The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [81]
Her eyes cut over to Robert. “Their children were among the first of the landwaerden. Many of us claim our descent from Maersca.”
Robert scratched his head and looked perplexed.
“This is a complicated story,” he said. “I wonder if you might not be planning to hide some unflattering commentary about me in it, as you did before.”
“I will not,” Leoff promised. “I intend only to use a story beloved of the landwaerden, as I did the last time. It was a king of Eslen who rewarded the children of Maersca with their positions. He was the youngest son of the king before, and it is said he worked with the people on the dikes when he was young. In him, we could suggest you: a monarch whose heart lies with Newland and its guardians.”
“And who is the villain of the piece?”
“Ah,” Leoff said. “The Skellander was led into Newland by none other than the daughter of the old king, the sister of Thiodric, a shinecrafter most foul who poisoned her father and slew all her brothers save the youngest, who—as we shall see—was saved from drowning by none other than Maersca.”
“And you could make this sister a redhead,” Robert mused. “Very well, I like this.
“As I told you before, I’ve no doubt that you are clever enough to somehow betray me, even if I were to assign you a story. So know this: If you disgrace me further, I will hardly have anything to lose, and I will cut the throats of these young ladies myself, in your presence.
“Indeed, let me be even more candid. Even if your work appears to have been composed in good faith, if your play fails to turn the landwaerden back to favoring me, their fate will be the one I’ve just described.” He patted Leoff on the back.
“Enjoy your stay here. I think you will find it more than comfortable.”
A SPAR’S FINGERS felt as papery as birch bark as he set an arrow to the string.
Fend, who had killed his first love. Fend, who had tried to do the same to Winna.
Fend, who now rode the back of a monstrous woorm.
He measured the distance down the shaft. It seemed enormous, the arrow, and he was aware of every detail of it: the hawk-feather fletching wound on with waxed red thread, the almost imperceptible curve in the wood that had to be corrected for, a dull glint of sun from the slightly rusted iron head, the smell of the oil from the sheath.
The air ebbed and flowed around him, and dead leaves, like the signal flags of an army, showed him the way to Fend’s flesh and blood and bone.
Yet he couldn’t quite feel it. At this range, from this angle, it was an uncertain shot. And even if the shaft flew true, there was the improbable but terribly possible presence of the woorm. No arrow—or any number of arrows—could slay that thing.
But no, that wasn’t entirely true. There was the black arrow of the Church given him by Praifec Hespero, the one he had used to slay the utin. It was supposed to be able to kill even the Briar King; it ought to be able to slay a woorm.
Not that he knew the slightest thing about woorms.
Winna was trembling, but she didn’t say anything. The woorm and Fend both dropped their heads, and the creature began moving again. Aspar relaxed a little, rolling completely out of sight, and held Winna tightly until the sound of the thing’s passage had faded.
“Oh, saints,” Winna finally breathed.
“Yah,” Aspar agreed.
“Just when I think I’ve seen every nightbale from all the kinder-spells.” She shuddered.
“How do you feel?” he asked. Her skin felt clammy.
“Like I’ve been alvshot,” she said. “A little feverish.” She looked up at him. “It must be poison, like the greffyn gave off.”
Aspar had first found the greffyn by its trail of dead and dying plants and animals. Greffyns weren’t much bigger than horses, though. This thing—
“Sceat,” he muttered.
“What?”
He placed his hand against the trunk of the tree, wishing