Then there was a tangle of limbs and no weight, and Neil discovered that there was, indeed, an edge to the hill. A very steep slope, and he and the knight were flying out over it like the clumsiest, most improbable birds in the world.
Thunder smote repeatedly as they hit the grass-dressed hill and bounced, bounced again, and rolled. He lost his hold and they came apart. Crow wasn’t in his hands anymore. He finally fetched to a stop against a rock, flashes like anvil sparks filling his vision.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, but it couldn’t have been long, because he and the royal guardsman were still alone, though the distant hilltop bristled with figures.
Neil got to his feet a few breaths before the Craftsman, who lay some ten paces away. Crow, by good chance, rested halfway between them. Less fortunately, the knight still held his blade.
Neil didn’t get Crow up in time, and he had to take that first blow on his forearm. Sheathed in steel as it was, the heavy blade would still have shattered the bone, but Neil angled it so the blade skidded aside. The force struck like lightning all the way to his hip, and for an instant time paused again.
Then Neil lifted Crow, his bird of slaughter, and brought her straight up from the ground, one-handed, a weak blow, but it struck directly beneath the knight’s chin. The helm caught it, but his head snapped back, and now Neil had two hands on his weapon.
He hammered in right, hit the helm again, this time just about where the man’s ear should be.
The knight fell.
Neil waited for him to get up.
He did, but his helm was deeply dented, and he limped a little. He was a big man, and by the way he set his middle guard, Neil could tell he knew how to fight without a shield.
The Craftsman struck, coming straight on, feinting a head cut, dropping to strike under the arm instead. It was well done, but Neil saw it coming and took a fast, long step to his right, and the other blade bit only air. Crow, on the other hand, lifted as if to block the feint, then came back and once again struck the conical helm, in the same place it had before.
This time, blood spurted from the visor. His foe tottered and fell, trying to curl around his head.
Neil sighed, walked a few steps, and sat down, badly in need of a few deep breaths. It wasn’t easy. His beautiful new armor was stove deeply in from below his left arm all the way to his hip, and he was pretty sure the ribs underneath were cracked, too.
He heard shouts above him. Too steep for horses. Five Craftsmen were clanging down the slope as best they could in their armor. Neil lifted Crow again, ready to meet them.
Her gown was of a red so dark it seemed nearly black, and it was hemmed with strange scrolling needlework that glinted ruby. Over it she wore a black robe, embroidered in pale gold with stars, dragons, salamanders, and greffyns. Amber hair fell in a hundred braids to her waist. She wore a mask of red gold, delicately wrought; one eyebrow was lifted, as if in amusement, and the lips carried a quirk that was almost a sneer.
“Who are you?” Anne asked. Her voice sounded ridiculous to her ears, quivering like a baby bird.
“You walked widdershins,” the woman said softly. “You have to be careful when you do that. It puts your shadow behind you, where you can’t look after it. Someone can snatch it—like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“Where are my friends? The court?”
“Where they always were. It’s we who are elsewhere. We shadows.”
“Put me back. Put me back right now. Or …”
“Or what? Do you think you are a princess here?”
“Put me back. Please?”
“I will. But you must listen to me first. It is my one condition. We have only a short time.”
This is a dream, Anne thought. Just like the other night.
She drew a deep breath. “Very well.”
“Crotheny must not fall,” the woman said.
“Of course it shan’t. What do you mean?”
“Crotheny must not fall. And there must be a queen in Crotheny when he comes.”
“When who comes?”
“I cannot name him. Not here, not now. Nor would his name help you.”
“There is a queen in Crotheny. My mother is queen.”
“And so it must remain.”
“Is something going to happen to Mother?”
“I don’t see the future, Anne. I see need. And your kingdom will need you. That is blazed on earth and stone. I cannot say when, or why, but it has to do with the queen. Your mother, or one of your sisters—or you.”
“But that’s stupid. If something happens to my mother, there will be no queen, unless father remarries. And he cannot marry one of his daughters. And if something happens to Father, my brother Charles will be king, and whoever he chooses for wife will be queen.”
“Nevertheless. If there is no queen in Crotheny when he comes, all is lost. And I mean all. I charge you with this.”
“Why me? Why not Fastia? She’s the one—”
“You are the youngest. There is power in that. It is your trust. Your responsibility. If you fail, it means the ruin of your kingdom, and of all other kingdoms. Do you understand?”
“All other kingdoms?”
“Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Then remember. Remembering will do, for now.”
“But I—”
“If you want to know more, seek with your ancestors. They might help you when I cannot. Now go.”
“No, wait. You—” Something startled her, and she blinked. When her eyes fluttered open again, Austra was standing in front of her, shaking her.
“—nne! What’s wrong?” Austra sounded hysterical.
“Stop that!” Anne demanded. “Where did she go? Where is she?”
“Anne! You were just standing there. Staring no matter how hard I’ve been shaking you!”
“Where did she go? The woman in the gold mask?”
But the masked woman was gone. Looking down, Anne saw that she had a shadow again.
Part II
Demesnes of Night and Forest
The year 2,223 of Everon
The month of Truthmen
As the armies of man defeated the Skasloi, the saints defeated the old gods. With their defeat, the ancient sorceries of the Skasloi were greatly diminished, but not destroyed. It was the Sacaratum—that most holy crusade that brought the blessings and wisdom of the church to all the kingdoms of Everon—that finally purified the world of that evil. The only lingering of it are phantasms that exist in the minds of the ignorant and heretical.
1
The Halafolk
Lightning shattered a tree, so near that Aspar felt the tingle in the damp soil and smelled the metallic scent of scorched air. Ogre shivered and Angel shrieked, prancing madly. So did Pie Pony, Winna’s horse, so that she had to knot her free hand in her mane.
Wind rushed through the forest like an army of ghosts on the run, and the ancient trees rattled and groaned like doomed titans facing the Stormlord. Low thunder rumbled distant, bright coppery claps nearer. Chariot wheels and whip-cracks, his father had once called them, when Aspar was very young. He couldn’t remember his father’s face, his name, or almost anything else, except for that phrase and the smoky smell of tanned buckskin.