The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [0]
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE FOUR BRIEF TALES
PART I THE UNHEALED
CHAPTER ONE THE QUEEN OF DEMONS
CHAPTER TWO AN EMBASSY
CHAPTER THREE THE END OF A REST
CHAPTER FOUR PROPOSITION AND DISPOSITION
CHAPTER FIVE TESTAMENT
CHAPTER SIX A MESSAGE FROM MOTHER
CHAPTER SEVEN THE TOWN BETWEEN
CHAPTER EIGHT THE NATURE OF A SWORDSMAN
CHAPTER NINE ZEMLÉ’S TALE
CHAPTER TEN THREE THRONES
CHAPTER ELEVEN A CHALLENGE
PART II MANIFESTATIONS OF SEVERAL SORTS
CHAPTER ONE EMPRESS OF THE RED HALL
CHAPTER TWO ALONG THE DEEP RIVER
CHAPTER THREE THE GEOS
CHAPTER FOUR TWO MAIDS
CHAPTER FIVE A STORM IN HANSA
CHAPTER SIX A HEART FOUND CHANGED
CHAPTER SEVEN THE WALK BEGINS
CHAPTER EIGHT ZO BUSO BRATO
CHAPTER NINE THE QUEEN RIDES
CHAPTER TEN KAITHBAURG
CHAPTER ELEVEN THE WOOTHSHAER
CHAPTER TWELVE KAURON
CHAPTER THIRTEEN RETREAT
CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE SINGING DEAD
PART III FEALTY AND FIDELITY
CHAPTER ONE THE HELLRUNE
CHAPTER TWO THE ANGEL
CHAPTER THREE SUITOR
CHAPTER FOUR FEND MAKES AN OFFER
CHAPTER FIVE AUSTRA
CHAPTER SIX BRINNA
CHAPTER SEVEN THE COMMANDER
CHAPTER EIGHT THE WAY OF POWER
CHAPTER NINE TWO REASONS
CHAPTER TEN AN OLD FRIEND
CHAPTER ELEVEN DRINKING WITH WARRIORS
CHAPTER TWELVE DEPOSITIONS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN LEAVING
PART IV THE BORN QUEEN
CHAPTER ONE OCCUPIED
CHAPTER TWO A FINAL MEETING
CHAPTER THREE SIR HARRIOT’S TASK
CHAPTER FOUR OVER BLUFF AND DOWN SLOUGH
CHAPTER FIVE ACMEMENO
CHAPTER SIX BRACKEN HOPE
CHAPTER SEVEN THE PROOF OF THE VINTAGE
CHAPTER EIGHT REUNIONS STRANGE AND NATURAL
CHAPTER NINE THE HIDING PLACE
CHAPTER TEN BASICS
CHAPTER ELEVEN AWAKE
CHAPTER TWELVE REQUIEM
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY GREG KEYES
COPYRIGHT
For Nell,
again
PROLOGUE
FOUR BRIEF TALES
HARRIOT
A SHRIEK OF PAIN lifted into the pearl-colored sky and hung on the wind above Tarnshead like a seabird. Roger Harriot didn’t turn; he’d heard plenty of screams this morning and would hear quite a few more before the day was done. Instead he focused his regard on the landscape, of which the west tower of Fiderech castle afforded an expansive view. The head itself was off to the west, presently on his left hand. Stacks of white stone jutted up through emerald grass, standing high enough to obscure the sea beyond, although as they slouched north toward town, the gray-green waves became visible. Along that slope, wind-gnarled trees reached their branches all in the same direction, as if to snatch some unseen prize from the air. From those twisty boughs hung strange fruit. He wondered if he would have been able to tell what they were if he did not already know.
Probably.
“Not everyone has the stomach for torture,” a voice informed him. He recognized it as belonging to Sacritor Praecum, whose attish this was.
“I find it dreary,” Roger replied, letting his gaze drift across the village with its neat little houses, gardens, and ropewalk. Ships’ masts swayed gently behind the roofs.
“Dreary?”
“And tedious, and unproductive,” he added. “I doubt very much it accomplishes anything.”
“Many have confessed and turned back to the true path,” Praecum objected.
“I’m more than familiar with torture,” Roger told him. “Under the iron, men will confess to things they have not done.” He turned a wan smile toward the sacritor. “Indeed, I’ve found that the sins admitted by the victim are usually first in the guilty hearts of their interrogators.”
“Now, see here—” the sacritor began, but Roger waved him off.
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said. “It’s a general observation.”
“I can’t believe a knight of the Church could have such views. You seem almost to question the resacaratum itself.”
“Not at all,” Roger replied. “The cancer of heresy infects every city, town, village, and household. Evil walks abroad in daylight and does not bother to wear a disguise. No, this world must be made pure again, as it was in the days of the Sacaratum.”
“Then—”
“My comment was about torture. It doesn’t work. The confessions it yields are untrustworthy, and the epiphanies it inspires are insincere.