Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t recognized them right away. To Neil, they seemed like any other men.
Alone again, Neil had the leisure to reflect on just how out of place he felt. In Liery, he had known who he was. He was Neil, son of Fren, and since the destruction of his clan, the fosterling of Fail de Liery. More than that, he had been a warrior, and a good one. Even the knights of Liery had recognized that, and complimented him on it. He had been one of them in all but title. None had successfully stood against him in single combat since he was fourteen. No enemy of the de Lierys had ever stood against him at all, not since that day on the beach.
But what use was he here, in this place of frilly tents and costumes? Where even the most civil of the royal bodyguard spoke to him with such condescension? What could he do here?
Better that he serve the empire as he always had, as a warrior of the marches, where it mattered little whether or not one wore a rose, and mattered much how one wielded a sword.
He would find Fail de Liery and ask him not to recommend him. It was the only sensible course of action.
He looked about and saw Sir Fail break away from the king.
“Come, Hurricane,” he told his mount, “let’s tell him, and hope it’s not too late.”
But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of the queen. The sight of her held him momentarily.
She was still mounted, silhouetted against the blue sky. Beyond her, the land dropped away to a distant green, still misty with morning. A breeze ruffled her hair.
He realized he had stared too long, and began to turn, when a motion caught his eye. It was one of the Craftsmen, his mount at full gallop, careening across the green toward her, a long silver flash of steel in his hand.
Neil didn’t think but kicked Hurricane into motion. Clearly the knight was rushing to meet some threat. Frantically, Neil searched with his eyes as he galloped forward, but saw nothing the warrior might be responding to.
And then he understood. He drew Crow, flourishing her and uttering the piercing war cry of the MeqVrens.
Austra giggled as Anne shooed away some great lout dressed as an ogre, brandishing her willow-wand sword.
“This is fun,” the maid said.
“It’s good of you tell me,” Anne replied. “Else I might never have known.”
“Oh, foo. You’re having fun.”
“Maybe a little. But it’s time we part company, fair lady.”
“What do you mean?” Austra said. “You are my knight. Who else shall escort me to the center of the maze and the Elphin queen’s court?”
“That isn’t your charge, as well you know. You must find Roderick and direct him to meet me at the fane of Saint Under.”
“In Eslen-of-Shadows? That’s—”
“The last place anyone will look for us. And it’s not far from here. He is to meet me there at dusk. Go find him, tell him, then find me again in the maze. We shall then proceed to my sister’s birthday court, and none will be the wiser.”
“I don’t know. Fastia and your mother must be watching us.”
“Amidst all this? That would be difficult.”
“As difficult as me finding Roderick.”
“I have confidence in you, Austra. Now hurry.”
Austra rustled off, and Anne continued through the labyrinth on her own.
She knew how to work mazes, of course. Some of her earliest memories were of her aunt Elyoner’s estate of Glenchest, in Loiyes, and the vast hedge labyrinth there. She had feared it until her aunt explained the secret. You simply trailed a hand on one wall and walked, always keeping contact. In that way you would work through the entire thing. Slow it might be, but not as slow as bumbling confusedly around in the same corner for four bells.
She was in no hurry, but from habit, she trailed her left hand along the floral wall.
Meanwhile, children and court dwarves dressed as boghshins and kovalds ran by, squealing and making fierce faces. Many of the court giants were dressed as pig-headed uttins with tusks and green-skinned trolls with bulging eyes. Hound Hat, her father’s Sefry jester, tipped his huge brim to her as she went by, his shadowed face the only flesh visible, the rest of him clad in voluminous robes that swallowed even his hands.
She hoped Austra would find Roderick. The kiss in the orchard had been far different from that first peck in the city of the dead. Or rather, the kisses in the orchard, for she seemed to have lost more than half a bell, when she was with him. It wasn’t just the lips, with kissing, as she had always imagined. It was the face, so close, the eyes so near they could hide nothing if you caught them open.
And the warmth of bodies—that was a little frightening. Confusing. She wanted more.
Anne paused, her hand still on the wall.
Something was different. She seemed to have entered a corner of the maze no one else had found, not even the “monsters” who were supposed to inhabit it. She had been so deep in thought that she had failed to take notice. Now, straining her ears, she couldn’t even hear anyone else.
Just how big could this maze be?
The flowers had changed, too. The walls here were made of scarlet and white primrose—and they were denser. She couldn’t see through them at all. In fact, at their bases the stems were quite thick, as if they had been growing for a very long time. But she had been on Tom Woth in midwinter, and there had been no trace of a maze. Sunflowers could grow more than head high in a few months, but a thick stand of primrose? That seemed unlikely.
Her breathing quickened.
“Hello?” she called.
No one answered.
Frowning, Anne turned around, so that her right hand was touching the wall she had been following. Walking quickly, she retraced her steps.
After a hundred paces or so, she lifted her skirts and broke into a run. The maze was still primroses, now sunset red, then sky blue or snow white, pink and lavender. No sunflowers or twining peas, no jesters or goblin-dressed children, no giggling courtiers. Nothing but endless corridors of flowers, and her own sharp breathing.
Finally she stopped, trying to stay calm.
Obviously she wasn’t on Tom Woth anymore. Where was she, then?
The sky looked the same, but something was different. Something other than the maze.
She couldn’t place it at first, but when she understood, she gasped and, despite herself, began to tremble.
She couldn’t see the sun, which meant it must be low in the sky. Yet there were no shadows. Not from the maze, not from her. She lifted her skirt. Even directly underneath her, the grass was lit as uniformly as everything else.
She slapped herself. She pinched herself, but nothing changed.
Until behind her she heard a faint, throaty chuckle.
Time slowed, as it often did for Neil in such moments. The Craftsman’s horse seemed almost to drift toward the queen, its great shanks rippling and glistening like black waters beneath the moon.
The queen hadn’t yet noticed anything unusual, for the black-and-green-clad knight was approaching from behind her, but Fastia was facing the oncoming rider, and her face was slowly transforming from puzzlement to horror.
For the Craftsman’s target was the queen herself. His sword was drawn back, level with his waist and parallel to the ground, in preparation for the strike known as reaper, aimed at kissing Her Majesty’s neck and making a fountain of her lovely white throat.
In that long, slow moment of calculation, Neil was suspended between possibilities. If the Craftsman didn’t flinch, Neil would never stop him.
The Craftsman didn’t flinch, but his horse did, seeing Hurricane bearing down so fast. A single hesitation, less than a heartbeat, but it was enough.
Hurricane crashed into the other horse’s hindquarters, striking from the side with such force that it spun the Craftsman clean around. For this, Neil’s own decapitating blow went high, but Neil managed to get his left arm around, and the two steel-clad men hit with a noise like a ton of chain being dropped from a watchtower onto cobblestones.