The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [176]
Osne closed her eyes. “That’s not the path you’re supposed to walk.”
“I can choose another path?”
Osne hesitated. “Yes. But then the future becomes cloudy.”
“Let it. If I’m not true to my friends, whom can I be true to? What good am I to anyone?”
Osne closed her eyes for a moment. “How many horsemen are with your friends?”
“Artoré saw them. He said three.”
“Then I will send Artoré and my sons after them, and find a safe place for you until they return.”
“No,” Anne said. “I want to go with them.”
“They may not succeed,” Osne said softly. “If one of the knights is a marevasé, they might not succeed.”
“A what?” Anne asked.
“One who cannot die. They have other names.”
“Oh,” Anne said. “One of them is like that,” she said. “Maybe more.”
“Then you know the risk is great.”
“You’d send your husband and sons to their deaths, just to get me to Eslen?”
“I’d rather not,” Osne admitted. “I’d rather you let them escort you home. There would still be some risk in that, but not like sending them to battle a marevasé.
“You don’t understand,” Anne said. “These men—Cazio and z’Acatto—risked everything for us.”
“And so would we, dear.”
“I see that,” Anne flared. “I’m tired of people dying for me, do you understand? I can’t take any more of it.”
“People die for their queens,” Osne exclaimed. “That is a burden you must accept, or there is no point in you reaching Eslen. There are much harder decisions than this ahead of you, Anne.”
“Cazio and z’Acatto know nothing about my supposed destiny,” she said. “And I’m sure if I do nothing they will die. But how can I risk your family, too?”
“Because we do accept your destiny, and our role in it. If it is your decision to follow the horsemen, we will abide by your decision.” Her eyes became more intense. “I could have drugged your wine,” she said. “Artoré could have simply taken you home. But a queen who cannot make her own decisions is a poor queen indeed.”
Anne rubbed her head. “I hate it,” she snarled. “I hate it all.”
“They may be dead already,” Osne pointed out. “If the horsemen believe they have lost you, I can’t think of any reason they would keep your friends alive—except perhaps as bait, in the hopes you will follow.”
Anne felt tears on her face. She remembered Cazio, when she first met him, brash and teasing and full of life. To think of him dead hollowed her out.
But her father was dead. Elseny was dead. Fastia was dead.
“I will go to Eslen,” she said, and a great sob tore from her chest. Osne came around the table and took her in her arms, and Anne let her hold her like that, even though she hardly knew the woman. She wept, and Osne rocked her as night eased through the window and into her heart.
Anne and Austra were given lodging in a windowless room. By lantern light, the plaster looked dark yellow. It was simply furnished with a bed, a basin of water and towel on a wooden stand, and a night pan beneath the bed. Away from the hearth it was cold, and Anne slipped quickly into the nightgown Osne had given her, then beneath the thick woolen comforters. Austra was already there, asleep, but she woke when Anne settled in beside her.
“That was a long talk,” Austra said. “What was it about?”
Anne took a deep breath. Her chest ached from crying.
“Osne was at the coven Saint Cer, many years ago,” she explained. “She knows who we are because the countess Orchaevia sent word along the roads to look for us and keep us safe.”
“The countess? How odd.”
“It’s not odd,” Anne said. “The countess was a member of the coven, too.”
“That’s even odder, in a way, but it makes some sense. The countess must have known who you were, to go to so much trouble.”
“I’m supposed to be queen, Austra.”
Austra started a laugh that never quite finished. “How do you mean?” she asked.
“Father, you remember. He had the Comven legitimize Fastia, Elseny, and me to succeed him. Fastia and Elseny are gone, and only I remain.”
“But Charles is still alive,” Austra said. “The cuveitur said nothing about his death.”
“Our enemies don’t care about Charles,” Anne said. “They do not want