The Charnel Prince (69 page)

On seeing her, Remismund resumed his charming façade, told her he would bring her joy and riches, and then excused himself to set his guard on watch, as he was soon to be preoccupied.

When he sang that, Muriele gasped through the rag in her mouth as she felt again Robert’s body upon her, his hands pushing up beneath her gown. Her gorge rose, and she feared she would vomit into the gag, but suddenly Alis’ hand reached and gripped hers tight. The terrible memory passed from visceral to merely unpleasant.

Lihta was alone now, gazing out at the night. The eleventh bell struck, and somewhere in the distance rose the faint chorus of the townsmen assembling for their hopeless battle against Remismund’s men.

Then, in the high strings, something began to glide down, a bird returning to earth in many turns, here lifting a bit, but always going lower, until it faded entirely.

Then, alone—almost imperceptibly at first—Lihta began her final song.

When comes again the light of day,

My love, I will have flown away . . .

Her voice was tears made sound, but now Muriele heard it, the triumph embedded in the despair, the hope that could die only when belief in hope died. It was the melody from that day, the one that had decided her to commission the piece.

Lihta’s solo voice was joined by a single flute and then a reed, and then the croths with their sweeping glissando elegance. It no longer mattered what words she sang, really—it was only the fear, and the grief—and as the vithuls and the bass vithuls joined her voice, the desperate courage and determination. Tears poured down Muriele’s face as Remismund reappeared, unheralded by any music, but swaggering into hers. Lihta was standing by the window, wringing her veil in her hands as he took hold of her, and for an instant it seemed as if the music faltered, as if Lihta’s resolve had failed.

But suddenly her voice rose, climbing ever higher while below her the music arranged itself in a mountain, like the very foundations of the world and there,
there
it was, the perfect chord that brought rushing everything that had come before, the beginning meeting its end, its completion . . .

Its triumph.

Lihta leaned up as she sang, as if to kiss him, slipped the veil around his neck, and hurled herself out the window. Surprised, his hands occupied with her, Remismund had no time to react. Both plummeted to the street. And though Muriele remembered that the stage was not really very high, and that she suspected some sort of mattress lay disguised beneath the window, it did not seem so now. It seemed as if they fell, and fell, and died on cobbles far below.

And still the harmony hung there, Lihta’s voice taken up by the instruments as if to show that even death could not silence that song. A march began behind it, as the townsfolk rushed upon Remismund’s men, who, disheartened by his death, fled or died.

And when silence finally settled, it lasted for a long time, until someone shouted—no one important, just a person high in the gallery. But it was a ragged, glorious, triumphant shout, and then someone joined him, and then all the Candle Grove came to its feet roaring.

Everyone, that is, save Robert and Hespero.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Leoff gazed at the dumbstruck audience, then turned his regard to the praifec, whose glare was the match for any basil-nix. Leoff bowed stiffly, and heard a single loud cheer. Then the crowd seemed to explode. He knew that this was the greatest moment of his life—the like of which he would never know again—and felt not so much pride as the most profound contentment imaginable.

He still felt it half a bell later, when—as he was congratulating his musicians and blushing from a kiss Areana had impulsively given him—the guards came.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Robert’s guard dragged Muriele and Alis unceremoniously through the crowd and pushed them into the carriage that was to carry them back to their prison. But all the way back to the castle, she could hear them—the people—singing the Hymn of Sabrina. She couldn’t stop crying, and when the gag was finally removed, she sang with them.

That night, she could still hear them through her windows, and she knew that once again, the world she knew had changed profoundly—but this time for the better.

It felt—for the first time in a very long time—like victory.

That night she slept, and dreamed, and the dreams brought not terror—but joy.

ASPAR WINCED AS THE leic pulled the needle through his cheek a final time and tied off the gut.

“That’s done,” the old man said. “You were lucky in both wounds. The shoulder should heal well.”

“I’m not sure any wound is lucky,” Aspar said, relieved to find that the wind no longer whistled through his cheek when he talked.

“It is when another fingerbreadth could have brought your death,” the leic replied cheerfully. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve more of you to tend to.”

“What about her?” Aspar said, pointing with his chin to where Leshya lay, bundled up in wools, her unconscious face pale even for her.

The leic shrugged. “I don’t know much about Sefry,” he said. “The wound was pretty bad, and I did what I know to do. She’s in the hands of the saints now.” He patted Aspar’s unwounded shoulder. “You had better rest, especially if you’re really so foolish as to try to ride tomorrow.”

Aspar nodded, still regarding the Sefry. The ride to the castle was a memory seen through a fog of pain and blood loss. Winna had stayed with him, though, keeping him in his saddle. She’d left only a few moments ago, answering a call from the princess.

He understood that Sir Neil and the Vitellians were pretty banged up, but Leshya had the worst of it by far. They’d found her pinned to a tree by an arrow.

He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, went over to stand by her in the candlelight. His shadow fell across her face, and she stirred.

“What—?” she gasped, eyes fluttering open.

“Be still,” Aspar said. “You’ve been hurt. Do you remember?”

She nodded. “I’m cold.”

Aspar glanced over at the fireplace. He was sweating, himself. “I thought you’d taken off,” he said.

“Yes,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Couldn’t do that, could I?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Don’t you? But—doesn’t matter. I didn’t.”

“Werlic. Thank you.”

She nodded, and her eyes opened again. They shone like violet lamps.

“I have to go with them tomorrow,” he said, “to Eslen.”

“Sure,” she said. “I know that.”

“Well, the thing is, I need you not to die while I’m gone,” he explained.

“. . . Don’t take your orders, holter,” she said. “But stay here with me until you leave, yes?”

Aspar nodded. “Yah.”

He settled on the floor next to the bed, and soon fell asleep. When he woke again, it was morning, and Winna was gently shaking him awake.

“It’s time to go,” she said.

“Yah,” Aspar said. He looked over at Leshya. She was still breathing, and her color looked better. “Yah.”

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Cazio dribbled a bit of water onto z’Acatto’s lips. In his sleep, the old swordmaster grimaced and tried to spit it out.

“Well,” Cazio said, “that’s a good sign.”

“He has to drink,” the healer said. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and blood is made from water.” The Hornish healer spoke Vitellian with a funny accent, as if he were singing.

“Blood is made of wine,” z’Acatto contradicted, cracking one eye half-open. “The original wine, the wine of Saint Fufiono, that’s what flows in our veins. Water is what they drown babies in.”

The healer smiled. “A little watered wine wouldn’t hurt,” he said. “I’ll find some.”

“Wait,” z’Acatto wheezed. “What country are we in?”

“You’re in Hornladh and the Empire of Crotheny.”

Z’Acatto winced and let his hand drop. “Cazio,” he said, “do you know that no drinkable wine has ever been produced north of Tero Galle?”

“We don’t find our wines difficult to drink,” the healer said.

“Please,” z’Acatto went on, “I have no wish to insult, but that only means you have no sense of taste, at least not a cultivated one. How did I come to this hellish place? A man’s last drink should remind him of all that was good in life, not send him to Lord Ontro weeping.”

“First of all,” the healer said, “you aren’t dying, not that I can tell.”

“No?” z’Acatto’s brows lifted in surprise.

“No. You’ll be long in bed, and longer recovering your strength, but I’ve stopped your bleeding, and none of your wounds seem likely to go septic.”

“You’re mostly bone and gristle, in other words,” Cazio put in.

“If I didn’t know better,” the healer said, “I would say whoever shot you was intentionally trying to wound, not kill. Since no one is that good a shot, I’d say you have the saints to thank.”

“I’ll thank Saint Fufiono if there’s some Vitellian wine around here,” z’Acatto said, “and
much
thank the man who brings it.”

“I believe there is some Gallean
Barnice et Tarve
in the cellar,” the healer replied. “That will have to do.”

“Eh,” the swordmaster said. “That could work out until I can come across something better.”

The healer left, and z’Acatto grumbled a little under his breath, then fixed his eyes on Cazio.

“We’re both still alive, I’ve noticed.”

“Indeed,” Cazio said. “Although it’s unclear to me exactly how.”

“You’re hardly scratched.”

Cazio glanced down at the copious bandages and dressings that covered his body. “It’s true,” he replied, “All thanks to that practice we had.” He then explained, as best he could, the events of the night before.

“Well,” the old swordsman said, when Cazio had finished, “these are matters that . . .” He trailed off, and for a moment seemed to fall asleep, but then he perked back up. “When are we going home?”

“I thought you were the one who said I ought to get out and see the world.”

“Well, we’ve seen plenty of it,” z’Acatto replied. “Now it’s time to lie in the sun and drink something from a good year for a while, don’t you think? It might even be safe to go back to Avella by now, but if it isn’t, I’m sure the countess would take us in again.”

His eyes narrowed at the expression that must have crept across Cazio’s face. “What?”

“Well,” Cazio said, “as it turns out, Anne is Princess of Crotheny.”

“You don’t say?” z’Acatto snorted. “Don’t you remember when the news came about William’s death, how those girls got so upset?”

“Well, yes, but I thought they were just upset because their emperor had died. I didn’t know it was her father.” He remembered how when he’d first met Anne, he had held back his own minor title to impress her at the most opportune time. Now he felt silly about that, as about so many things.

“You might have told me,” Cazio said.

“If I don’t make you use your own brain, it will turn into meal-mush,” z’Acatto retorted.

“Anyway,” Cazio pressed on, “her kingdom has been usurped and her mother taken prisoner. She’s asked me to come along and help reclaim the one and free the other.”

“Not your country,” z’Acatto said, suddenly serious. “Not your business.”

“I feel as if it is,” Cazio said. “I’ve come this far—I think I’ll finish it.”

“There is no ‘finishing it,’ boy. What you’re riding into is war, and that’s something you don’t want any experience with, I promise you.”

“I’m not afraid of war,” Cazio told him.

“Then you’re a fool,” the swordmaster spat. “Remember how I told you fighting a knight was nothing like one of your noontime duels?”

“I remember,” Cazio said. “You were right, and thanks to your advice I’ve survived.”

“Then listen to me one more time, even if it’s the last time,” z’Acatto said. “Whatever you imagine war is, you’re wrong. It’s terrible, and being brave doesn’t help. It’s not dying in a war that’s the worst thing, it’s
living
through one.”

Cazio held his gaze firmly. “I believe you,” he said. “And I believe you speak from experience, though you won’t talk about it. But I feel this has become my duty, z’Acatto. I think I belong in this fight, and I think I should have earned enough respect from you that you wouldn’t imagine I still make decisions like a boy. I may not know exactly what I’m walking into, but my eyes
are
open.”

Z’Acatto sighed and nodded. “You’ve traveled farther than your leagues, Cazio,” he said at last. “And you have learned some judgment. I finally see the character I knew you had in you starting to come through. But take my council on this. Go home with me.”

“You can’t travel now,” Cazio said, “but when we’ve set things right in Eslen, you can join us there.”

“No,” the old man said. “As soon as I can travel, I’m returning to Vitellia. If you go north to this mess, you’ll go without me.”