The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [158]
She looked out over the marshes. “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” She seemed to ignore his suggestion.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” She turned to him. “It’s kind of you to think of me, Sir Neil.”
“It’s nothing compared with what you’ve done for me, lady. I would not see you hurt.”
She shrugged. “I’m in no physical danger. They will not kill me, if that is what worries you.”
“I’m grateful for that,” he said.
“I accept your offer,” Swanmay decided. “There is only a small chance that I will escape the Lier Sea now, with my head start gone. But it is a chance, nonetheless. I may yet win my game of fiedchese.”
“I pray you do, Lady Swanmay,” he told her gravely.
“That isn’t my real name, you know.”
“I didn’t,” he replied. “I wish I knew your real name.”
She shook her head. “I will provide you with a boat and some supplies.”
“That isn’t necessary,” he said.
“It won’t cost me anything, and it will make your life easier. Why shouldn’t I do it?” She lifted her head. “But if you would repay me for the boat, I have a suggestion.”
“Anything, if it is in my power.”
“It is. A kiss—just one. It’s all I ask.”
In the light of the sun, her eyes were bluer than any sky. He suddenly remembered the words to a song he’d liked when he was a boy, “Elveher qei Queryeven.”
If you’ll not stay and share my bed,
The lady of the Queryen said
Then all I ask is for a kiss,
A single kiss instead.
But when Elveher bent to kiss the Queryen lady, she stabbed him in the heart with a knife she had concealed in her sleeve.
With her otherworldly beauty, Swanmay might as easily be Queryen as human.
“Why should you want that, lady?” he asked.
“Because I may never have another,” she replied.
“I—” He suddenly realized she wasn’t joking.
“Anything in your power, you said.”
“I did.” he admitted, and he bent toward her, held by those strange, beautiful eyes. She smelled faintly of roses.
Her lips were warm and somehow surprising, different from any lips he had ever kissed, and with their touch, everything seemed oddly changed. When he pulled away, her eyes were no longer so mysterious. They held something he thought he understood.
“My name is Brinna,” she said. There was no knife in her hand.
Before the next bell he sat in a smallboat and watched her ship until he could no longer see the sails. Then he began to row upstream. Each time the oars dipped in the water, he seemed to hear Fastia telling him he would forget her.
The tide came in and eased his journey, but Paldh was several leagues upstream, and he was still very weak and had to rest frequently. Still, the exertion felt good, and the salt-marsh smell pleased him. Near sundown, he made dock at a fishing village, where a sandy-haired boy of about twelve took his bowline. He checked the wallet Brinna had given him and found coins in it. He selected a copper for the boy, but turned it in his fingers before giving it to him. It bore a sword on one side, but no inscription. He took a gold out and looked at that. It had the likeness of a man on it, and an inscription that read MARCOMIR ANTHAR THIUZAN MIKIL. Marcomir was the king of Hansa.
He sighed and returned the coin to his purse.
The boy said something in Hornish, which Neil knew only a few words of.
“Do you speak any king’s tongue, lad, or Lierish?” he asked, in the best Hornish he could command.
“Tho, sure, I speak king’s tongue,” the boy said, in a slow, lilting accent. “Do you need a place to stay? The Moyr Muk has a room in it.” He indicated a long building built of leather planks and a shingled roof.
“My thanks,” Neil said. “Say, what’s your name, lad?”
“Nel MaypPenmar,” the boy told him.
Neil smiled. “That’s almost the same as my name. I’m Neil MeqVren. Nel, do you know your ships?”
The boy swelled his chest out a little. “Tho, sir, I sure do.”
“I wonder, have you seen a Vitellian merchantman come through here in the past few days, the Della Puchia?”
“I’ve seen that ship,” the boy said, “but not lately.”
“What about a big brimwulf with no name or