The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [112]
“If you have lied to me,” she said at last, “you will not die quickly.”
“I have not lied to you, Majesty,” Berrye said. Her eyes were clear again, and her voice strong.
“Let us hope not,” Muriele said. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“There is a good deal,” Berrye said. “I can tell you which members of the Comven favor you and which do not. I can tell you who Gramme has on her side. And I can tell you she is planning to move against you soon.”
“Have I cause to doubt Sir Fail and his men?”
“None that I know of.”
Muriele sat up. “Lady Berrye, will you declare an oath to take me as your personal liege, swearing by whatever saints you swear by?”
“If you will protect me in turn, Majesty.”
Muriele smiled. “You must know that I can barely protect myself.”
“You have more power than you know,” Berrye told her. “You just haven’t learned how to use it. I can help you. I was trained for it.”
“You would be my new Erren?” Muriele asked bitterly. “My new coven-trained bodyguard?”
“I would do that, Majesty. I swear it by the saints I swear by.” She touched her forehead and breast with her thumb.
Muriele sighed. “I would be a great fool to trust you,” she said.
“If I were already in your employ, I would tell you exactly that,” Berrye said. “You have no reason to trust me. But I’m asking you to. You need me, and I need you. My entire order was slaughtered, women I loved. And believe me or not, but I cared for His Majesty. He was not a good king, but he was, for all his faults, a good man, and there are few such in the world. I would see those who brought him down go screaming to Mefitis, begging her mercy. And there is one more thing.”
“What is that?” Muriele asked.
“Do not ask me to explain this. It is the one thing I cannot explain.”
“Go on.”
“Your daughter, Anne. She must live, and she must be queen.”
A long shock ran through Muriele, starting at her feet and working up to the crown of her head.
“What do you know of Anne?” she demanded.
“That she is alive. That she was at Saint Cer. That the sisters of the coven Saint Cer, like those of my own order, were all murdered.”
“But Anne escaped?”
“I have no proof, but I feel it in my heart. I see it in my dreams. But she has many enemies.”
Muriele stared at the girl, wondering how she could have ever believed her to be the empty-headed pretty thing she had pretended to be. Even Erren had been fooled, which was remarkable. Alis Berrye was a very dangerous woman. She could also be a very useful ally.
Muriele rose and summoned the footman. “Give the lady Berrye an escort and instruct them to take her to her apartment, where she will retrieve her personal effects. Settle her in the small apartment down the hall. And please tell Sir Fail that I request his presence.”
“You won’t regret this, Majesty,” Berrye said.
“See that I don’t. Go along now, Lady Berrye.”
She watched the girl go and then returned to her chair, ticking her finger against the wooden arm, waiting for Sir Fail.
It was time to pay a visit to her husband’s other mistress. But she had another call to make first. One she had been avoiding.
She went to her dresser, and though she had made her decision, she hesitated before the small coffer, thinking of the Him, deep beneath the castle, where no light ever shone. His voice of silk and nightmare. She had not spoken to the Kept since that day she discovered the key in William’s study, after his death.
But she had questions for him now. With no more faltering, she opened the wooden box.
The key was not there.
CHAPTER SIX
Observations on Diverse Things Such as Being Dead
BY STEPHEN DARIGE
I had to learn to hear again once before. It was after I walked the faneway of Decmanis. Each stop along the way took something from me—the sensation in my hand first, then my hearing, then my sight—until there was nothing left of me but a body, not even a mind. Somehow I finished the path, and it all came back to me, but different, better.
That’s how it is to be dead. I heard a lot at first, but it made no sense. It was just noise, like the wailing of ghosts