The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [14]
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Your music made the hole, so to speak, considerably wider.”
“But what can I do? How was the law of death mended before?”
She smiled. “I’ve no idea. But consider the possibility that if the right song can weaken the law—”
“Then another might strengthen it,” Areana finished.
The lady stood. “Precisely.”
“Wait,” Leoff said. “That’s not nearly enough. Why should I even believe any of this?”
“Because you do.”
“No. I’ve been duped before. I’m not off on another fool’s errand that might make everything worse.”
“If that’s true, there is no hope,” the lady replied. “In any event, I’ve said what I came to say.”
“Wait a moment.”
“No, I shan’t. Good luck to you.”
And despite his further protests, she left, mounted her carriage, and was gone, leaving Leoff and Areana staring after her.
“Artwair knew she was coming,” Areana said. “Perhaps he can shed some light on this.”
Leoff nodded and absently realized he still had the duke’s letter in his hand. He held it up, and blinked.
What had earlier appeared to be Artwair’s seal was only an unmarked dab of wax.
PART I
THE UNHEALED
The land bristles shadow and shrugs off the sun
Frail voices sing beneath the wind
It all ends soon
In health, courage comes easily
Death is still a dream
But I watch now
I see the true heroes
Stagger up on shaking limbs
And face what must be faced
Unhealed
—ANONYMOUS VIRGENYAN POET
Iery cledief derny
Faiver mereu-mem.
Even a broken sword has an edge.
—LIERISH PROVERB
CHAPTER ONE
THE QUEEN OF DEMONS
ANNE SIGHED with pleasure as ghosts brushed her bare flesh. She kept her eyes closed as they murmured softly about her, savoring their faintly chilly caresses. She inhaled the ripe perfumes of decay and for the first time in a very long time felt a deep contentment.
Anne, one of the phantoms simpered. Anne, there is no time.
A bit irritated, she opened her eyes to see three women standing before her.
No, she realized. They weren’t standing at all. Feeling a weird tingle that she knew ought to be more, she turned her gaze around her to see what else there was.
She was elsewhere, of course, couched on deep, spongy moss grown on a hammock in a blackwater fen that went beyond sight in every direction. The branches of the trees above her were tatted together like the finest Safnian lace, allowing only the wispiest of diffuse light through to glisten on the dew-jeweled webs of spiders larger than her hand.
The women swayed faintly, the boughs above them creaking a bit from their weight.
One wore a black gown and a black mask, and her locks were flowing silver. The next wore forest green and a golden mask, and her red braids swayed almost to her feet. The third wore a mask of bone and a dress the color of dried blood. Her hair was brown.
Their undisguised lips and flesh were bluish-black above the coils of rope that had cinched about their necks and wrung out their lives.
The Faiths, those obtuse creatures, were dead. Should she be sad? Part of her thought so.
Anne.
She started. Was one of them still alive? But then she felt the ghosts again, tickling against her. Now she knew who the ghosts were.
Should she be frightened? Part of her thought so.
“You’re dead,” she observed.
“Yes,” the faint voice replied. “We fought to linger here, but too much of us is gone. We had something to tell you.”
“Something useful? That would be the first time.”
“Pity us, Anne. We did what we could. Find our sister.”
“That’s right, there are four of you,” Anne remembered. Was she asleep? She seemed to be having trouble recalling things.
“Yes, four. Find—ah, no. He’s coming. Anne—”
But then a cold wind started in the depths of the quag, and the