The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [94]
Muriele drew herself a bit higher. “Sir Moris, someone has invaded my chambers, apparently underneath your nose. You will let us pass, do you understand?”
“Invaded your quarters?” Sir Moris said. “That simply isn’t possible.”
“Yes, one would think,” Muriele said dryly, “and yet I assure you it is so.”
Moris chewed that for a moment. “If Your Majesty will permit us to look into the matter—”
She shook her head and brushed past him. “Strike any of these men with me, and I’ll have your head,” she said.
“Majesty, this—at least let me come with you.”
“As you wish.”
They found a Craftsman crumpled outside the door to her suites. His eyes were open, and blue, and very dead.
With a bellow, Sir Fail burst through the door, his men behind him.
On the other side of the door lay Unna’s body, her little nightshirt a mess of blood. She would not see her twelfth year.
Muriele sat staring at Unna’s body as Fail’s men searched her apartments, but they found no one, and no sign of anyone other than the rather obvious corpses.
When it was certain, Sir Fail placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She shook her head and looked up into her uncle’s eyes.
“No more of this,” she said. “Sir Fail, I wish to induct you and your men as my personal guard.”
“Done, Majesty.”
She turned to Sir Moris. “Discover how this happened,” she said, “or the head of every single Craftsman will roll. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Majesty,” Moris said stiffly. “But if I may speak, every man among us is loyal to you.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to prove that, Sir Moris. Start with this: Bring me Alis Berrye, and bring her to me now. Alive and in secret.”
She turned back to Sir Fail. Through her eyes he must have seen what was burning in her.
“Are you all right, Majesty?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I am sick. Sick to death of being a target.”
She went to the window and threw it open, looking out over the few lights still twinkling in the dark city below.
“I believe,” she said, “that I will start finding targets of my own.”
CHAPTER TWO
A GAME OF FIEDCHESE
AS NEIL SANK THROUGH the emerald waters, he heard the draugs begin to sing. It was a far-off song with no words, but he could still hear the bitter loneliness of it, the avarice. They sang from Breu-nt-Toine, the land beneath waves, where the only things of light and love were those that sank there to be devoured.
Now they sang of Neil MeqVren and his coming.
Neil beat against his slow fall, kicking with his legs and rowing up with his arms, but his armor took him down like an anchor, and he had little experience with swimming anyway, having grown up around seas far too frigid for such exercise. He couldn’t even tell which direction was up anymore, so mirk was the water. He reached for the catches of his armor, knowing he would never get it off in time, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
He held on to his last breath, but it was gone, turning black inside him. The sea wanted in, and the sea could never be long denied.
You have me, foam-father, he thought. I have always been yours. But there is more I need to do here.
Yet Lier did not answer, and the dirge of the draugs grew nearer, until they were all around him. Still, he could see nothing of their cold eyes and shark’s teeth through the lightless depths.
His lungs opened and the sea rushed in. At first it hurt, like nothing he had ever felt, but the pain was brief, and he felt a peace settle. He had failed the queen for the last time.
He was done.
His fingers had gone numb, and he could no longer feel the fastenings of his armor, but strangely, it felt as if it were falling away, as if someone else were taking it off for him, and a pale light rose around him. He felt himself settle upon a surface as soft as a down mattress, but as cold as winter breakers. Fingers traced across his bare back and down his arm, and though they had no more warmth than the sea, he knew the touch.
“Fastia,” he groaned, and found it strange that