Gregory Keyes - The Blood Knight

“One hundred fifty, Majesty.”

“A hundred and—Do you know a way into the castle from here?”

“Yes, Majesty,” he said, pointing. She turned and saw that she had practically backed against a massive metal portal.

“He’s right,” Alis said. “Prince Robert may have filled in every other passage, but he would not cut himself off from the Kept. Yet a key is needed.”

Even as she said it, the door opened soundlessly, revealing an ancient Sefry so frail and thin that Anne was almost afraid that he was another sort of walking dead. His eyes stared blankly into nothing.

“Majesty,” the old man said. “You have come at last. Welcome.”

Alis made a sputtering sound. “You had your tongue cut out,” she said. “And your eardrums burst.”

The aged Sefry smiled. “I healed.”

“You don’t seem very upset that your charge has escaped,” Anne said.

“It was fated,” the Keeper replied. “I felt him go and came here.”

“Command us, Majesty,” Cauth said.

Anne took a deep breath. “Do you think you have enough men to take the castle from within?”

“With the element of surprise, I should think so.”

“Very well. Cazio, you’re with me. Austra, take ten of these Sefry for a bodyguard. The Kept said he lifted the glamour on the passages. Lets find out. Find Sir Leafton. Have him drain the lower passages and send runners out to bring reinforcements from the army. The rest of you, come with me. No, wait. My uncle Robert was with these men. Find him first and bring him to me.”

But Robert, unremarkably, was nowhere to be found.

With Alis gone, Muriele felt blind to the outside world. She had her two windows, of course, and occasionally the guards would let something drop when they thought she was out of earshot, but she rarely trusted that, since anything she “overheard” from them might be part of one of Robert’s games.

But something was happening outside, of that she was certain. Through her southern-facing window, she could see a good bit of the city, and for days something had been happening near the Fastness, in or near the Sefry quarter. Fires were burning, and she had glimpses of armored men and siege engines moving along the streets leading there.

Was it a revolt of some sort? Or had Robert become even more distempered and decided for some reason to slaughter the Sefry?

There was a third possibility, but it was one she hardly dared think about. The Crepling passage was supposed to have an outlet in Gobelin Court. Had Sir Fail returned? But no, he wouldn’t be able to remember the passage. Unless Alis—

But Alis was dead. Wasn’t she?

On that question hung Muriele’s most slender hope. But locked in a tower as she was, she had plenty of time to entertain even the most forlorn possibilities.

The girl’s last words had been in Lierish, Muriele’s native tongue. I sleep. I sleep. I’ll find you .

Alis was coven-trained and well versed in the virtues of a thousand venoms. Might she somehow have only appeared to be dead?

No. That was an inane hope.

She conjured other scenarios. Perhaps Praifec Hespero had come to the conclusion that the Sefry were heretics in need of hanging and the Sefry weren’t surrendering quietly. That certainly made sense.

Perhaps something had gone wrong with Robert’s Hansan alliance and Hansa had somehow managed to gain a foothold in Eslen.

But no, that wasn’t likely at all. Her marriage gown had been fitted, and the other preparations for her wedding seemed to be moving along smoothly.

Her east-facing window, while providing a marvelous view of the confluence of the Dew and Warlock rivers, did not tell her much at all. She very much wished she could see west toward Thornrath or north to the King’s Poel. If there was a battle, that was where it would be.

She entertained herself as best she could and waited for something to happen, because everything was out of her hands now.

She found she liked that in a way. The only thing that really grieved her was that she didn’t know what had become of Anne. The shade of Erren had assured her that her youngest daughter was still alive, but that had been months ago now. Had Neil MeqVren found her?

Even if he had, he wouldn’t— couldn’t —bring her here. So it was best to pretend that Anne was safe, protected, anonymous in some far country.

On what she reckoned to be the fifteenth day of Etramen, Muriele awoke to the clash of arms. Sometimes the wind would carry the sounds of steel from the city and the voices of men shouting. But this seemed nearer, perhaps in the inner keep itself.

She went to her window and craned her neck to look down, but since the Wolfcoat Tower was set in the southern wall of the keep, she had very little view of the inner courtyard. She could hear better with her head in the air, however, and she was more certain than ever that there was fighting below.

A movement farther toward the horizon caught her attention. Beyond the walls of the city she could see a bit of Eslen-of-Shadows, the necropolis where her ancestors slept, and beyond that the muddy, shallow southern channel of the Warlock. At first she wondered if a flock of swans had settled on the rinns, but then the perspective of distance worked itself out, and she saw that they were boats: galleys and canal boats, mostly. But she couldn’t see any standards or sign that let her recognize their origin.

When the guard brought her meal, he looked frightened.

“What is it?” she asked him. “What’s happening?”

“It’s nothing, Queen Mother,” he said.

“It’s been quite a while since you called me that,” she observed.

“Auy,” he replied. He started to say something else but shook his head and closed the door.

A brief moment later it opened again. It was the same fellow.

“Don’t eat it,” he said, his voice pitched very low. “His Majesty said if ever… just don’t eat it, please, Your Highness.”

He closed and locked the door again. She set the food aside.

Time passed, and the tumult quieted, then renewed itself farther down, in the outer keep. She had a very thin view of the Honot Yard before the great gate of the outer keep, and she made out sun glinting off armor there, along with dark streams of arrows. Shouts of valor and shrieks of agony filled the air at times, and she prayed to the saints that no one she loved was dying.

It was nearly dark when she heard the ring of steel in the tower itself. She composed herself in her armchair and waited, with no idea what to expect, thinking that at least it was something , something Robert hadn’t planned. Even if that meant they were invaded by slaughtering hordes of Weihands, that was better than whatever her brother-in-law would think of next.

She winced as the fighting came to her door and a piteous howl cut through the heavy beams and stone walls. She heard the familiar scrape of a key in the lock.

The door swung wide, and the bloody body of the guard who’d warned her not to eat the food flopped onto the threshold. He blinked at her and tried to speak, but his mouth was pouring blood.

Just behind him came a man she did not recognize. He had a distinctly southern look to him, enhanced by the weapon he carried, the sort she had known Vitellians to wield. His dark regard picked quickly through the spare chamber and returned to focus on her.

“You are alone?” he asked.

“I am. Who are you?”

Before he could answer, another face appeared behind him.

In the first few heartbeats, all Muriele saw was the regal bearing and stern gaze. Saint Fendve the War Witch incarnate.

It was only as the woman lifted off her helm that Muriele recognized her daughter. Her skin was dark and weather-changed, and her hair fell only as far as her throat. She wore men’s clothes and even a small breastplate, and one cheek bore an angry-looking bruise. She looked wonderful and terrible, and Muriele could only wonder what had eaten her daughter and taken her shape.