Greg Keyes - The Born Queen

“Where is here ?” Anne asked. “I’ve never understood that.”

“Why, inside the sedos,” she replied. “This is where the world is moved from, where the power flows from. It is given form only by those who live here. It is your kingdom now, and you can shape it as you want. Hansa, the future, the past—all are here. Grasp the reins of power. You need not take my word for anything I’ve just said. Discover it for yourself.”

And like a fire blown out by a wind, she flickered and was gone.

Anne stood there for a moment, looking at the dead faces of the Faiths.

Was it possible? Could she really free herself from the whims of the forces around her? Could she actually steer them herself, be free of doubt, finally chart her own destiny without the meddling of untrustworthy wights?

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” she asked the Faiths.

But their whispering was over.

“Well,” she murmured. “Let’s see if she’s telling the truth.”

And she saw, and woke with tears streaming on her face, and knew some things had to be done.

She rose to do them.

When Neil Meqvren saw the dragon banner of Hansa, his heart sped and his hand shivered for killing. Pain stitched up his side, and he couldn’t keep back a gasp.

“Easy, Sir Neil,” Muriele Dare said.

He tried to smile at her. In the sunlight a bit of her age was showing: wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and on the line of the chin, a few strands of silver in her black hair. Yet he had never seen her look more beautiful than now, in an emerald Safnite riding habit and embroidered black buskins. A simple rose gold circlet settled over her brow told her rank.

“Sir Neil?” she repeated.

“Majesty,” he replied.

“We aren’t here to fight, so stray your hand away from that sword.” Her brow creased. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be here at all.”

“I’m hale, Majesty.”

“No, you aren’t,” she retorted. “Your wounds are still fresh.”

“He’s a MeqVren,” Sir Fail de Liery said. “Like his father and his before. Men stubborn as an iron prow.”

“I know I can’t fight,” Neil said. “I know I’ll split open at the seams. But I still have eyes. I might see a knife in time.”

“And then split open your seams,” Fail grunted.

Neil shrugged, and even that hurt.

“You’re not here to step between me and a knife, Sir Neil,” Muriele said.

Then why am I here? he wondered silently. But he felt the tightness in his arms and legs and knew. Like the leics who had tended him, the queen mother believed he might never be able to wield a blade again. She was trying, as it were, to teach him another trade. So now, while the kingdom girded for war, Neil found himself gazing on the faces of the enemy, trying to count them.

He estimated a full Hanzish wairdu, about a hundred men, on the field between them and the white walls of Copenwis, but that would be only a fraction of their army. Copenwis was occupied, and though he could not see them, Neil knew that a sizable portion of the Hansan fleet was anchored in the harbor and along the shore of the great port. Six thousand, perhaps. Ten? Twenty? There was no way to know from here.

In his own party there were twenty, not twenty thousand. To be sure, they had nearly two thousand men behind them, but they were more than a league behind. The queen had not wanted to tempt the Hansans into battle. Not yet, anyway.

So the northerners glared at their flag of parley, and they waited. Neil heard them muttering in their windy tongue and remembered dark nights in his childhood, creeping up on Hanzish positions, hearing the same hushed language.

“Copenwis has fine walls,” Sir Fail observed.

Neil nodded and glanced at his old patron. Not long ago, he’d still had a trace of black in his hair, but now it was less gray than white. He wore it long, in the fashion of the isles, bound back with a simple leather thong. His cheek was pitted from the shatters of a spear shaft, and one of his brows lifted oddly from the time a Weihand sword had all but flensed that part of his forehead from his skull. Neil had first seen him with that purple, loose flap of skin and his eye swollen shut. He’d been six and had thought he was seeing Neuden Lem Eryeint, the battle saint, come as flesh on earth. And in the years since, serving him, in his heart of hearts he still thought of Fail that way: immortal, greater than other men. But Fail looked old now. He seemed to have shrunk a bit. It unsettled Neil.

“It does,” he agreed, tracing his gaze along the stout bastions of white stone.

“I lived there for a time,” Alis Berrye said.

“Did you?” Muriele asked.

“When I was eight. I stayed here with an uncle for a few months. I remember a pretty park in the midst of the city, with a fountain and the statue of Saint Nethune.”

Neil studied Alis from the corner of his eye. Her tone was light, but a little pucker between her eyes made him guess the young woman was trying to remember more: how the streets were laid out, where the gates were, anything that might help her protect and defend Muriele. For despite her youth, charm, and beauty, if the petite brunette was anything like her predecessor, she was dangerous, and the more knowledge she had, the more dangerous she could be.

Neil wasn’t sure he trusted her. Her past did not speak well of her.

He suddenly found Alis staring straight into his eyes and felt a flush on his face.

I caught you, she mouthed, then smiled cheerfully.

“Stout walls, anyway,” he said, sheepishly returning her smile.

“This poor city has changed hands so often, I wonder why they bother with walls,” Muriele remarked. She stood a bit in her stirrups. “Ah,” she said. “Here we are.”

Neil saw him, coming through the Hanzish ranks, a large man mounted on a charger in gleaming barding enameled black and sanguine. He wore a breastplate made in the same colors displaying an eagle stooping. It looked more ceremonial than useful. A cloak of white bearskin hung on his shoulders, and his oiled sealskin boots gleamed.

Neil knew him. He’d first seen that pink, corpulent face at his own introduction to the court of Eslen. It was the Archgreft Valamhar of Aradal, once ambassador to the court of Crotheny.

“Saint Rooster’s balls,” Fail muttered under his breath.

“Hush,” Muriele hissed, then raised her voice.

“Archgreft.”

The Hanzish lord nodded and dismounted, aided by four of the eight young men in his livery who had come with him to the field. Then he took a knee.

“Majesty,” he said. “I must say, I am glad the Ansus have kept you well. I worried and prayed for you during your captivity.”

“I’m sorry you were troubled,” Muriele told him. “I do so dislike being the cause of disturbance.” Aradal smiled uncertainly. “Well, I am all better now,” he replied.

“Yes. And rather camped in one of our cities,” she said, nodding at Copenwis.

“Oh, yes, that,” Aradal said. “I’m thinking that is what you’ve come to discuss.”

“You are as brilliant as ever, my lord,” she replied.

“Well, it must be the company I keep,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Muriele replied. “In any event, yes, I’ve been empowered by Empress Anne to take the terms of your withdrawal from our northern port.”

“Well, Majesty, that’s a bit sticky,” Aradal said. “You see, we had the king’s permission to take Copenwis under our protection.”

“By king you mean my brother-in-law Robert?” Muriele asked. “Robert was a usurper, never a lawful sovereign, so that’s easily cleared up. His word never came from the crown, and so you’ve no right or reason to be here.”