Gregory Keyes - The Charnel Prince

From the neck down, he was a stranger. The tight, stiff collar was merely the most torturous part of a doublet made of some sort of brightly patterned cloth that ought to have ended up as a drape or a rug. Below that, his legs felt naked, clothed as they were in tight green hose. He felt altogether like a candied apple on a stick.

“Who ever thought of dressing like this?” He grunted. “It’s as if some madwoman tried to think of the most ridiculous outfit imaginable, and—Grim’s eye—succeeded.”

“ Madwoman ?” Winna asked.

“Yah, well, no man would ever invent such a clownish suit. It must have been some sort of evil trick. Or a dare.”

“You’ve been at court long enough to know better,” Winna said. “The men here love their plumage.”

“Yah,” he conceded, “and I’m damn ready to be away from here, too.”

Her eyes narrowed a little, and she wagged an accusing finger. “You’re nervous about meeting the praifec.”

“I’m no such a thing,” he snapped.

“You are such a thing! A nervous little kindling thing!”

“I haven’t had much to do with the Church, that’s all,” he grumbled. “Other than killing a few of their monks.”

“Outlaw monks,” she reminded him. “You’ll do fine, just try not to blaspheme—in other words, try not to talk at all. Let Stephen do the talking.”

“Oh, yah, that will be a comfort,” Aspar muttered sarcastically. “He’s the soul of tact.”

“He’s a churchman, though,” Winna pointed out. “He ought to know more about talking to a praifec than you do.”

That brought a sharp little laugh from near the door. Aspar glanced over to see that Stephen had entered and was leaning against the frame, clad much as he was but appearing far more comfortable. His mouth was quirked in a smile, and his brown hair was swept back in something approaching courtly fashion. “I was in the Church,” Stephen said. “Before committing heresy, disobeying my fratrex, getting him killed, and fleeing my monastery. I doubt much that His Grace the Praifec will have many good things to say to me.”

“Like as not,” Aspar agreed, “we’ll end this meeting in a dungeon.”

“Well,” Winna said, primly, “at least we’ll go well-dressed.”

Praifec Marche Hespero was a tall man of upper middle years. He had a narrow face made sharper by a small black goatee and mustache. His black robes were draped on a body to suit—thin, almost birdlike. His eyes were like a bird’s, as well, Aspar reflected—like a hawk’s or an eagle’s eyes.

He received them in a somber, spare room of gray stone with low-beamed ceilings. In the baroque splendor of Eslen Castle, it seemed very much out of place. The praifec sat in an armchair behind a large table. To his left sat a dark-complexioned boy of perhaps sixteen winters, looking at least as uncomfortable in his courtly garb as Aspar felt. Other than that, Aspar, Winna, and Stephen were the only people in the chamber.

“Sit, please,” the praifec said pleasantly.

Aspar waited until Stephen and Winna took their chairs, then settled in the one that remained. Grim knew if it was the right one. If there was a right one. He still smarted from an incident with spoons at a banquet the nineday before. Who needed more than one sort of spoon?

When they were seated, the praifec rose and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked at Aspar. “Aspar White,” he said in a soft voice, soft as the fabric of Winna’s dress. “You’ve been the royal holter for many years.”

“More years than I care to remember, Your Grace.”

The praifec smiled briefly. “Yes, the years chase us, do they not? I put you at a man of some forty winters. It’s been some time since I saw that age.” He shrugged. “What we lose in beauty, we gain in wisdom, one hopes.”

“Ya—yes, Your Grace.”

“You’ve a distinguished career up until now, all in all. Several acts of an almost impossible sort—did you really sort out this Black Warg all by yourself?”

Aspar shifted uncomfortably. “That’s been made a bit much of,” he said.

“Ah,” the praifec said. “And the affair of the Relister?”

“He’d never fought a man with dirk and ax, Your Grace. His armor slowed him down.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He glanced at a paper on the table. “I see a few complaints, here, as well. What’s this about the Greft of Ashwis?”

“That was a misunderstanding,” Aspar said. “His lordship was mad with drink, and taking a firebrand to the forest.”

“Did you really bind and gag him?”

“The king saw it my way, sir.”

“Yes, eventually. But there’s this thing with Lady Esteiren?”

Aspar stiffened. “The lady wanted me for a holiday guide, Your Grace, which is in no way my charge. I tried to be polite.”

“And failed, it seems,” the praifec said, a touch of amusement in his voice.

Aspar started a reply, but the praifec held up his hand, shook his head, and turned to Stephen.

“Stephen Darige, formerly a fratir at the monastery d’Ef.” He peered down his nose at Stephen. “You’ve made quite an impression on the Church during your very brief tenure with it, haven’t you, Brother Stephen?”

Stephen frowned. “Your Grace, as you know, the circumstances—”

The praifec cut him off. “You’re from a family of good standing, I see. Educated at the college in Ralegh. An expert in antique languages, which you put to use at d’Ef translating forbidden documents, which translation—as I understand it, correct me if I get this wrong—led both to the death of your fratrex and the commission of unspeakable acts of dark sorcery.”

“This is all true, Your Grace,” Stephen replied, “but I did my work at the command of the fratrex. The dark sorcery was practiced by renegade monks, led by Desmond Spendlove.”

“Yes, well, you see, there’s no proof of any of that,” the praifec pointed out. “Brother Spendlove and his compatriots are all dead, as is Fratrex Pell. This is convenient for you, as there is no one to contradict your story.”

“Your Grace—”

“And yet you admit to summoning the Briar King, whose appearance is said to foretell the end of the world.”

“It was an accident, Your Grace.”

“Yes. That will be small comfort if the world is actually in the process of ending, will it not?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Stephen replied miserably.

“Nonetheless, your admission of guilt in that case goes far to suggest that you’re telling the truth. Privately, I confess I had long suspected something was awry at d’Ef. The Church, after all, is made up of men and women, all of whom are fallible, and as prone to corruption as anyone. We are doubly on the watch now, you may be assured.”

He turned at last to Winna.

“Winna Rufoote. Hostler’s daughter from Colbaely. Not a holter, not in the Church. How in Heaven did you become involved in all this?”

“I’m in love with this great lump of a holter, Your Grace,” she replied.

Aspar felt his face color.

“Well,” the praifec said. “There’s no accounting for such things, is there?”

“Likely not, Your Grace.”

“Yet you were with him when he tracked the greffyn, and at Cal Azroth when the Briar King appeared. You were also a captive of the Sefry, Fend, said to be responsible for much of what happened.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Well.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “I give you a choice, Winna Rufoote. We are about to speak of things that cannot go beyond the walls of this room. You may remain and become a part of something which could prove quite dangerous in several different ways—or you may leave, and I will have you escorted safely back to your father’s inn in Colbaely.”