The Briar King (36 page)

“These are all statements of fact, more or less,” Muriele noted. “What do you
think
?”

“I think if Hansa believed that by striking at the king's family they could weaken the kingdom, they would do it. But, to be honest, this retreat to the countryside makes me uneasy.”

“Why?”

“I am not altogether certain. It feels … wrong. Why try to slay
you
, rather than the king himself ? And how can you be safe in any place when we don't even know how your man was turned against you? If 'twere shinecraft,
I
might be turned against you just as easily. I would throw myself on my sword before doing you harm, but I'll wager that knight I slew would have sworn the same thing.”

“Perhaps. Sir Neil, in some things you are wise beyond your years, but in the ways of the court you are yet naïve. It takes no shinecraft to corrupt a man, not even a Craftsman. The magicks of greed, fear, and envy are quite enough to work most of the evil you will ever see at court.

“As to why me, rather than the king, I admit to puzzlement there, as well.”

“Maybe …” Neil frowned to himself a moment. “What if all your enemy desired was to
separate
you from the king? To divide your family?”

Something about what the knight was saying seemed very right. “Go on,” she said.

“If I were the king, suddenly deprived of children and— wife—I would feel the weaker. Like a wagon missing a wheel.”

“My husband still has his mistresses. And his brother.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. But—what if it were
they
who wanted you out of the way?”

Muriele stared at the young man, suddenly realizing she did not have a measure of him at all. “By the saints, Sir Neil,” she murmured. “It was purest libel for me to call you naïve. Accept my apologies, I beg you.”

“I know nothing, Your Majesty,” Neil said slowly, “but I follow the lady Erren's advice to the end of the path. In my mind, I must think everyone in the world your enemy. The lady Erren included. Myself included. And if I think like that, everything seems suspicious. And if I think like that, saints willing, I will not long stand surprised when your true foes raise their hands again. Instead, I will slaughter them where they stand.”

The passion in his voice sent a shiver through her. Sometimes,
at court, one forgot that there were real people in the world, genuine people. This young man was such a one, still. He was genuine, he was dangerous, and, saints willing, he was hers.

“Thank you, Sir Neil, for your opinion. I find it worth considering.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, for listening to my concerns.”

Lesbeth tossed back her auburn hair and stared off across the western bay, and the great white teeth of Thornrath that marked it from the periwinkle sea beyond. She could just make out the white sails of a merchantman, near the horizon. A gull wheeled overhead, no doubt eyeing the remains of the baked hen, Donchest cheese, and honey cakes still spread on the picnic cloth.

“A beautiful day,” her brother Robert said, sipping from the last half of their second bottle of wine. They sat together on the westernmost prominence of Ynis, a grassy spur littered with the crumbled ruins of an old tower.

“It is,” Lesbeth replied, flashing him a smile she didn't quite feel. Robert had been …
brittle
since he learned of her betrothal. She'd accepted his invitation to picnic, in hopes of healing that. But she hadn't dreamed he would bring her
here
of all places. Robert was spiteful, yes, but usually not to her.

Just concentrate on the sea and sky,
she told herself.
Concentrate on the beauty.

But Robert seemed determined not to let her.

“Do you remember how we came up here as children?” he asked. “We used to pretend the tower there was our own castle.”

“Those were excellent days,” Lesbeth said, around the lump in her throat.

“I knew you, then,” Robert said. “Or thought I did. I always fancied I knew your least thought, and you mine.” He swallowed another mouthful of wine.
“Then.”

Lesbeth reached for his hand and took his fingers in hers. “Robert, I
am
sorry. I should have asked your permission to marry. I know that. And I'm asking now.”

An odd look crossed Robert's face, but he shook his head. “You asked Wilm's. He's the eldest.”

Lesbeth squeezed his hand. “I know I caused you pain, Robert. It's only that I didn't know
how
to tell you.”

“How can that be?” he asked.

She drew a deep breath. “It is as you say. Once we were so close, one of us could not blink without the other knowing. And now, somehow—”

“You don't know me anymore,” he finished for her. “We have grown separate. Ever since that day when Rose—”

“Please, stop!” Lesbeth closed her eyes against the terrible memory, willing it away.

“As you wish,” he said. “But we never spoke of—”

“Nor shall we. I
cannot
.”

He nodded, and a look of resignation crossed his face.

“Besides,” she went on. “I know you believe my prince Cheiso insulted you—”

“I do not
believe
he did,” Robert said. “I am
certain
of it.”

“Please, Robert. He did not mean to give offense.”

Robert smiled and held his hands up. “Perhaps he didn't,” he allowed. “And so where is he now? I should think
he
would have come to ask permission—if not from me, then at least from Wilm. Why did he leave you to do it?”

“He will arrive within a nineday or two,” Lesbeth replied. “He had matters pressing him. He asked me to wait, so we might travel together, but I was impatient. I wanted to share my news.” She turned her head to the side. “Please, Robert. Be happy for me. You are my brother, and I do love you, but after—”

“After we killed Rose?” he said bluntly.

Lesbeth nodded silently, unable to go on.

“It was an accident,” he reminded her.

Lesbeth didn't remember it that way. She remembered a cruel game, played with a servant, a game that went further than it ever should have. And she remembered knowing that Robert meant for it to go that far, from the very start. After that, she hadn't wanted to know what Robert was thinking anymore.

But she nodded again, as if agreeing with him. “I cannot speak of this,” she said again.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I've spoiled our outing. That was not my intention. There are years between us we cannot repair, I know. Silence has worked on us like poison. But we are twins, Lesbeth.” He stood suddenly. “May I show you something?”

“What is it?”

He smiled and for a moment looked like the boy she remembered. “A wedding gift,” he replied.

“Up here?”

“Yes.” He looked a little embarrassed. “It's something I worked on with my own hands. It isn't far.”

Lesbeth smiled tentatively. There was so much hurt in Robert, so much broken. She did love him, though. She took his hand and let him pull her up, and followed as he led her into the mostly wild gardens around them. When they had been young, these had been well-tended, but over the years this spot had fallen out of fashion, and the roses and hedges allowed their own way. Now, in places, it was as dense as a true forest.

Robert did not lead her far. “Here it is.”

Lesbeth could only stare in dull shock. The sun was shining, flowers were blooming. She was going to be married. How could he do this?

He had dug up Rose. Her little bones—she had been ten— lay in the bottom of a yawning hole in the earth. Her clothes had gone to rotten rags, but Lesbeth recognized what remained of the blue dress she had last worn.

“By all the saints, Robert—” The horror choked off anything else she might have said. She wanted to run and scream, and bawl her eyes out. Instead she could only gaze into that hole, into that terrible crime of her past. She had never known what Robert did with the body. They had told everyone Rose had run away.

I'm sorry, Rose,
she thought.
Saints of grief, but I'm sorry.

“I love you, Lesbeth,” Robert said softly. “You should have asked my permission. Mine, not Wilm's. Mine.”

And as she turned to face him, he struck her in the breast, so hard she staggered back and sat down, her skirts billowing around her. She stared up at him, more perplexed than hurt. Robert had never hit her before, ever.

“Robert, what—” As soon as she tried to speak, she knew something was very, very wrong. Something inside her was all twisted, and her breath hurt like fire. And Robert, standing over her—his hand was still a fist, but there was a knife in it, the narrow bodkin he always wore at his belt, the one Grandpa had given him when he was eleven. It was red to the hilt.

Then she looked down at the front of her dress and saw the wet redness over her heart. Her hand was sanguine, too, where she had pressed it without thinking against the wound. As she watched, blood actually spurted between her fingers, like a spring bubbling from the earth.

“Robert, no,” she sighed, her voice high and strange. “Robert, do not kill me.”

He bent over her, his dark eyes glistening with tears. “I already have, Lesbeth,” he said, very softly. “I already have.” And he kissed her on the forehead.

Shaking her head, she crawled away, trying to get to her feet, failing. “I'm going to be married,” she told him, trying to make him understand. “To a Safnian prince. He's coming for me.” She could almost see Cheiso, standing before her. “I'll give him children. I'll name one for you. Robert, don't—”

Sheer panic swept through her. She had to get away. Robert had gone mad. He meant to hurt her.

But there was no strength in her arms, and something closed around her ankle, and the grass was sliding beneath her, and she was leaving a broad trail across it, like a giant snail, except that the trail was red.

And then a moment like floating, and Robert's face before her again.

“Sleep, sister,” he said. “Dream of when we were young, and all was well. Dream of when you loved me best.”

“Don't kill me, Robert,” she begged, sobbing now. “Help me.”

“You'll have Rose,” he said. “And soon enough—soon enough, you'll have company aplenty. Aplenty.”

And he smiled, but his face seemed very far away, retreating. She hadn't felt the fall, but the empty sockets of Rose's little white skull were right next to her.

Lesbeth heard the music of birds, and a whispering she ought to recognize, words she half understood. They seemed very important.

And then, suddenly, that was all.

CHAPTER TWELVE
SPENDLOVE

WHEN STEPHEN DARIGE AWOKE from the grips of Black Mary for the fourth time in one night, he cursed sleep, rose, and crept from the dormitory. Outside, the night was clear and moonless, with a feel like early autumn in the air. He walked a small distance, to where the hillside started its roll down to the pastures, and there sat gazing up at the stars.

The stars eternal,
his grandfather had called them.

But his grandfather was wrong; nothing was eternal. Not stars, not mountains. Not the saints, nor love, nor truth.

“Saint Michael,” he murmured. “Tell me what truth is. I don't know anymore.”

He felt as if there was something spoiled in him, something he badly needed to vomit up. But he feared if it came out, it would take a life and form of its own, and devour him.

He should have told the fratrex what the scroll was as soon as he understood. He shouldn't have translated it. By the saints, he shouldn't have.

Now it was too late. Now he had those evil words in him. Now he couldn't get them out.

A faint brush of shoes on grass told him someone was behind him. He was sure he knew who it was, and didn't care.

“Hello, Brother Desmond.”

“Good morning, Brother Stephen. Taking some air?”

Stephen turned enough to see the shadow of the man standing against the stars. “Leave me alone or kill me. I don't care which.”

“Don't you?” It sounded strange, the way he said it, almost
like a lullaby. Then a fist knotted in Stephen's hair and yanked him down flat. Desmond dragged him a few feet and then crouched, brought the edge of a broad-bladed knife against Stephen's throat.

“Don't you?” he whispered again, almost in Stephen's ear.

“Why?” Stephen managed. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because. I don't like you. You're going to walk the fanes next month. Did you know that?”

“What?”

“Yes. You're done with your translation, aren't you?”

“What? How did you know that?”

“I know everything that goes on around here, you little pissant. Why wouldn't I know that?”

“I haven't told anyone.”

“Don't worry. I took your notes to the fratrex for you, after I read them.”

The knife came away, and Brother Desmond stood. Stephen expected a vicious kick, but instead, to his surprise, Desmond sighed and sat next to him on the grass.

“Wicked stuff,” Spendlove said, almost whispering. “Spells to turn men to jelly, prayers to the Damned Saints. Blood rites, deformation of children. First-rate wicked. Is that why you can't sleep?”

“You read it,” Stephen said dully. “Can
you
sleep?”