“We’ll see it in the morning, when the light is better,” Austra said.
“Of course we will,” Anne replied dubiously.
In her dream, Anne stood in a field of ebony roses, wearing a black satin dress set with pearls that gleamed dully in the bone light of the moon. The air was so thick with the scent of the blooms she thought she would choke.
There was no end to them; they stretched on to the horizon in a series of low rises, stems bent by a murmuring wind. She turned slowly to see if it was thus in all directions.
Behind her the field ended abruptly in a wall of trees, black-boled monsters covered with puckered thorns bigger than her hand, rising so high she couldn’t see their tops in the dim light. Thorn vines as thick as her arm tangled between the trees and crept out along the ground. Through the trees and beyond the vines was only darkness. A greedy darkness, she felt, a darkness that watched her, hated her, wanted her. The more she stared at it, the more terrified she became of shapes that might or might not be moving, of slight sounds that might be footsteps or wings.
And then, when she thought her terror could be no greater, something pushed through the thorns coming toward her. Moonlight gleamed on a black-mailed arm and the fingers of a hand, uncurling.
And then the helmet came through, a tall, tapering helm, with black horns curving up, set on the shoulders of a giant. The visor was open, and there she saw something that wrenched from her own throat a keening sound somehow more alien than anything she had yet known. She turned and ran through the roses, and the small barbs caught at her dress, and now the moon looked like the rotted eye of a fish …
She awoke, thrashing with the motions of flight, not knowing where she was. Then she remembered, and sat up in her bed, arms wrapped about her middle.
“A dream,” she told the dark room, rocking back and forth. “Just a dream.”
But the air was still thick with anise and plum. In the pale moonlight streaming through her window she saw black petals scattered upon her coverlet. She felt them in her hair. Wet trickled down her face, and the bright taste of salt came to her lips.
Anne slept no more that night, but waited for the cockcrow and the sun.
9
On the Sleeve
Neil woke early, inspected his new armor for any blemishing its single wearing might have left on it. He checked his spurs and tabard, and finally drew Crow, his broadsword, then made certain the hard, sharp length of her gleamed like water.
Moving quietly, he slipped on his buskins and padded from the room, down the stairs, and out of the inn. Outside, a morning fog was just starting to lift, and the docks were already alive with movement, fishing crews putting out for the middle shoals, seacharmers and salters and whores looking to be taken on, seagulls and fishravens fighting over scraps.
Neil had noticed the chapel of Saint Lier the day before, distinguished by its mast-shaped spire. It was a modest wooden building right at water’s edge, built on a raised stone foundation. As he approached, several rough-looking sailors were on their way out. He greeted them by passing his hand over his face, the sign of Saint Lier. “His hand keep you,” he told them.
“Thanks, lad,” one of them said gruffly. “And you.”
Within, the chapel was dark and plain, all wood, in the island style. The only ornament was a simple statuette of the saint himself above the altar; carved of walrus tusk, it depicted him standing in a coracle.
Neil carefully placed two silver coins in the box and knelt. He began to sing.
He prayed for the souls of his father and mother, for Sir Fail and his lady Fiene, for the hungry ghosts of the sea. He prayed for King William and Queen Muriele, and for Crotheny. Most of all he prayed that he himself might be worthy. Then, after a time of silence, he rose to leave.
A lady in a deep green cloak stood behind him. He started, for in the intensity of his prayers, he hadn’t heard her enter.
“I’m sorry, lady,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to keep you from the altar.”
“There’s plenty of room,” she answered. “You did not keep me from it. It just that it’s been a long time since I heard anyone pray so beautifully. I wanted to listen, I’m afraid, and so it’s to you I must apologize.”
“Why?” Neil asked. “I’ve no shame for my prayers. It’s an honor to me if you found something in them. I …”
Her eyes gripped him. Sea-green, they were. Curls of black hair cascaded from beneath her hood, and her lips were a ruby bow. He couldn’t guess her age, though if pressed, he would put her in her thirties. She was too beautiful to be human, and with a sudden dizziness, it occurred to Neil that this was no earthly woman, but a vision, a saint or an angel, perhaps.
So strong and certain was the feeling that his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn’t remember what else he had meant to say.
“The honor is mine, young man,” she said. She cocked her head. “You have an island accent. Are you from Liery?”
“I was born on Skern, my lady,” he managed. “But I am pledged to a lord of Liery, as was my father.”
“Would that lord be the Baron Sir Fail de Liery?”
“Yes, my lady,” he replied, feeling as if he were in a dream.
“A good and noble man. You do very well to serve him.”
“Lady, how could you know—”
“You forget, I heard your prayers. Sir Fail is with you? He is near?”
“Yes, lady. In the inn, just up the way. We arrived yesterday; he intends to present me at court today, unworthy as I may be.”
“If Sir Fail wishes to present you, the only thing unworthy about you is your doubt of him. He knows what he is about.”
“Yes, lady. Of course.”
She lowered her head. “You should know that the court will be on the hill of Tom Woth, today, to celebrate the birthday of the princess Elseny. Sir Fail may not know this, having just arrived. Take the northern gate and ride up the Sleeve. Sir Fail will know where. Tell him to go to the stone circle and wait.”
“You command me, lady.” His heart was thunder, and he could not say why. He wanted to ask her name, but he feared the answer.
“I wonder if you would excuse me now,” the lady said. “My prayers are less elegant than yours. The saint will forgive my clumsiness, I know, but I would rather no one else heard. It’s been long since I came here. Too long.”
She sounded infinitely sad.
“Lady, if there is anything I can do for you, please name it.”
Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Take care in the court,” she said softly. “Stay true to yourself. Stay who you are. It is a … difficult thing.”
“Yes, lady. If you ask it, it will be done.”
So saying, he left her there, his feet feeling oddly heavy on the cobbles of the street.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Fail de Liery said.
Neil couldn’t keep his head still. “I’ve never see anything like it. I’ve never seen clothes like this, so much color and silk.”
Hundreds of courtiers were riding up the greensward, along with dwarves, giants, jesters, and footmen, all in fantastic costume.
“You’ll see more. Come, those are the stones ahead.”
They spurred their mounts to a gallop, toward the small circle of standing stones near the forest edge. A large group waited there, mounted and on foot. Neil noticed knights among them, all wearing livery of black and deep sea-green trimmed in bronze. He didn’t know whose colors they were, and they bore no devices.