Greg Keyes - The Born Queen

“Your discretion does you credit. But do go on.”

“It’s as you said, except that Robert did not commission the piece. He wanted—or claimed to want—another singspell, one that would counteract my earlier work and make him popular with the people again. I think he always knew I would try to kill him.”

“Ah. He tricked you into writing it. But it didn’t kill him because he’s already dead.”

“Something like that. But it slew everyone else in the room.”

“Except you and your bride here—and Mery.”

“The music advances,” Leoff said. “It’s not a single sound but a progression that leads toward death. The last chord kills, but only if the entire piece is heard. I taught Mery and Areana a counterchord to hum to dilute the effect. We almost died, anyway. And Mery—she was playing the hammarharp, so she got the worst of it.”

“Yes, I suppose she did.” Lady Graham leaned back and had another sip of tea. “What do you suppose Robert will do with the music?”

“Something very bad,” Leoff said.

“I’m trying to imagine. A band of pipers marching across the battlefield? A choir of trumpets, and everyone on the defending wall dropping dead?”

“It’s not impossible,” Leoff replied, feeling sick. “Hard to coordinate, but someone skilled enough in arranging and composing could do it.”

“Someone like yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re here, so well protected. Maybe Artwair has commissioned you to write the piece again.”

“I won’t. He knows that. He knows I would die first.”

“But Mery might remember it?”

“No.”

“She is a prodigy.”

“No,” he repeated, almost shouting.

“Not even to save Crotheny?”

“You stay away from her,” he snapped.

Lady Graham nodded and drank a bit more tea. “What about your counterchord? Could you compose a music to neutralize whatever Robert may be up to? If he is up to anything other than his own amusement?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Have you tried?”

I don’t want to be tricked again. He wanted to shout. I don’t want to be used again.

“You let something terrible into the world, Leovigild Ackenzal. You’re responsible for that.”

“Who are you?” Areana asked suddenly. “You didn’t come here to talk about the custody of Mery.” The lady smiled. “I admit to practicing a bit of deception,” she replied. “But I’ve come here to tell you certain things and to perhaps give you a bit of a slap in the face.”

“Who are you?” Areana repeated, looking askance at the lady’s armed guard.

“Hush, child, so I can tell your husband something important.”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” Leoff said.

The lady set her cup down. “Don’t you wonder why, since the days of the Black Jester, no one has ever discovered what you discovered?”

“Robert placed certain books at my disposal.”

“Yes, my point. There are books! They describe armies being slain by choirs of eunuchs and water organs. They explain how the modes function. These books are well known to scholars. Do you think in all of this time no one else with the talent to do so has attempted what you did?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Leoff admitted.

“It didn’t happen because it wasn’t possible,” Graham, or whoever she was, said. “The music you created can only exist when the law of death is broken, as it was during the reign of the Black Jester. As it is now.”

“The law of death?”

“The thing that separates life from death, that makes them different states.”

“Robert!” Leoff exploded.

“Robert wasn’t the first, but before him the law was only compromised. His return from death was the breaking point, and once broken, the law is more easily violated again and again, until the boundary between quick and dead is entirely gone. And when that happens—well, that’s the end of us all. Imagine the law as like a dike, holding back deadly waters. When it’s first compromised, there’s just a small leak. Left alone, the hole gets wider no matter what. But when vandals start poking at it with shovels, it widens very quickly, and eventually the whole thing collapses.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Well, you might put a small hole in a dike to run a water mill, yes? And you turn a profit and need a bigger mill, a larger stream of water? There is great power in violating the law of death. Robert can be stabbed in the heart and keep walking. You can write a sinfonia that murders, and that’s only the start. As the law grows weaker, those who break it grow stronger. This is especially true now, as other powers of destruction are waxing.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Your music made the hole, so to speak, considerably wider.”

“But what can I do? How was the law of death mended before?”

She smiled. “I’ve no idea. But consider the possibility that if the right song can weaken the law—” “Then another might strengthen it,” Areana finished.

The lady stood. “Precisely.”

“Wait,” Leoff said. “That’s not nearly enough. Why should I even believe any of this?”

“Because you do.”

“No. I’ve been duped before. I’m not off on another fool’s errand that might make everything worse.” “If that’s true, there is no hope,” the lady replied. “In any event, I’ve said what I came to say.” “Wait a moment.”

“No, I shan’t. Good luck to you.”

And despite his further protests, she left, mounted her carriage, and was gone, leaving Leoff and Areana staring after her.

“Artwair knew she was coming,” Areana said. “Perhaps he can shed some light on this.”

Leoff nodded and absently realized he still had the duke’s letter in his hand. He held it up, and blinked. What had earlier appeared to be Artwair’s seal was only an unmarked dab of wax.

Anne sighed with pleasure as ghosts brushed her bare flesh. She kept her eyes closed as they murmured softly about her, savoring their faintly chilly caresses. She inhaled the ripe perfumes of decay and for the first time in a very long time felt a deep contentment.

Anne, one of the phantoms simpered. Anne, there is no time.

A bit irritated, she opened her eyes to see three women standing before her.

No, she realized. They weren’t standing at all. Feeling a weird tingle that she knew ought to be more, she turned her gaze around her to see what else there was.

She was elsewhere, of course, couched on deep, spongy moss grown on a hammock in a blackwater fen that went beyond sight in every direction. The branches of the trees above her were tatted together like the finest Safnian lace, allowing only the wispiest of diffuse light through to glisten on the dew-jeweled webs of spiders larger than her hand.

The women swayed faintly, the boughs above them creaking a bit from their weight.

One wore a black gown and a black mask, and her locks were flowing silver. The next wore forest green and a golden mask, and her red braids swayed almost to her feet. The third wore a mask of bone and a dress the color of dried blood. Her hair was brown.