The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [7]
“Keep guard,” she answered. “That is all.”
She knelt at the altar and lit the candles.
“Fathers and mothers of the house Dare,” she sang, “your adopted daughter is calling, humble before her elders. Honor me, I beg you, this night of all nights.”
Now she lit a small wand of incense, and an aroma like pine and liquidambar seemed to explode in Neil’s nostrils.
Somewhere in the house, something rustled, and a chime sounded.
Muriele rose and removed her weather-cloak. Beneath was a gown of boned black safnite. Her raven hair seemed to blend into it, making an orphan of her face, which appeared almost to float. Neil’s throat caught. The queen was beautiful beyond compare, and age had done little to diminish her beauty, but it was not that which twisted Neil’s heart—rather, it was that for just an instant she resembled someone else.
Neil turned his gaze away, searching the shadows.
The queen started up the corridor.
“If I may, Majesty,” he said quickly. “I would precede you.”
She hesitated. “You are my servant, and my husband’s kin will see you as such. You must walk behind me.”
“Lady, if there is ambush ahead—”
“I will chance it,” she replied.
They moved down a hall paneled in bas-reliefs depicting the deeds of the house Dare. The queen walked with measured step, head bowed, and her footsteps echoed clearly, despite the distant hammering of the storm on the slate roof.
They entered a great chamber with vaulted ceilings where a long table was prepared, thirty places set with crystal goblets. In each, wine as red as blood had been poured. The queen paced by the chairs, searching, until she found the one she sought, and then she sat, staring at the wine.
Outside the wind groaned.
Long moments passed, and then a bell sounded, and another. Twelve in all, and with the midnight stroke, the queen drank from the cup.
Neil felt something pass in the air, a chill, a humming.
Then the queen began to speak, in a voice deeper and huskier than usual. The hairs on Neil’s neck prickled at the sound of it.
“Muriele,” she said. “My queen.”
And then, as if answering herself, she spoke in her more usual tone. “Erren, my friend.”
“Your servant,” the deeper voice replied. “How fare you? Did I fail?”
“I live,” Muriele answered. “Your sacrifice was not in vain.”
“But your daughters are here, in this place of dust.”
Neil’s heartbeat quickened, and he realized he had moved. He was standing near one of the chairs, staring at the wine.
“All of them?”
“No. But Fastia is here, and sweet Elseny. They wear shrouds, Muriele. I failed them—and you.”
“We were betrayed,” Muriele replied. “You did all you could, gave all you could. I cannot blame you. But I must know about Anne.”
“Anne . . .” The voice sighed off. “We forget, Muriele. The dead forget. It is like a cloud, a mist that eats more of us each day. Anne . . .”
“My youngest daughter. Anne. I sent her to the coven of Saint Cer, and no word has come from there. I must know if the assassins found her there.”
“Your husband is dead,” the voice called Erren replied. “He does not sleep here, but calls from far away. His voice is faint, and sad. Lonely. He did love you.”
“William? Can you speak to him?”
“He is too distant. He cannot find his way here. The paths are dark, you know. The whole world is dark, and the wind is strong.”
“But Anne—you cannot hear her whisper?”
“I remember her now,” Erren crooned, in the queen’s voice. “Hair like strawberry. Always trouble. Your favorite.”
“Does she live, Erren? I must know.”
Silence then, and to his surprise Neil found the glass of wine in his hand. It was only distantly that he heard the reply.
“I believe she lives. It is cold here, Muriele.”
More was said, but Neil did not hear it, for he raised the cup before him and drank.
He set the cup on the table as he swallowed the bitter sip he’d taken. He stared into the remaining wine, which calmed and became a red mirror. He saw himself in it; his father’s strong jaw was there, but his blue eyes were black pits and his wheat hair ruddy, as if he examined