The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [62]
“I believe so, Majesty. I hope so.”
“So do I.” She lifted her chin and stood. “You are in my employ,” she said. “And I would like to commission something from you.”
“Anything, Majesty.”
“These are dark times. War threatens, and creatures of terror that should not exist walk the land. Much has been lost, and as you say, despair is all around us. I had thought to commission from you a requiem for the dead—for my husband and daughters. Now I think we need something greater. I want you to write something—something like I just heard—not for me, or the nobles of the court. I want you to write something for this country, something that will unite the most humble servant with the highest lord. I want something for all of my people, do you understand? A music that can fill this whole city, that can float into the countryside beyond and will be whispered of over the gray seas.”
“That would be—” Leoff couldn’t find words for a moment. “Majesty,” he began again, “you have named my heart’s desire.”
“I’d like it performed on Wihnaht, in the Yule season. Could you have it ready by then?”
“Absolutely, Majesty.”
She nodded, turned, and began to leave, but she stopped.
“You are dangerous, Mestro Ackenzal. I take a great risk with you, much greater than you can ever know, but since I take it, I take it fully and with conviction. If you do this, you cannot hold back from fear of the Church. You must do as I have asked to the best of your abilities and with all of your invention. Do it understanding that I may not be able to protect you, though I will do my best. If you are not willing to burn for this, tell me now.”
A chill of fear went through Leoff, but he nodded. “I was, as you know, Majesty, in Broogh,” he said. “I saw the price they paid there for your kingdom. I am no warrior. In my heart I am not brave. But for what you ask—for the chance to do what you ask—I will risk burning. I only hope I am worthy.”
“Very well,” she said. And then she was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
GUEST OF THE COUNTESS
NEIL SPUN IN HIS saddle, fearing treachery in the sound of steel behind him, but the Vitellian knight and his retainers weren’t threatening him. Instead, he realized, they had noticed what he had not—a group of armed horsemen off to the right, riding their way.
They were dressed all alike, in sable surcoats and crimson robes over armor. None had donned their helms.
Sir Quinte resheathed his sword, and his men did likewise. “Knights of the Church,” he said. “The order of Lord Tormo.”
Neil nodded and said nothing, but he kept his hand near his sword. While he trusted the saints, he’d learned the hard way that their human servants were as corruptible as anyone.
They sat their horses and waited for the knights to arrive.
The leader was a giant of a man, with bushy black beard and swell-green eyes. He held up his hand in greeting and spoke in clear Vitellian. Sir Quinte answered, and they seemed to have a brief argument. Then the knight of Tormo turned to regard Neil.
“I am Sir Chenzo,” he said, in the king’s tongue now, “a knight in service of our holy Fratrex Prismo in z’Irbina. Sir Quinte tells me you came in search of this coven?”
“I did,” Neil replied.
“Did you know of its condition?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Then for what purpose did you travel here?”
“I am sorry, Sir Chenzo, but I’m afraid I cannot tell you that. But please, I must know—what happened here? Where have the sisters of the coven gone?”
“They have gone to their lady Cer,” the knight replied. “All were slaughtered.”
Neil felt light, as if he were falling. “All, Sir Chenzo? None survived?”
Sir Chenzo narrowed his eyes. “A terrible crime has been committed here. I must ask you again, why did you come to this place?”
“Sir Viotor is sworn to secrecy,” Sir Quinte explained, “but I will vouch that he is a most gentle and honorable knight.”
“Come, come,” Sir Chenzo said to Neil. “Tell me generally. Did you come to deliver a message? Did you come for one of the sisters? A rendezvous, perhaps?”
Neil felt his chest tighten. “I am sorry, sir. Sir Quinte is right.