The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [146]
“I thought it was you doing the suggesting, Prince Robert.”
Robert leaned forward, and his voice dropped very low. “How did it feel? Royal wool? Different from the lesser sort? I’ve always found it so. But they buck and cry like animals, all of them, don’t they?”
“Shut up,” Neil grated.
“Don’t get me wrong; Fastia really was in need of a good thumping. She always seemed the sort to like it from behind, on all fours, like a dog. Was that the way it was?”
Neil was aware that his breath was coming harshly, and the world was taking on the bright edge that came with the quetiac, the battle rage. His hand was already gripped on the hilt of the feysword.
“You should be quiet now,” Neil said.
The boy arrived with a new bottle of wine.
“This will quiet me,” Robert said. But as he took the bottle, he suddenly stood and shattered it against the boy’s head.
It seemed to go very slowly: the heavy glass container cracking against the squire’s temple, the spray of blood. Neil saw one eye pop from its socket as the skull deformed under the impact. At the same time, he saw Robert reaching for the boy’s sword.
And he was happy. Happy, because now the feysword hummed from its sheath and he lunged forward. Robert twisted the dying lad in front of him, but the blade cut through and deep into the prince. Neil felt an odd jolt, almost a protest from the weapon, and his fingers loosened reflexively.
From the corner of his eye he saw Robert’s fist coming, still holding the neck and upper third of the bottle. He brought his hand up without thinking.
Too late. The side of his head seemed to explode in a white-hot concussion. He fell away from the blow, his rage sustaining his consciousness, but when he came back to his feet, Robert was already two yards away, holding the feysword, a demonic smirk on his face.
Dizzily, Neil reached for his knife, knowing it wouldn’t help much against the ensorcelled weapon.
But an arrow struck the prince high in the chest, and then another, and he stumbled back, shouted, and pitched over the side of the dike into the water. Neil lurched after him, gripping the knife.
Artwair’s men caught him at the birm, preventing him leaping the eight kingsyards down into the water.
“No, you fool,” Artwair shouted. “Let my archers have him.”
Neil fought his captors, but blood had filled one of his eyes, and his muscles felt horribly loose.
“No!” he screamed. But following that, a deep silence fell. They waited for the prince to surface, dead or alive.
But after many long breaths he did not. Artwair sent men into the water then, but they found nothing.
A cold mist ran up the river that evening, but the Pelican Tower stood above all that, its north face clearly visible and dark.
“Even if she puts out the light,” Neil said, pressing a clean rag to his head wound, “it might only mean she was tortured into telling her signal.”
“Auy,” Artwair agreed. “The only thing that will have real meaning is if she doesn’t put out the light at all.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Neil snapped. “Dead at the hand of Robert’s men, Anne might be more useful to you than alive—at least now that you know her mind.”
Artwair was silent for a moment, then took a pull on the green glass bottle he’d put beside them on the boards. The two men sat on the upper story of a half-burned malend, watching for Anne’s signal.
He offered the bottle to Neil.
“I won’t pretend she left me happy this morning,” the duke said. “She reached right inside me. I could feel ’er there. What happened to her, Sir Neil? What has that girl become?”
Neil shrugged and reached for the bottle. “Her mother sent her to the Coven Saint Cer. Does that mean anything to you?”
Artwair stared skeptically as Neil took a drink from the bottle, tasting fire, peat, and seaweed. He looked at the bottle in surprise.
“This is from Skern,” he said.
“Auy. Oiche de Fié. The Coven Saint Cer, eh? A coven-trained princess. Muriele is an interesting one.”
He took the bottle and swallowed more of the stuff as Neil let the aroma filter