The Charnel Prince (7 page)

“And you do it for kings.”

“There’s more. You’re from hereabouts? You’ve been [missing].”

“Auy.”

“Minstrels might travel in a group as large as four. Two on the croth, one on a pipe, and another to play the hand-drum and sing.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“There’s a tune—‘The Fine Maid of Dalwis.’ Do you know it?”

Artwair looked a bit surprised. “Yah. It’s a favorite at the Fiussanal.”

“Imagine it. One crother plays the melody, then another comes in, playing the same tune, but starting a bit after, so it makes a round. Then the third joins, and finally the singer. Four voices as it were, all at counterpoints to one another.”

“I don’t know counterpoint, but I know the song.”

“Good. Now imagine ten croths, two pipes, a flute, an hautboy, a greatpipe, and every one playing something different.”

“I reckon it would sound like a barnyard full of animals.”

“Not if it’s written right and the musicians perform it fair. Not if everything is in its place. I can hear such a piece, in my head. I can imagine it before it’s ever been played. I have a fine sense for things like that, Sir Artwair, and I can see when someone else does, whether it’s for music or not. There’s something bothering you. The trick is, do you know what that thing is?”

The knight shook his head. “You’re a strange man, Leovigild Ackenzal. But, yes—this town I mentioned, Broogh—it’s just ahead. But what do you hear, with those musician’s ears of yours?”

Leoff concentrated for a moment. “Sheep bleating, far away. Cows. Blackbirds.”

“Raeht. By now we ought to hear children hollering, wives yelling at their men to lay off the ale and come home, bells and horns sounding in the field, workers. But there’s none of that.” He sniffed the air. “No smell of cooking, either, and we’re downwind.”

“What could it mean?”

“I don’t know. But I think we won’t go in by the main road.” He cocked his head. “What use are you if there’s trouble? Can you use a sword or spear?”

“Saints, no.”

“Then you’ll wait here, up at the malend. Tell the windsmith that Artwair said to look after you for a bell or so.”

“Do you think it’s that serious?”

“Why would a whole town go silent?”

Leoff could think of a few reasons, all bad. “As you say,” he sighed. “I’d only be in the way if there’s trouble.”

After ascending to the birm of the dike, Leoff stood for a moment, musing at what a few feet in altitude did to transform Newland.

Mist collected in the low places like clouds, but from his heightened vantage he could see distant canals dissecting the landscape, coral ribbons that might have been cut from the dusky sky and laid on those amber fields by the saints themselves. Here and there he could even make out moving slivers that must be boats.

Lights were beginning to appear, as well, faint clusters of luminescence so pale, they might be the ephemeral dwellings of the Queer-folk rather than what they must be—the candlelit windows of distant towns and villages.

At his feet lay the great canal itself, broader than some rivers—but indeed, it must be a river, probably the Dew, caught here in walls built by human hands, kept here by ingenuity. It was indeed a wonder. Finally he studied the malend, wondering exactly how it worked. Its wheel was turning in the breeze, but he couldn’t see how it was keeping the water from drowning the land below. It squeaked faintly as it rotated, a pleasant sound.

A cheerful yellow light shone through the open door of the malend, and the smell of burning wood and fish grilling wafted out. Leoff got down off his mule and rapped on the wood. “
Auy
?
Who is it?” a bright tenor voice asked. A moment later a face appeared, a small man with white hair sticking out at all angles. Age seemed to have collapsed his face, so wrinkled it was. His eyes shone, though, a pale blue, like lapis bezeled in leather.

“My name is Leovigild Ackenzal,” Leoff replied. “Artwair said to kindly ask if I might rest here a bell or so.”

“Artwair, eh?” The old man scratched his chin. “Auy. Wilquamen. I haet Gilmer Oercsun. Be at my home.” He gestured a bit impatiently.

“That’s very kind,” Leoff replied.

Inside, the lowest floor of the malend tower was a single cozy room. A hearth was set into one wall, where a cookfire crackled. An iron pot hung over the flame, as well as a spit that had two large perch skewered on it. A small bed was butted up against the opposite wall, and two three-legged stools sat nearer the fire. From the roof beams hung nets of onions, a few bunches of herbs, a wicker basket, swingle-blades, hoes, and hatchets. A ladder led to the next floor.

In the center of the room, a large wooden shaft lifted in and out of a stone-lined hole in the floor, presumably driven somehow by the windwheel above.

“Unburden ‘zuer poor mule,” the windsmith said. “Haveth-yus huher?”

“I beg your pardon?” Artwair’s dialect had been strange. The windsmith’s was nearly unintelligible.

“Yu’s an faerganger, eh?” His speech slowed a bit. “Funny accent you have. I’ll try to keep with the king’s tongue. So. Have you eaten? You have hungry?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Leoff said. “My friend ought to be back soon.”

“That means you’ve hungry,” the old man said.

Leoff went back out and took his things off the mule, then let her roam on the top of the dike. He knew from experience that she wouldn’t go far.

When he reentered the malend, he found one of the fish awaiting him on a wooden plate, along with a chunk of black bread and some boiled barley. The windsmith was already sitting on one of the stools, his plate on his knees.

“I don’t have a board just now,” he apologized. “I had to burn it. Wood from upriver has been a little spotty, these last few ninedays.”

“Again, thank you for your kindness,” Leoff said, picking at the crisp skin of the fish.

“Nay, think nothing of it. But where is Artwair gang, that you can’t
go?”

“He’s afraid something’s wrong in Broogh.”

“Hm. Has been quiet there this even’, that’s sure. Was wonderin’ about it minself.” He frowned. “Like as so, don’t think I even heard
the vespers bell.”

If that brought Gilmer any further thoughts, he didn’t share them, but tucked into his meal. Leoff followed suit.

When the meal was done, Gilmer tossed the bones in the fire. “Where’ve you come from, then?” he asked Leoff.

“Glastir, on the coast,” he replied.

“That’s far, auy? Mikle far. And how do you know Artwair?”

“I met him on the road. He’s escorting me to Eslen.”

“Oh, gang to the court? Dark times, there, since the night of the purple moon. Dark times everywhere.”

“I saw that moon,” Leoff said. “Very strange. It reminded me of a song.”

“An unhealthy song, I’ll wager.”

“An old one, and puzzling.”

“Sing a bit of it?”

“Ah, well . . .” Leoff cleared his throat.

Riciar over fields did ride

Beneath the mountains of the west

And there the palest queen he spied

In lilies fair taking her rest

Her arms shone like the fullest moon

Her eyes glimed like the dew

On her gown rang silver bells

Her hair with precious diamonds strewn

All hail to thee, oh my great queen

All hail to thee he cried

For thou must be the greatest saint

That ere a man has spied

Said she truly I am no saint

I am no goddess bright

But it’s the queen of Alvish lands

You’ve come upon tonight

Oh Riciar welcome to my fields

Beneath the mountains of the west

Come and take with me repose

Of mortal knights I love thee best

And I will show thee wonders three

And what the future holds

And I will share my wine with thee

My arms wilt thou enfold

And there beneath the western sky

She showed him wonders three

And in the after bye and bye

She gave him Alvish eyes to see

Oh Riciar stay with me awhile

Keep here for an age or two

Leave the lands of fate behind

And sleep with oak and ash and yew

Here’s my gate of earth and mist

Beyond my country fair

Of all the knights upon the earth

Thou art most welcome there

I will not go with thee great queen

I will not pass thy gate

But will return unto my liege

In the lands of Fate

If thou wilt not stay with me

If thou art bound to leave

Then give to me a single kiss

And I’ll remember thee

So he bent down to kiss her there

Beneath the mountains of the west

She pulled a knife out from her hair

And stabbed it through his chest

He rode back to his mother’s home

His heart’s blood pouring true

My son, my son, you are so pale

What has become of you

O mother I am wounded sore

And I shall die today

But I must tell you what I’ve seen

Before I’ve gone away

A purple scythe shall reap the stars

An unknown horn shall blow

Where regal blood spills on the ground

The blackbriar vines shall grow

Leoff finished the song, Gilmer listening in evident pleasure. “You’ve a fine voice,” the old man said. “I don’t cann of this Riciar fellow, but all he said has come to pass.”

“How so?”

“Well, the purple scythe—that was the crescent moon that rose last month, as you said. And a horn was blown—it was heard everywhere. In Eslen, at the bay, out on the islands. And the royal blood was spilled, and then the brammel-briars.”

“Briars?”

“Auy. You aens’t heard? They sprang up first at Cal Azroth, where the two princesses were slain. Sprouted right from their blood, it’s said, just as in your song. They grew so fast, they tore down the keep there, and they creep still. They spell the King’s Forest is full of ‘em, too.”

“I haven’t heard that at all,” Leoff said. “I’ve been on the road from Glastir.”

“Sure the news has been up the road by now,” Gilmer said. “How did it miss you?”

Leoff shrugged. “I traveled with a Sefry caravan, and they spoke to me very little. This past nineday I was alone, but I was preoccupied, I suppose.”

“Preoccupied? What with the end of the world coming, and all?”

“End of the world?”

Gilmer’s voice lowered. “Saints, man, don’t you know anything? The Briar King has wakened. That’s his brammels eating up the land. That was
his
horn you heard blaw.”

Leoff stroked his chin. “Briar King?”

“An ancient demon of the forest. The last of the evil old gods, they say.”

“I’ve never—no, wait, there
is
a song about him.”

“You’re right full of songs.”

Leoff shrugged. “Songs are my trade, you might say.”

“You’re a minstrel?”

Leoff sighed and smiled. “Something like that. I take old songs and make them into new ones.”

“A songsmith, then. A smith, like me.”

“Yes, that’s more the case.”

“Well, if it’s a song about the Briar King, I don’t want to hear it. He’ll kill us all, soon enough. No need to trouble over him before it happens.”

Leoff wasn’t sure how to react to that, but he felt sure that if the world were about to end, Artwair would probably have mentioned it. “Very well,” he said at last, gesturing above. “Your malend. May I ask, how does it work?”

Gilmer brightened. “You saw the saglwic outside, auy? The wind spins it, which turns a shaft up there.” He pointed toward the roof. “Then there’s wooden cogs and gears, takes that turning and makes this shaft go up and down. That runs the pump, down under. I can show you tomorrow.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I won’t be here tomorrow.”

“You may be. Artwair has had time to gang and come from Broogh twice now, so something must be keeping him there. And I’m needin’ min rest. And judging by the way the Kuvoolds are pulling at your eyelids, I’d say you need a rest, as well.”

“I am rather tired,” Leoff realized.

“You’re welcome to stay until Artwair gets back, as I said. There’s
another bed, on the next floor, for just such a purpose. Take it, if you’d like.”