The Seer And The Sword (16 page)

In this wild desolation, she lost all fear of pursuit and travelled the open pathway, the only one. Here, sharp stones were worn down into a semblance of a trail. The track seemed to tell her this crossing was possible; others had gone before her.

Weariness dragged at her, a cloying imperative companion she longed to send away, one who tried to shout down her inner voice, tie up her spirit; who promised peace and comfort if only she would stop. The wind seemed to be Vesputo pushing her back. She fought him with all her will, ignoring the demands of fatigue.

There it was; the endless view that proclaimed her
triumph. She was at the top. Below, the welcome rim of trees, seemingly close. Not too far away, a garrison post, wedged into the edge of the trees. Beyond that, valleys. She could even see distant cultivated fields, and a wide swathe of blue sky.

Torina began the descent, sparing gratitude that, in Archeld, shoes for stable-hands were made thick and strong, for she knew it was time to leave the path again. If she stayed on the trail, they’d find her. She climbed over boulders and slid on the crunching slag, aiming herself at the tree line, sure that if she could get out of the wind, she’d win those far and beautiful fields.

It was evening. Three more times Dreea’s body had sent her through a racking spate of shivering and nausea. The same man gave her water and tried to get her to drink the bitter brew. She couldn’t keep it down. He cleaned the bed each time, saying nothing.

Her body craved something.

When Vesputo appeared with the other man, she knew his name. Her wits were clearing.

She trembled with desire when she saw the goblet resting on its silver tray. Her nerves clamoured with raw longing as the man brought it near. It smelled right, not bitter. The man smiled at her.

‘Better, my queen?’ His tone was deferential, not fooling her.

She doubted he knew she remembered anything. The inner prompting guided her to pretend. ‘Better, thank you. What was the matter with me?’

‘A sickness.’

‘Thank you for bringing my cordial.’ Her hands shook with the wish to drink it. ‘Vesputo, where is Mirandae?’

A small frown appeared on Vesputo’s forehead, and disappeared like a wrinkle smoothed by a hot iron. ‘Mirandae has been with her dying mother these last two months, my queen.’

‘Why don’t I remember?’ Dreea rubbed her eyes. ‘So tired. I need to sleep.’

‘Madam, there is news I must tell you.’

‘Please, Vesputo. It can wait till morning.’

‘Madam, do you remember that Torina and I were married several days ago?’

‘M-Married?’ She shook her head stupidly. ‘No, Vesputo. How could I remember something . . . I knew nothing about?’

‘Ah, my queen, your illness is at fault. You were told, of course. Torina particularly wanted you to be there.’

‘She’s better then? She’ll see me now?’ Dreea’s heart fluttered and leaped.

‘No, my queen. She is past seeing.’

‘P-Past seeing?’

Vesputo sat in a chair beside the bed and took her hands. ‘She died yesterday, by her own hand. She never recovered from her grief.’

‘D-Died? Impossible! She would not!’

‘I’m afraid it’s true.’

‘It isn’t true! I know my daughter. She would never – never leave without saying goodbye.’ Dreea yanked her hands away from him.

She stared at Vesputo. Looking at his familiar face,
she felt as though she saw him for the first time. He was a monster, not a man. He was lying, lying, lying. Torina was not dead.

From a deep, strong cavern in her heart, something told her what to do. She must say nothing to these men. They were the enemy. Dreea made herself stare glassily at them.

‘I know this must be hard for you,’ Vesputo said.

She didn’t answer.

‘The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. You will want to be there.’

Dreea didn’t miss the command concealed in his oily words. She nodded.

‘Leave me, please,’ she told them. ‘And send me a woman tomorrow, to help me bathe and dress. I need more water. I have a dreadful thirst.’ Vesputo bowed.

They left. Dreea looked at the goblet, still sitting there, enticing her. She clenched her fists till her nails drew blood. She felt drawn inexorably to the sweet, delicious drink beside her.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’

Drenched in sweat, she swung her legs to the floor and stood. The room spun. She waited for it to pass. She picked up the goblet.

‘Only one drop. Just a sip,’ she pleaded with herself. ‘One sip won’t do me any harm.’

Panting and swaying, she staggered to the hearth. She threw the contents of the goblet into the fire. It steamed and hissed.

‘No more,’ she groaned, stumbling to the bed. She replaced the goblet on its tray.

The shadow man returned with a pitcher of water. She saw his eyes register the empty goblet.

‘Will there be anything else, madam?’ he asked, as if it were a normal evening.

‘No. I need to sleep.’

The darkness seemed alive, pressing on her. Goblin shapes glided round her bed, hissing at her, gibbering evilly, a reverberating sound that bounced endlessly through her room. The lonely queen feared her reason was undone for ever. As a demon form sat on her chest, squeezing her life, she began to wish for death.

A terrible thought occurred to her. What if Torina had also been drugged? What if her daughter was visited by these hellish visions? Would it be enough to impel the girl to stab out her life? Perhaps Vesputo told the truth.

‘No,’ Dreea whispered. The demon grinned and devoured the rest of her breath.

She prayed to God for help, asking for a sign that her daughter lived.

All night she was mocked and menaced by grotesque forms. It seemed each one seized a piece of her soul and ran about the room with it, cackling in glee. She tried to call back the scavenged parts of herself. But all seemed cut apart, deformed, despairing. And always, the paralysing doubt followed her; Torina could be dead.

Near dawn, Dreea lay in a pool of sweat, her water pitcher empty, heart hammering a litany of exhausted fear. She was sure death would come soon, that her
heart would simply cease to beat. She had given up praying. Her body was turned towards the curtained window.

A pink shaft of light penetrated. The distraught queen focused on the ray of sun, clinging to it like a frightened child will hold its mother’s hand. Someone was walking into the room on that beam of light. Torina. The girl’s luminous eyes held her mother. She raised an arm. The gambolling demons gathered into a raucous ball, shrivelled up and vanished.

‘Live,’ the vision said. ‘You must live!’

‘Yes,’ Dreea vowed. ‘Yes. I’ll never drink it again.’

The apparition faded. Dreea threw off her blankets. She groped for the window. Fluttering hands reached for the wide dawn.

‘I’m alive,’ she told the sun. ‘And so is Torina.’

Later, a serving woman came. Dreea knew her; Amile. A kindly, simple-minded woman. Dreea confided she was hungry and Amile was glad to bring lunch. As the queen ate, some of the trembling left her hands. She drank another pitcher of water. Amile helped her bathe and dress. The queen called for a mirror.

The reflection startled her. Her hair was completely white. Purple circled her eyes. Amile braided her hair and wound it round her head, then added the simple coronet Dreea preferred. All the time, the queen sat lost in thought.

She was carried to the cemetery in a litter. The closed coffin, decked with dried flowers, sat near. She was among the first mourners to arrive. Vesputo was there, wearing Kareed’s crown. With flawless courtesy,
he assisted her to a chair. A few others stood near, Emid among them.

The trainer bowed over her hand. She took his rough, scarred fingers, thinking that he, too, had aged many years in a few months.

‘Stay close to me, Emid, please,’ she said. ‘It does me good to see you, on this dark day.’ She looked into his eyes, searching for a sign of willingness to speak her code. He met her gaze. Her frazzled heart smiled as he took a place by her chair.

‘Vesputo,’ she said calmly.

‘My queen.’

‘Vesputo, as I had no chance to say goodbye to my daughter, please, open the coffin before the other mourners arrive. Let me see her face.’

There was hardly a flicker of alarm on that smooth, handsome face. ‘Out of the question, madam. The sight is too horrible and you are too frail.’

From the corner of her eye, Dreea observed Emid standing rigid, scarcely breathing. She closed her eyes to hide the fierce surge of hope in her heart. Vesputo had answered. She was convinced. It was not her daughter’s body in that coffin.

Whose then? And where was Torina?

It seemed to Dreea that in only a few moments, a thousand soldiers surrounded her. They were everywhere, a dark mass of Archeldan green. Did Vesputo have so much power, then? These were all young men, and she didn’t remember their faces.

‘Ah, my lord, perhaps you know best.’ She saw him relax. ‘I must be ruled by you.’

He took her hand. ‘Madam, your wisdom is an inspiration.’

‘Vesputo.’ She lowered her voice, but not enough for Emid not to overhear. ‘I need your protection.’

‘Protection, madam?’

‘Someone has been drugging me.’

She had startled him. ‘Drugging you, madam? In the castle? Surely not.’

She leaned in nearer. ‘I believe it’s that woman, Irene. The one who brings my cordial at night.’

‘How can this be?’

‘Believe me, sir. It’s the only explanation. My mind has been crowded with grief, but I would never forget my God.’ She was speaking to Emid, hoping he heard.

‘My dear queen, I’ll do everything in my power.’

‘Thank you, Vesputo. I knew I could trust you. Please send for Mirandae to attend me. And ask Emid to recommend a guard. I’ll need a doctor too.’

‘Certainly. You have only to ask.’ His face was a cold, dangerous mask.

‘Now that my family is dead,’ Dreea told him, ‘I wish to withdraw from public life. As you know, it’s never interested me. I’ll weave, and visit the poor. The kingdom is safe in your hands. Remember, you can’t be too careful. I suggest you hire a taster for yourself.’

‘I’ll consider it.’ The dangerous edge blunted.

He went to greet important people. She turned to Emid, wanting to hold his steady arm. The trainer gave her the barest nod. She took a great, shivering breath and sank back in her cushions, tears of relief welling.

Dreea listened to her daughter’s memorial. The
crowd of mourners was enormous, most people racked with grief. Truell, the priest who gave the eulogy, was sometimes too overcome to speak. Poor man. He believed Torina was dead. They all thought she was gone.

Dreea hugged to herself the belief that her daughter lived. But as the service continued, she was consumed with longing for the silver goblet. Sweat started out all over her. By the time the coffin was lowered, her strength was gone. She saw the people lining up to kiss her hand.

‘Emid,’ she said, tugging his sleeve. ‘I must go . . . take me home.’

She saw the shock on his face, felt the welcome power of his arms, heard his great voice summoning help. Boys herded round her; a man with a kind face felt her pulse, patting her back. She was lifted into the litter.

Vesputo was there, ordering every care be given her, urging the people to return home, as the queen was ill.

Alone in the king’s rooms, Vesputo paced, needing to think.

Toban had given Dreea too much poison; nearly killed her. He was told to sedate her enough to miss the wedding. Now, due to her public allegations of being drugged (and Vesputo was sure more than one person had overheard her) it was no longer possible to continue with the charade of slowly diminishing health.

Vesputo swore to himself. A few more months would have accomplished her death, quietly. What was he to do? The people loved their gentle queen. If she died
now, rumours would start and questions be asked. Too many questions could lead to civil war, a bad beginning for a new king. Now was the time to consolidate his power, not fight for it.

Did Dreea know her influence? What would have happened if she’d insisted he open the coffin?

‘How I’d love to kill her,’ he told the fire.

But this queen never desired power, even when it was given to her. In the great game of life, she was a queen but she didn’t know it herself. A queen behaving like a pawn.

He summoned Toban. ‘You gave too much! I didn’t want a public spectacle!’

‘Sorry, my lord. Her constitution must be more delicate than I gauged.’

‘Ah. Will she live? Without your ministrations? For you must never go near her again. Whoever tends her must not trace you to me.’

‘I agree. Without the drugs, sir, she’ll be ill for a while, but should recover. Faben is said to be a fine physician. Have you decided to let her live, then?’

‘Don’t be crude, Toban. Yes, I have. She’s only a woman, and does nothing but mouth prayers and weave tapestries. Because of what happened today, if she dies now, it could bring me difficulties. As it is, I must find a way to answer the charge of drugs in the castle.’

Vesputo stared at the fire, looking for a solution. At last, he smiled.

‘I’ll tell everyone we’ve discovered that Irene was an accomplice of Landen’s, that they wanted to kill the whole royal family; that Irene may have given Torina
drugs, weakening her mind and causing her to take her own life.’

Toban looked at Vesputo with admiration.

‘I executed Irene in a grieving rage,’ Vesputo continued. He cocked an eyebrow. ‘That will explain her disappearance.’

In the kingdom of Desante, sixteen-year-old Lindsa scattered scraps for the chickens. The clucking birds pecked greedily, scurrying about in the chilly air.

Lindsa’s eyes wandered to the trees growing up the mountainside. She wondered again why her parents had chosen to build right up against the foothills. True, as they said, they didn’t get unwelcome visitors here. But then, they didn’t get welcome visitors either.

Lindsa lived for the days when she made the long walk to the village to sell produce and barter supplies. She’d stay all afternoon, laughing and talking. Sometimes she even caught a glimpse of King Ardesen’s soldiers and tried out her smile on them. But, here at home, nothing ever happened. Nothing but beans and squash and chickens.