“I won’t be available,” she asserted. “I’ll take four men of your choosing to guard me, but other than that, do not send anyone into the house after me. Do you understand?”
“I don’t understand, Majesty, no.”
“What I meant was, ‘Will you obey?’” Anne clarified.
“Of course, Majesty.”
“Very good. Austra, Cazio—it’s time we were going.” She laid her hand on Leafton’s arm. “You’re a capable man,” she said. “I trust you. Keep my men safe. Please.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
Anne wasn’t sure what she’d thought the entrance to the Crepling passage would look like, but she’d imagined it would be hidden, an invisible wall panel of some sort, a rotating bookcase, a hatch beneath a rug.
It was, at least, located in the cold cellar of the building, behind racks of wine and hanging meats. But the entrance itself was just a little door set into the living rock into which the Sefry house was built. It was made of some sort of dark metal, with hinges and hasps of polished brass. Mother Uun produced a rather large key. She turned it in the lock, and the door opened almost noiselessly, revealing a descending stairway.
Anne allowed herself a wisp of a smile. Artwair and others in her command had assured her that the city and castle of Eslen were nearly impregnable, that its poellands and massive walls could frustrate nearly any army. Yet the city had fallen more than once. She tried to remember the stratagems by which her forefathers had won Eslen and dimly recalled the lesson as one to which she had paid a bit of attention.
Looking back on it, it seemed rather vague, the tale of that siege. There was lots of talk about bravery and bloody determination but not much detail about how William I had actually ended up in the Hall of Doves, with his sword driven into Thiuzwald Fram Reiksbaurg’s liver.
How many times had it happened like this? A small group of women or Sefry invading the fortress through this passageway to work some sort of mischief, to open the lower gates that a larger force might enter? Mother Uun, it seemed to her, was the keeper of far too much power. The fate of a dynasty could hinge on her Sefry whims.
But any man who sought her aid wouldn’t recall exactly what had happened, wouldn’t know how he’d gotten into the castle, wouldn’t remember how much power this lone Sefry wielded.
But Anne would remember. She would remember, and she would do something about it. When she was queen, there would be no walking into the castle unopposed.
With a sudden shock, Anne realized how intently Mother Uun was watching her. Could the Sefry read her thoughts?
“Well?” she asked.
“At the base of the stairs you will find the passage,” the Sefry explained. “Take the right-hand way, and it will take you outside the city, to the rinns. Take the left-hand way, and you will find your way into the dungeons, and from there into the castle, if you so wish. If the lower way is filled with water, you will find the valves that drain them in a small chamber to the left, just before the point where the water reaches the ceiling. They will take time to open up, of course, on the order of half a day.”
Anne nodded. If her vision was accurate, Sir Fail’s fleet would arrive in two days. If Thornrath was in Artwair’s hand’s by then, her uncle could confront the fleet and keep the outside gates open long enough for her to exit, then lead in a larger force.
She’d considered trying to take the palace with the men she had with her but didn’t think there would be enough of them. There were hundreds of guards in the castle. The thirty men she had left wouldn’t be enough to do more than tip her hand.
Either way, it was probably going to be difficult getting men to follow her through a gate they couldn’t remember even while they were looking at it. But it could be done. Cazio had managed to follow her would-be-assassin, after all. And her brother, Uncle Fail, and the Craftsmen had managed somehow to leave Eslen, led by Alis Berrye, if the rumors were true.
Yes, it could be done, and she had to take the first step: making certain the way was open.
“Take Cazio’s hand, Austra,” Anne said. “The rest of you, link hands as well. Keep them held until I tell you to let go. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Very well. And now we go.”
“Go where?” Cazio asked.
Cazio wondered if he’d gotten drunk without knowing it. He was aware of Austra’s hand, of the stone beneath his feet, of Anne’s face in lamplight, but he kept getting lost in the details.
He couldn’t actually remember what he was doing or where they were. It was like walking through a terrible sort of dream. He kept thinking he was waking, only to discover that he’d only dreamed he was doing so.
He remembered going into the Sefry house and Anne talking about something or other with the old woman. He recalled that they’d gone down to the cold cellar, which seemed peculiar.
But that felt like a long time ago.
Maybe it was a dream, he decided. Or maybe he was drunk.
MaybeHe blinked. Anne was talking to someone again. Now she was shouting.
And now he was running. But why? He slowed to look around, but Austra tugged hard on his hand and screamed for him to keep going.
He heard unfamiliar laughter somewhere.
He tasted blood on his lips, which seemed especially odd.
4
Death Songs
Neil felt the death calm settle about him. His breathing evened, and he savored the salt air as he watched a sea eagle banking in a sky equally blue and gray. The wind gentled from the southwest, ruffling the soft new grass of the hillside like a million fingers combing verdant hair. All seemed still.
Closing his eyes, he murmured a snatch of song.
Mi, Etier tneuf, eyoiz’etiern rem,
Crach-toi, frennz, mi viveut-toi dein…
“What’s that, Sir Neil?”
He opened his eyes. The question had come from a man just about his age, a knight named Edhmon Archard, from the Greffy of Seaxeld. He had quick blue eyes, pink cheeks, and hair as white as thistledown. His armor was good plain stuff, and Neil couldn’t see a dent on it.
Of course, his own armor was just as new. He’d found it in his tent the morning after Robert escaped, sent as a present by Elyoner Dare, who’d had his measurements taken “for clothes,” or so she had claimed. Still, Neil had the impression that in Sir Edhmon’s case, the man in the armor was as untested as the steel itself.
“It’s a bit of a song,” Neil explained. “A song my father taught me.”
“What’s it mean?”
Neil smiled.
“ ‘Me, my father, my fathers before. Croak, you ravens, I’ll feed you soon.’”
“Not very cheery,” Edhmon said.
“It’s a death song,” Neil said.
“You believe you’re going to die?”
“Oh, I’m going to die; that one thing is certain,” Neil said. “It’s the when, where, and how I’m not so clear on. But my fah always said it was best to go into battle thinking of yourself as already dead.”
“You can do that?”
Neil shrugged. “Not always. Sometimes I’m afraid, and sometimes the rage comes on me. But now and then the saints allow me the death calm, and I like that best.”
Edhmon flushed a little. “This is my first battle,” he admitted. “I hope I’m ready for it.”
“You’re ready for it,” Neil said.
“I’m just so tired of waiting.”
Even as he said that, he flinched as one of the ballistae behind them released with a booming twang, and a fifty-pound stone flung in a flat arc over their heads, smiting the outer bailey of Thornrath and sending a shatter of granite in every direction.
“You won’t be waiting much longer,” Neil assured him. “That wall’s coming down within a bell. They’re mustering their horse behind the waerd already.”