The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [150]
He glanced at her and found her studying him, or thought he did. It was too dark to see her eyes beneath the eaves of the hat her brother had given her to keep the rain off.
They rode through the day as the rain grew steadily colder and more miserable. Mists lay heavy in the trees, dying dragons dragging themselves off to watery graveyards. Berimund’s men lit torches that hissed and sputtered and trailed noxious, oily fumes but still burned, until at last they reached a stone face concealed by a sort of wickerwork grown over with vines, which Berimund shifted to reveal a stout wooden door. He stood looking at it for several long moments.
“What’s wrong?” Neil asked.
“It ought to be locked,” he said. “It isn’t even closed.”
Neil was off his horse before the thought to dismount was even conscious. He drew his stolen weapon and stalked toward the door.
“You’ll follow us, Sir Neil,” Berimund insisted. “We know this place, and you do not.”
Two of his scouts went ahead, and then they all dismounted, tying the horses near the entrance. Stairs carved in living rock took them down.
Not much later they debouched into a large chamber carved in antique style but furnished much like Berimund’s hall in Kaithbaurg.
The floor was littered with the dead. He heard a sudden, sharp sob from Berimund, who flung himself at the corpses, lifting their heads, kissing them, moving from one to the next in the vain hope that one still breathed.
Then Alis pushed past him and flew across the floor, the muddy hem of her dress dragging a snail’s trail behind her.
Neil saw then, too, and ran after her, knowing his heart would fail.
Muriele did not look like she was sleeping. Her lips were almost black, and even in torchlight he could make out the bluish tinge of her skin. Alis had the queen’s head cradled in her arms. Her eyes were open, her features twisted into a look of utter and desolate despair such as he had never seen.
Something lay on the floor beside her. In a daze he reached for it and found that it was a half-withered rose.
He rose up, choking back tears but letting the rage rise up, each breath filling him with red light. He stepped toward Berimund, who still knelt with his own, and stepped again, nearly treading on a dead man staring up at him with the same forsaken expression as Muriele.
Berimund hadn’t done this. Berimund hadn’t known about it. But Berimund was the only enemy before him, and by the saints, the floor was going to be red.
“No,” Brinna said. “Stop there, Neil.”
It arrested him. He hadn’t seen her enter the chamber or follow him to Muriele’s body. Her tear-jeweled eyes caught him like iron bands.
“Why would you cry for my queen?” he snapped.
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m crying for you.”
His hand trembled on the sword. “Why didn’t you see this?” he asked. “You said Robert was coming…”
“I didn’t see this part,” she said. “I was occupied with other things.”
“Like your own escape? You knew Berimund would be at the gate.”
“There was nothing eldritch about that,” she said. “I heard he was in the city. I sent a message telling him of my plans. Besides you, Berimund is the only one I trust.”
“Was it Robert?”
“I can see your queen,” she said, her voice suddenly dreamier. “I see a man, hear a music…” She trailed off, her breath quickening, her eyes rolling back.
“Make her stop,” Alis said. “Sir Neil, make her stop.”
Brinna was trembling now as if an invisible giant had taken her in his hand and was shaking her.
He gripped her by the shoulders.
“Brinna,” he said. “Wake up. Stop seeing.”
She didn’t appear to hear him, so he shook her harder.
“Brinna!”
“What are you doing to my sister?” Berimund’s raging voice shouted from across the room.
“Brinna!”
Blood began running from her nose.
“Swanmay,” Neil cried in desperation. “Swanmay, return!”
She went rigid and suddenly sighed, collapsing against him, her heart beating weakly.
He felt the