Greg Keyes - The Born Queen

Neil had never been so proud of anything as that spearhead flashing in the sun and his father’s hand on his shoulder.

When they got home, it was a different story. His mother embraced his father and had begun bringing out the supper when she suddenly looked at Neil.

“And what of the goats, Neil? Did you just leave them up there when I told you to bring them in?” “I’m sorry, Mah,” he remembered saying. “I heard the bells—”

“And wanted to see your Fah, sure, but—”

“But you don’t abandon your duty, son. Now go get them.”

He got them and missed supper in the bargain, but when he finally made it down and the first stars were out, he found his father waiting for him outside the house.

“I’m sorry, Fah,” he said.

“Now listen,” his father said. “You’re going to get older, we all hope, so let me tell you something. You’ve heard me talk about honor. Do you know what it is?”

“It’s what a warrior gets when he wins battles.”

“No. A man can never fight a battle and still have honor. A man can win a thousand and never have any. You’ll hear all sorts of things in the future about what honor is; some, I’m told, in the courts of the mainland have written down all sorts of things a man must do to have it. But it’s simple, really. Honor is about doing the things you know you ought to. Not the thing you think will win approval, not the most dangerous thing, not the thing that will win you the most glory, but the thing you know you ought. What was there more important today than doing what your mother asked and bringing in the goats?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“And I wanted to see you, lad. But you lost honor doing so. You understand?”

“Yes, Fah. But that’s hard, isn’t it? How do you know what you ought to do?”

“You have to know yourself,” his father said. “And you have to listen to your own true voice. Now, go get your spear, and I’ll show you the proper way to hold it.”

That had been long years ago, and not long after that he’d first used that spear. He’d broken it two winters later. It was years after, when his father was dead and he was with Sir Fail, that he learned the sword and shield and lance, wore lord’s plate, and took on the trappings of a knight and the code of honor that went with it.

Alis was up talking to Berimund, whose men waited in silent formation, facing the gate. Neil went to join them.

“Excuse me, Prince,” he said. “I was wondering if you had a spear or two I might borrow from you.” “You may have mine,” the prince replied. “And a spare if you want it.”

“Thank you,” Neil replied. Berimund fetched the weapons: good, well-balanced man killers.

“Sir Neil,” Berimund said as he examined the weapons. “We’ve reports of a force gathering up the road, about twice our number.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, but I can guess that a messenger from Hansa has finally spread the news that my father has called for my head.”

“We need only hold them for the space of another bell, at most,” Alis said.

Berimund closed his eyes, perhaps listening to the music, perhaps to something in his own skull. “No,” he said. “We needn’t hold them at all.”

“What do you mean?” Neil asked.

“I won’t let them come at me as they like,” the prince said. “My wulfbrothars and I will go and meet them where they’re gathering. Even if we lose, they’ll have no reason to come here directly.”

“They might, in search of Brinna.”

“My men have spread the rumor that we put her on a ship at Saestath. Even if some doubt that, it will take time for them to be certain all of us are defeated; they wouldn’t leave us at their backs.” He grinned. “Or maybe they will choose their prince over their king. I was well received here until now.”

“I can’t go with you,” Neil said.

“Of course not. I’ll leave two men outside the gate, but you stay here. What is that knife you people carry—the little one, the blade of last resort?”

“The echein doif. ”

“Jah. You will be the echein doif, Sir Neil.”

Neil watched them mount and ride through the gate. Then he stripped off the hauberk and laid it on the ground, flexing his shoulders under the light padded gambeson. He unbuckled his sword belt and carefully put the weapon next to the armor.

The night deepened, and behind him the music darkened and lightened weirdly, like the sun coming in and out of the clouds.

“There,” Alis said.

Neil nodded, for he saw the shadows, too, padding through the gate on foot. Robert’s guards hadn’t made a sound.

“Remember our toast,” Alis said.

“I remember,” Neil replied.

Stephen was struck by a sudden impulse simply to close his eyes and sleep, and he almost laughed. Hespero didn’t know who he was dealing with.

“Again,” he said. “Nice try.”

“We could be allies,” Hespero said. “We could stop her together.”

“I agree,” Stephen replied, fending off another stab of Hespero’s will. “Individually, neither of us has a chance against her, and we both know what that means. Surrender your gifts to me, and I’ll stop her.” “We could work together.”

“You’re trying to kill me even now.” Stephen laughed. “It’s impossible. One of us would inherit from her, and the other would perish.”

“Brother Stephen, I am your Fratrex Prismo. You owe everything in you to me.”

“Now, that’s just silly,” Stephen said. “You won your position through lies, murder, and betrayal, and now you’re asking for my loyalty? Would you like me to lie down and let you piss on me, too?”

“You aren’t Stephen Darige,” the fratrex said.

Stephen chuckled, then reached out with his full might. “You’re going to wish you were wrong about that,” he said.

Hespero reached back, and the lands of fate shrank away, and Stephen was holding Hespero, a waurm, Winna, Zemlé, himself…

It was the same fight all over again, the fight to keep himself whole as he had on the faneway, except before he had had Kauron’s help. This time he was Kauron, the Jester, the Black Heart of Terror. Which meant he was alone.

Still, Hespero’s gifts seemed made to be broken by his. Until, that is, lightning ripped them apart and sent Stephen sprawling, his muscles pulled into balls like snails trying to retreat into their shells, pain shattering his concentration. He knew that somehow, against the odds, Hespero had won.

But he hadn’t, Stephen realized as he opened his eyes and found Anne standing there, shimmering as if he were gazing at her through the heat of an oven.

“What have we here?” she asked.

It wasn’t easy, but Stephen ignored her as best he could, because to stand a chance he needed Hespero’s gifts and needed them now. The fratrex was unconscious, and that made it easier. He drank greedily from the well that was Hespero.

“I know you,” Anne said, wagging her finger at him.

“You threatened me in the place of the Faiths. Not in that skin, but it was you.”

A barrier of some sort suddenly snapped down between him and the churchman.

“Stop that,” Anne said. “Listen to me when I’m talking to you.”

Stephen backed away, trying to reestablish his connection with Hespero and finish the job, but the Fratrex Prismo might as well have been a thousand leagues away.

He looked at Anne and laughed.

“You think it’s funny?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper in its fury.

“That was me,” he said, “but I didn’t know. Dreams, you see? It was all in my dreams. Except in my dreams it was you terrifying me, when I believed I was only Stephen Darige. In your dreams it was me terrifying you, when you believed you were only Anne.”