The Briar King (67 page)

“Too mad. Saints, Darige, but you know how to make me mad.” His eyes rolled back. “You've killed me. Me, killed by the likes of you.”

“You shouldn't have betrayed the church,” Stephen pointed out. “You shouldn't have killed Fratrex Pell.”

“You're still a fool, Brother Stephen,” Spendlove replied.

“I know others in the church must be involved,” Stephen told him. “I know you took orders from someone. Tell me who. Make absolution to me, Brother Desmond. I know you must regret some of what you've done.”

“I regret not killing you when I met you, yes,” Brother Desmond allowed.

“No. That night on the hill.”

Spendlove looked very weary. If it weren't for the sanguine river flowing through his crossed arms, he might have been preparing for a nap. He blinked.

“I never had a chance,” he murmured. “I thought they would make something better of me. They made something worse.” He looked up, as if he saw something. “There they are,” he said. “Come to get me.”

“Tell me who your superiors were,” Stephen insisted.

“Come close, and I'll whisper,” Spendlove said, his eyelids fluttering like broken moths.

“I think not. You've still the strength to kill me.”

“Well, you've learned a little, then.” He lay back. “It's better that you live to see the world you've made, in any case. I hope you enjoy it, Brother Stephen.”

“What do you mean?”

“They're here.” Spendlove sounded suddenly frightened. His head threw back and his back arched. “It's only ashes, now. I was a fool to think I could be more. Great lords!”

The last was a shriek, and then he lay still, his body as quiet as his face was tortured. Stephen sat watching him, chest heaving, slowly trying to become sane again.

Aspar finally hit the troublesome monk in the neck and, while he staggered, put the last shaft in his heart. That left only the leader, who had gone behind the mound with Stephen. Aspar sprinted from cover.

The fellow he'd just shot hadn't given up, though. They met halfway to the mound, and he cut at Aspar with a sword, the steel a gray blur. Aspar stopped short, hopped back, then leapt forward inside the length of the weapon, crossing his dirk and the hand ax he'd acquired in a village two days back. He forced the sword down, then brought the hand ax up, edge-first, under the monk's chin, splitting his lower jaw. In return he got a blow from the sword-pommel that sent him sprawling.

The swordsman came on, stabbing down, slower this time. Aspar batted the blade aside and sat up fast, punching his dirk
into the man's groin. When he doubled, Aspar withdrew the blade and put it through his heart, which finally stopped him. Groaning, Aspar climbed painfully to his feet and resumed his run to the mound where Winna still lay bound.

“Winn!” Beyond her, he could see the last monk folded around his belly, with Stephen watching laconically from a few yards away. The boy was bleeding freely from his arm wound, but otherwise looked well enough.

Winna was looking up at him, her eyes strangely calm. Kneeling, he cut her bonds and with a muffled cry lifted her into his arms and yanked off her gag.

“Winna—” He wanted to say more, but he couldn't, for it felt as if he'd swallowed something big and got it stuck in his throat. And why was his face wet? Was his forehead cut?

Winna sobbed then and buried her face in his neck, and they stood that way for a long moment.

Finally, he pushed her back gently.

“Winna, did they hurt you? Did they …”

“They didn't touch my body,” she whispered. “They talked of it often. He wouldn't let them, Fend. He wanted me pure, he said. He wanted to do things in front of you. Is he dead?”

“Fend, no. Not yet. Winna?”

“I knew you would find me.”

“I love you, Winna. If you'd died …”

She wiped her eyes, and her voice was suddenly its old practical self. “I didn't die,” she said, “and neither did you. So here we are, and I love you, too. But the queen
will
die if we don't do something.”

“I've the only queen I care about,” Aspar said gruffly. “I'll kill Fend, right enough. But first, by the Raver, I'll see you safe.”

“Nothing of that. We started this together, Aspar. We'll stay in it together.”

“She's right,” Stephen said, rising behind them. “We've got to do what we can.”

“That we've done, I think,” Aspar said.

“No,” Stephen said. “Not yet. We may not be able to help them at Cal Azroth, but we have to try.”

“You made a damned good fight here, lad,” Aspar said. “You did us all proud. But look at you. You've no fight left in you. If we don't bandage that arm, you'll bleed out.”

“Bandage it, then,” Stephen said. “And we'll go.”

Aspar looked at the two determined young faces and sighed, feeling suddenly outnumbered.

“Winna, aren't you the one 'sposed to have sense?” he asked.

Winna lifted her chin toward Stephen. “My name is Winna Rufoote,” she said.

“Stephen Darige, at your service.” He shot Aspar a look that said,
you could have told me,
but didn't say anything. As-par felt suddenly embarrassed and put upon.

“Has he been as stone-stubborn with you as with me?” Winna asked Stephen.

“I don't know. I don't know how he could be any more stubborn than I've known him to be,” Stephen replied.

“Well, he can,” Winna said. “But I'm his match.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed him. “Aren't I, love?”

Aspar felt bloodfire in his cheeks. He pursed his lips.

“Sceat,” he grunted. “We'll go, but we do it as I say. Yah?”

“Always,” Winna agreed.

“And we get the horses. We'll need 'em.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHANGELING

NEIL FELL TO HIS KNEES, vomiting. He couldn't feel the stone beneath his hands, or even his hands, for that matter. Threads of darkness stitched across his vision.

“Welcome, Brother Ashern,” the knight who was and was not Vargus Farre said. “You're late. Was there trouble?”

Neil couldn't compel his vocal cords to answer.

“What's wrong with him?” another voice asked. Neil closed his eyes and saw the voice as a fidgeting blue line, like lightning.

“I don't know,” the false Vargus replied. “I was sick at first, but not like that.”

“It's no matter,” the new voice said. “We can do what needs doing, with or without him. But we cannot wait.”

“Agreed,” Vargus replied. “Brother Ashern, when you've recovered from your journey, find the queen. If she's not already disposed of, then do so. Remember, she thinks you are her personal guard. Your name is Neil. Do you remember that?”

His words made no sense. The black web spinning across Neil's vision was tightening its weave, wrapping around him, sinking toward his bones like a net cast into the sea. He briefly wondered what that net might bring up, and he remembered sunlight on whitecaps. He felt his father's hand in his own.

Then nothing.

He woke where he had fallen, face pressed into the stone. His mouth was dry, and his head ached as if from too much wine. Fighting the urge to retch again, he found Crow and clambered to his feet. He swayed there a moment, still dizzy, gaze exploring the shadows of the keep. It was still night, so he had not been unconscious too long, but the false Vargus and whoever he had been talking to were nowhere to be seen.

What happened to me?
The two men had talked as if he was someone else.

But he still felt like Neil MeqVren.

Glancing down, he saw that Sir James Cathmayl was dead, his glassy eyes staring beyond the lands of fate. All about, Cal Azroth was absolutely still and quiet, and yet somehow Neil sensed a stir of motion, of sharp darkness waiting to close on him and prick his veins.

The queen.

He started up the stairs at a dead run. Vargus had let someone into Cal Azroth, someone with murder in them. He prayed to the saints there was still time to stop them.

The guardhouse on the wall contained only dead soldiers, slain where they had been sitting or lying. As he entered the tower, Neil found more dead there. The blood pooled on the floor was still warm.

He passed Elseny's room and saw the door standing open.

“Elseny?” he hissed. He could see her lying in her bed. He hesitated—his duty was to the queen first—but decided to wake her and keep her close.

But there was no waking Elseny. The sheets beneath her chin were dark, and a second mouth gaped in her thin white neck. Her eyes were stones, and her expression was one of puzzlement.

Fastia.
Panic surged through Neil. Fastia's room was on the other side of the tower, in the opposite direction as the queen's.

He hesitated only an instant, then grimly continued toward the queen's apartments.

In the anteroom, he found carnage. Two men and a Sefry lay still on the floor. The inner door was sealed. He started
toward it, but something sharp pricked into the base of his neck, and he froze where he was.

“Move not,” Erren's voice rasped. “I can kill you before you draw another breath, long before you can turn.”

“Lady Erren, it is I, Neil.”

“I have seen Vargus Farre, too,” Erren said. “But he was not Vargus Farre. Prove yourself, Sir Neil. Tell me something only Sir Neil might know.”

“The queen is well?”

“Do as I say.”

Neil bit his lip. “You knew I was with Fastia,” he said, “that night in Glenchest. You told me not to fall in love with her.”

The assassin was silent for a heartbeat. “Very well,” she said. “Turn.”

He did, and she moved so quickly he almost didn't see. Her hand cracked across his face. “Where were you? Damn you, where were you?” she demanded.

“I saw men coming across the plain. I tried to raise the alarm, but the gate was already open. Sir Vargus opened it. And then he did something to me, witched me. I was sick and fainted; I don't know for how long. Is the queen …”

“She is within, and well.”

“Thank the saints.” He lowered his voice. “Lady Erren, Elseny is dead. Fastia may be in danger, as well.”

“Elseny?” Erren's face twisted in grief, but then her eyes narrowed and her features were again carved of marble. “You will stay here, Sir Neil,” Erren hissed. “Your duty is to Muriele, and Muriele alone.”

“Then you go, Lady Erren,” Neil urged. “Bring Fastia back here, where we can protect her. And Charles. All of the children must be in danger.”

Erren shook her head. “I cannot. I do not have the strength.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am injured, Sir Neil. I will not last the night. I may not last the hour.”

He stepped back, then, and saw how strangely she leaned against the wall. It was too dark to see exactly how she was hurt, but he smelled the blood.

“It cannot be so bad,” he said.

“I know death, Sir Neil. She is like a mother to me. Trust what I say, and waste no time on grief—for me, for Elseny— and no time on fear for Fastia. Stay clear headed, and answer my questions. I have killed three. How many are there in sum?”

“I don't know,” Neil admitted. “When the illness overcame me, I was not sensible. But they told me I was to kill the queen.”

Erren's brow furrowed. “They thought you changeling, like Vargus. Yet you were not. Somehow the sorcery was interrupted.”

“I don't understand.”

“Darkest encrotacnia,” Erren whispered. “A man is killed, and his enscorcled soul sent to take the body of another. The soul already in the body is ripped from it. You should not be alive, Sir Neil, and yet you are. But that may work to your advantage. If you pretend to be what they think you are, it might give you more space to strike.”

“Yes, lady.”

“The guards and servants are dead, you think?” Erren asked.

“Yes, lady.”

“Then you must get the queen to the garrison,” Erren told him. “They could not have killed all of the soldiers there. There are far too many.”

A faint noise came from down the hall.

“Hsst.” Erren stepped to the side of the door. Neil made out two pale figures moving toward them, and tightened his grip on Crow.

“That is you, Ashern?”

Neil seemed to remember that name from the courtyard.

“Aye.”

“Have you done it? The queen is dead?”