The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [107]
Until she could be sure he wasn’t still there, hiding in the walls, she would never be comfortable being wholly alone.
The man-at-arms returned. “It is the praifec Hespero, Majesty,” he announced.
“Is he alone?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Very well.” She sighed. “Admit him.”
A moment later the dark-gowned praifec entered her chambers and bowed. “Majesty,” he said.
Muriele had always felt there was something missing about the praifec, but she had never been able to say what it was. He was a man of intelligence, certainly, and even of passion when it came to matters of state and religion. He was well-spoken to the point of being glib. And yet somehow—even in his most impassioned argument—it seemed to her that he wasn’t entirely present, that there was some basic quality that he was counterfeiting, that he didn’t actually have. When she focused on any particular quality of his, however, it seemed genuine.
It could be, she decided, that she simply didn’t like him, and what was missing was merely her acceptance of him.
“To what do I owe this visit, praifec?” she asked.
“To my natural concern for your well-being,” he replied.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Please explain,” she directed.
“I should think it should be evident,” Hespero said. “Suddenly, in the middle of the night, Sir Fail and his guard sweep into the royal apartments. His Majesty, King Charles, is brought in, also under Lierish guard. The Craftsmen become agitated, and the entire castle is thrown into a state of disarray.”
Muriele shrugged. “Someone tried to kill me, Praifec,” she said. “Under such circumstances, disarray is only natural. What would you have me do?”
“Someone tried to kill you?” His surprise seemed as genuine as his concern.
“Unless their true intent was to slaughter my guard and then my young maid, I would have to conclude so,” Muriele said.
“This is terrible. How was it done?”
She smiled grimly. “As when the churchmen killed my daughters, no one seems to know.”
The praifec’s mouth opened in a little o, then closed before he began speaking again. “Majesty, if you are implying that the Church had any hand in this, I forgive you. Clearly the stress has clouded your judgment.”
“Nevertheless, this has the same stink about it,” Muriele replied.
“Brother Desmond and his men were renegades,” Hespero reminded her. “Worse, they were heretics practicing the forbidden arts.”
“In afterthought, yes,” Muriele agreed. “But I took the liberty of checking the roles of the monastery d’Ef and discovered that he—and his men—were trusted members of the Church until just before his death.”
“Actually, I think he was probably considered less than sanctified when he murdered the fratrex of his order,” Hespero said sarcastically. “The possibility of evil exists everywhere, even within the Church. I do not deny that. The murders of your children—and the methods used to accomplish them—have served to reawaken us to that simple but neglected truth. We have begun the most serious investigation of our various orders since the days of the Hegemony, a search which starts with the Fratrex Prismo himself and descends to the humblest frater and most rural sacritor. If you have any evidence at all that tonight’s attempt on your life was connected with any man of the Church, I am compelled to ask you what it is.”
“There is none,” Muriele admitted.
“I see,” the praifec returned. “Then what is known?”
“That someone killed the guard at my chamber door with a knife. That he then entered my apartments and slew my maid in the same fashion.”
“But you escaped.”
“I was not here,” Muriele replied.
“That was very fortunate,” the praifec said.
“Yes, it was,” she said wearily. “Praifec, why are you here?”
Both eyebrows lifted in surprise. “To offer my support and my council.”
“What council would that be?”
“Majesty, I must speak plainly. Though I now see your actions were spurred