The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [135]
“It doesn’t matter,” Neil MeqVren interrupted, shouldering into the tent. Cazio came in just behind him, and beyond them Anne could see a dozen or more of Artwair’s guard, watching intently. “Anne is your queen.”
“You’re supposed to be watching Prince Robert,” Artwair said.
“He is in safe hands. I came, like you, to try to talk her away from this dangerous course of action.”
“Then I urge you not to involve yourself.”
“You have involved me already,” Neil replied. “She will not be convinced, and you must not attempt to force her.”
“I hardly think you can enforce that,” Artwair said drily.
“He’ll have my help,” Cazio said. The two brushed past Artwair’s men to stand at Anne’s side. She knew that even with Neil’s strange weapon, he and Cazio hadn’t a chance against her cousin’s men. But it felt good to have them there.
Artwair grimaced. “Anne—”
“What is your plan, Duke Artwair?” Anne interrupted. “How do you plan to claim your throne?”
“I want no throne for myself,” Artwair said, hotly now. “All I want is what’s best for Crotheny.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“I’ve no idea what you want, Anne, but I believe your desire to rescue your mother has clouded your judgment.”
Anne walked over to the tent flap, threw it open, and speared her finger toward the mist-covered island. The men outside stepped back.
“There is the throne, across that water, on that island. That’s what we’ve come here for. I’ve a chance to—”
“You’ve no chance at all. Robert is too devious. Better we withdraw, build our strength, join with Liery.”
“Liery,” Anne said, “is already out there. Do you honestly believe Sir Fail does not have a fleet in the water, even now?”
“Then where are they?”
“On the way.”
“They will never reach us,” Artwair said. “What fleet can survive—much less take—Thornrath?”
“No fleet,” Anne replied. “But you could.”
Artwair opened his mouth, then closed it.
“It’s possible,” he said, “but not bloody likely. Yet if there is a Lierish fleet…” He looked thoughtfully into the distance.
“There is,” Anne said. “I’ve seen it. Two days from now they arrive. If we do not control Thornrath, they will be destroyed, crushed between the wall and a Hanzish fleet.”
“Seen it?”
“In a vision, Cousin.”
Artwair barked a little laugh. “Visions are of no use to me,” he said.
Anne gripped his arm and stared up into his eyes. “What you said about me was true,” she admitted. “But I have changed. I am not the girl you knew. And I know more than you, Cousin Artwair. Not about tactics and strategy, I grant you, but about other things of perhaps greater importance. I know how to get troops into Eslen. I know Fail is coming. You do need me, but not as the figurehead you imagine.
“I will not be, as Robert put it, your poppet. We will do this the way I want it done, or we will not do it at all. Unless you think this army will follow my corpse. Or yours.”
Her anger was grown now, a kernel of rot in her belly. Once again she felt the waters of life and death pulsing around her and followed them through the seams of Artwair’s armor, past the scratchy surface of his skin, into the tangle of bloody tissue and the flexing muscle of his heart. She felt it beat for a moment, then, gently, she caressed it.
The result was immediate. Artwair’s eyes bulged out, and his knees started to buckle. His man caught him as he clutched at his chest.
“No,” he gasped. “No.”
As if she were still watching herself through the looking glass, Anne heard herself talking.
“You say I am your queen, Artwair,” she murmured. “Say it now. Say it. Say it again.”
His face was bright red, but his lips were going blue.
“What…”
“Say it.”
“Not…like…this.”
She felt his heart spasm and realized he would die soon if she did not stop. How marvelously delicate the heart was.
But she didn’t want Artwair dead, so with a sigh she released him. He gasped and sagged, then tried to straighten, his eyes brimming with shock and fear.
“I am not what you think I am,” she said, releasing