra said. “You are my knight. Who else shall escort me to the center of the maze and the Elphin queen's court?”

“That isn't your charge, as well you know. You must find Roderick and direct him to meet me at the fane of Saint Under.”

“In Eslen-of-Shadows? That's—”

“The last place anyone will look for us. And it's not far from here. He is to meet me there at dusk. Go find him, tell him, then find me again in the maze. We shall then proceed to my sister's birthday court, and none will be the wiser.”

“I don't know. Fastia and your mother must be watching us.”