“Possibly. What of it?”
“Give me a straight answer, damn you. Mother Cilth wanted me to do something. What is it?”
“I …” She paused. “I’m remembering, yes. She wanted you to find me. To find me, and the Briar King. Beyond that, I do not know.”
“And the greffyn will lead me to the Briar King?”
“It would be better if you reached him before the greffyn does,” Mother Gastya murmured.
“Why? And how will I do that?”
“As to the first, it’s just a tingle in my mind. As to the second—follow the Slaghish into the Mountains of the Hare, always taking the southern and westernmost forks. Between that headwater and the Cockspurs is a high valley.”
“No, there isn’t,” Aspar said. “I’ve been there.”
“There is.”
“Sceat.”
The crone shook her head. “There always has been, but behind a wall, of sorts. A breach has formed in it. Follow the valley down, through the thorn hollows. You’ll find him there.”
“There is no such valley,” Aspar said stubbornly. “You can’t hide such a thing. But suppose there was. Suppose pigs are rutting geese, and everything you say is true. Supposing all of that—why should I do what Mother Cilth wants me to accomplish? What good will it do?”
Mother Gastya’s eyes seemed to shiver like distant lightning. “Because then you will believe, Aspar White. Only seeing him will do that. And to do what you must, you must first believe, in the deepest cistern of your blood.”
Aspar rubbed his forehead with his hand. “I hate Sefry,” he murmured. “I hate you all. Why me? Why do I have to do this?”
She shrugged. “You see with eyes both Sefry and Human.”
“Why should that make a difference?”
“It will make a difference. Human breath he shall draw, and Human soul charge him; but his gaze shall have Sefry quick and see the colors of night. So the prophecy goes.”
“Prophecy? Grim damn you, I—” He stopped short at the echo of a voice. “What’s that?”
“The outcasts. They’re coming for you.”
“I thought you said they couldn’t find us.”
“No. I said they would, at the proper time. That time is near. But they will not find you. Only me. Take my boat, and let the current carry you downstream. In time, you will see light, and steer toward it.”
“Why can’t you go?”
“The light will end me, and there are things I must do first.”
“Fend will kill you.”
Gastya croaked softly at that and placed her hand briefly on Aspar’s. With a terrible chill, he neither saw nor felt flesh on her fingers, only cold, gray bone. “Go on,” Mother Gastya said. “But take this.” The bones of her hand opened and dropped a small, waxy sphere into his palm. “This draws the poison out. You may not be well yet. If you sicken again, clutch it to the wound.”
Aspar took the sphere, staring at the hand. “Come on, Winna,” he murmured.
“Y-yes.”
“The boat is there,” Gastya said, lifting her chin to point. “Do not dally. Find him.”
Aspar didn’t answer. A shiver kept scurrying up and down his back like a mouse in a pipe. He was afraid his voice would quiver if he spoke. He took Winna’s hand, and they went to find the boat.
But once the water had taken the gondola past the carved stone posts that marked the Hisli shrine, and into a low-roofed tunnel, away from Mother Gastya and her hollow, pitted voice, Winna squeezed his fingers.
“Was she, Aspar? Was she dead?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “The Sefry claim—they say their shinecrafting can do such things. I’ve never believed it. Never.”
“But you do now.”
“It could have been a glamour. Probably it was a glamour.”
A long time later, it seemed, strange sounds came down the tunnel. It might have been screams, but whose Aspar could not say.
7
Plans for an Outing
“Majesty!” the guard protested. “You cannot— I mean, it’s—”
Muriele glared up at the tall, weak-chinned fellow. He had a carefully trimmed mustache and was immaculate in the pale-and-blue livery of the house Gramme. Muriele couldn’t remember his name, nor did she really try.
“Cannot what?” she snapped. “Am I your queen or not?”
The man flinched, bowed, and bowed again, as he had been doing from their first encounter. “Yes, Majesty, of course, but—”
“And is not the lady Gramme my subject, and a guest in my husband’s house?”
“Yes, Majesty, quite, but—”
“But what? These are my rooms, sir, despite that your mistress lives in them. Out of my way, that I may enter. Unless you know some reason I should not.”
“Please, Majesty. The widow Gramme is … entertaining.”
“Entertaining? Surely she would have to be entertaining the king himself, if you are to put aside my wishes. Are you, sir, prepared to tell me that the lady Gramme is entertaining my husband?”
For a long moment, the young knight stood there, trying out various movements of his lips but never quite making a sound. He looked from Muriele, to Erren, to the young knight Neil MeqVren, who stood with hand on the hilt of his weapon. Then he sighed. “No, Majesty. I am not prepared to tell you that.”
“Very well, then. Open that door.”
A moment later she was striding into the suite. Adlainn Selgrene—Gramme’s lady-in-waiting—dropped her needlework and gave a little shriek as Muriele marched toward the bedchamber, but at a hard glance from Erren, the small blonde fell quite silent.
Muriele paused at the double doors and spoke to Neil and Erren without looking at them.
“Stay outside for a moment,” she said. “Give them time to get proper.” Then she took the handle and shoved the doors open.
The lady Gramme and William II were a pink tangle of limbs on her enormous bed. People look rather stupid in the act of sex, Muriele thought, oddly detached. Helpless and stupid, like babies without the charm.
“By the saints!” Muriele said, deadpan. “Whatever are you doing with my husband, Lady Gramme?”
Gramme shrieked in an outrage altogether free of fear, and the king gave a kind of bullish bellow, but they both scrambled under cover in short order.
“Muriele, what in the name of the saints—” William shouted, his face ruddy.
“How dare you break into my rooms—” Gramme howled, pushing at her tangled ash-blonde curls with one hand and drawing the coverlet up with the other.
“Shut up, the both of you,” Muriele shouted. “You especially, Lady Gramme. That everyone knows about … this … does not make it legal to the church. My husband may be above holy sanction, but I assure you, you are not, nor will he—in these times—stand in my way if I wish to press for it.”
“Muriele—”
“No, hush, William. War is afoot, yes? With whose family would you rather risk a rift? Mine, with its matchless fleet and its legions of knights? Or this whore’s, whose father commands forty skinny nags mounted by oafs wearing pots for helms?”
Gramme understood the threat more quickly than William.
Her mouth clamped shut very quickly indeed, though she was near tears with anger.
William, biting his lip, also relented. “What do you want, Muriele?” he asked tiredly.
“Your attention, husband. I’m told I’m to be escorted by barge to Cal Azroth. I don’t remember deciding that I wanted to go there. And I don’t remember being asked.”
“I am still your husband. I am still king. Need I ask permission to make my wife safe? You were nearly killed!”
“Your concern is noted. Is that what you came to Lady Gramme to discuss? Your deep worry and concern for my welfare?”
William ignored the dig. “It’s not safe for you in Eslen, Muriele. That much is plain. It will be much easier to guard you at Cal Azroth. It’s what the place was built for.”