“Tell me—can you see things unseen? Do you know who killed my daughters and my husband? Can you tell me if my youngest daughter still lives?”
“I see,” the Kept replied. “I see a smoke spreading in the wind. I see the cloak of death brushing the world. I see a sickle in you, eager to reap.”
“Who murdered my daughters?” Muriele demanded.
“Kissssss,” he wheezed. “Their shapes are too vague. They stand behind the pall.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Queen! You have a knife in you, eager for poking and twisting.”
“Is he lying?” Muriele asked the Keeper.
“He cannot lie,” the ancient Sefry told her.
“What did you tell my husband?” Muriele asked.
“To be death or die. I see which he chose. Would you be death, you who stink of motherhood?”
“I would see the murderers of my family dead.”
“Sssssssssssss! That is a simpler matter than seeing who did the deed,” the Kept said. “I can tell you a curse. It is a most terrible curse, the most terrible I remember.”
“Majesty,” the Keeper said. “Do not listen to him.”
She ignored the old man. “I can curse those who took my children?”
“Oh, easily. Very easily.”
“Tell me, then.”
“Majesty—” the Keeper began again, but Muriele cut him off.
“You have warned me thrice, Keeper,” she said. “Do not warn me again, or I shall have the drums of your ears broken. How then will you delight in your solitary music?”
The Sefry fell momentarily silent at the threat. “As you say, Majesty,” he finally submitted.
“Await me where you cannot hear this conversation. I will call for you when I need guidance.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
She heard him shuffle away.
“A daughter of the queen are you,” the Kept said, once the Sefry was gone.
“I am the queen,” Muriele replied. “Tell me of this curse.”
“I will tell you a thing to write, and you will scrive it on a lead tissue and place it in a certain sarcophagus you will find beneath the horz in the city of the dead. Who sleeps there will take your message to one who knows well how to curse.”
Muriele considered that a moment, remembering the breath leaving Fastia.
“Tell me what to write,” she said.
The candles in the chapel flickered as if some unseen wing beat above them. Sacritor Hohn looked around nervously, feeling as if he had just awoken from a night terror, though he hadn’t been asleep.
Nothing seemed amiss. The chapel was quiet.
He had almost soothed himself when the screaming began. It came from the chamber of healing, where the stranger was. Hastily the sacritor made his way there, knowing what it must mean.
Hard men in dark clothing had brought the stranger weeks ago. Sacritor Hohn did not know who he was, but he was certainly a man of importance by his dress and the way he was attended. He’d been wounded near the heart, and his medicines and sacaums of healing had been able to do little but slow the rate of his demise. Only this morning, he had taken a turn for the worse. The only surprise was that he still had the strength to scream.
When the sacritor drew back the curtain, however, the stranger was not screaming, nor was he dead. He stood naked, staring at some unseen horizon of horror.
“My lord,” the sacritor said. “You’ve woken.”
“Indeed?” the man whispered. “I feel I dream. A dream most foul.”
“The saint has blessed you,” the sacritor said, making a sign. “I never thought to see you stand. Only this morning, your soul was slipping away.”
The man looked at him, and something in his eyes sent worms up the sacritor’s back. “Where am I?” he asked.
“The chapel of Saint Loy at Copenwis,” the sacritor answered.
“Where are my men?”
“Quartered in the town, I think. One stands guard outside. Shall I fetch him?”
“In a moment. A moment. My brother is dead?”
“I do not know your brother, my lord.”
“Do you know me?”
“I do not, my lord.”
The stranger nodded and stroked his beard. “I think I do not, either,” he said.
Sacritor Hohn wasn’t sure he understood. “Have you lost your memory?” he asked. He’d heard of that. “Sometimes the shock of a wound—”
“No, I don’t mean that. I remember all too well. Fetch my clothes.”
“My lord, you cannot travel yet.”
“I think that I can.” Something in the man’s eyes told Sacritor Hohn he ought not to argue. And after all, he had just seen a miracle. If the saints had saved a man from death, they could as easily restore him to perfect health.
Of course, the wound was still there …
“As you wish, my lord,” he said, bowing. “But before you go, shall I shrive you? Shall I perform lustration?”
The man stared at him, and his lips parted. He made a sound as if he were choking, and another.
It was only after a third that the sacritor understood that he was hearing laughter more bitter than the harshest sea.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the following for reading and commenting on the manuscript at various stages of development: T. Karen Anderson, Kris Boldis, Ken Carelton, Veronica Chapman, Dave Gross, Professor Lanelle Keyes, Nancy Ridout Landrum, and Brian Smith.
A book is made by many hands. I often think they ought to include credits, like a movie.
At Del Rey, I have a lot of people to thank. Betsy Mitchell, the editor in chief and a real booster for The Briar King from the beginning of her tenure. Nancy Delia, the managing editor, who kept the trains on their tracks. Lisa Collins, the copy editor, who had to deal not only with my spelling mistakes in English, but in several imaginary languages. Denise Fitzer, the editorial assistant—without a competent editorial assistant, things can break down very quickly. Things did not break down. And of course, Steve Saffel, my editor, who has believed in this book and fought hard for it for years. Finally, thanks to Kuo-Yu Liang for years of support as publisher, friend, and drinking buddy.
I’d like to thank the production manager, Barbara Greenberg, Eric Peterson for the cover painting, David Stevenson for the cover design and a good deal of back-and-forth with me making certain the maps were right. Map artist Kirk Caldwell for what are truly works of art, publicity guru Colleen Lindsay, and online-marketing sorceress Christine Cabello.
A big thanks to Dana Hayward for expending her own time and effort to make a pre-proof proof, to get the word out as early as possible.
Beyond that I’d like to thank Elizabeth B. Vega for her help with the soundtrack (you’ll see more what I mean in book two) and the Savannah Fencing Club for moral support. This book also seems to have supporters farther afield than my immediate circle of friends, for which I’m grateful—David Weller, Chuck Errig, Lisa Congelosi, Rebeccah Fitting, David Phethean, Ron Schoop, and David Underwood.