The Fall of Neskaya

  “Your Majesty!” Piadora, the young lady-in-waiting, stumbled down the parapet. Although the day was mild, she clutched a shawl around her head and shoulders, as if the sweet misty rain might somehow injure her. There had been rumors that the child she carried was Padrik’s. Should it be a boy, he could be raised as foster brother and paxman to Taniquel’s son. She must speak to Padrik about it.

  “Blessed Cassilda!” Piadora gasped, “you are safe!”

  Taniquel suppressed her annoyance. Of course she was safe. Here in her own castle, with her husband riding to the rescue—how else should she be? But the girl had been weeping and even now wiped damp cheeks with one hand. “You should be indoors with the other women.”

  “But—but you must not be unattended!” Piadora was practically beside herself in agitation. “And with the castle under siege! The fire! The explosions! I swear, the very stones beneath my feet shook! Oh, my lady! What is to become of us? What will those monsters do next? Some say they are from Shainsa, to take us all back in chains! And still others say they are Aldaran and need human sacrifices for their evil rites!” At this, she threw herself at Taniquel’s feet to gather up the hem of her robe. “Oh, save me! Save me!”

  Taniquel wanted nothing so much as to scream some sense into the child, but she was a Queen and comynara. Gently but firmly, she lifted the girl to her feet and pulled her toward the parapet, where she could watch the scene being played out below.

  “Look, chiya, we are in no real danger. See how few the attackers are, and see our lord riding to defend us. In only a few minutes, he will catch them. How slow they are, how stupid to not know their error. They approach as if they know nothing of who rides on their heels. Our soldiers will hold them at the gates, where they cannot escape.”

  “The gates still stand?” Piadora leaned far out, gasping in excitement. She would have been within when the first bombs hit and might well have thought them destroyed.

  “Yes, and we will not open them until victory is ours. We must not open them.” Taniquel frowned at her own words. What an odd thing to say.

  We must not open the gates. Must not open the gates.

  The words pounded through her brain. Her temples throbbed with each syllable. She covered her eyes with one hand and half-fell against the stone balcony.

  “My lady!” There was real alarm in the girl’s voice now. “What ails you?”

  “I—don’t—”

  Cries rang out from below, the shouting of a hundred men’s voices and more. Some sounded near, below on the threshold, others approaching . . .

  Must not open the gates . . .

  More horns echoed, closer now. Taniquel jerked her hand from her eyes, blinking in the sudden pain which lanced through her skull. The Ambervale men were within a spear’s throw of the gates, the defenders waiting for the signal to join the battle. Padrik and his men raced along the road, only minutes away. Behind them, from every copse, every hedgerow and sheltered orchard alley, Ambervale soldiers came streaming. For an instant, Taniquel saw them as giant insects, swarming from their underground burrows. Then she saw how they had lain hidden, waiting for Padrik and his men to pass.

  It was he who would be crushed at the gates, not the first Ambervale force. The cavalry attack had been merely bait to the trap.

  As Taniquel watched, horrified, Padrik kept coming. He was as yet unaware that he was racing into an ambush. If only he could win through to the gates, she thought, his men could hold the castle through a siege—

  Must not open the gates . . .

  —but the castle soldiers would not know that, not with the Ambervale horsemen ready to breach the stronghold. They could not see the immense army descending upon them like a nest of scorpion-ants.

  There were so many of them! The clouds broke suddenly over the sloping land and their arms glittered.

  Taniquel shook. She must do something, warn Padrik! She glanced at the bell, knowing it would be useless. She could ring and ring until Zandru’s coldest hell melted. No one at a lower battlement could see what she saw. Not yet. Not until it was too late.

  Do something!

  Grab a spear and storm out through the gates? The very idea of touching the massive crossbar sent unnatural terror scintillating along her nerves. Whatever happened, however desperate the situation, she must not open the gates!

  Then, Taniquel thought furiously, she must fight from within them! The next instant, she had gathered up her skirts once more and was running for the armory. She could not wield a sword with any skill, for although she had played with wooden blades with her Hastur cousins as a child, she had been forbidden to touch one since becoming a woman.

  At the entrance to the armory, the smells of oiled steel and leather mingled with the acrid tang of fear-sweat. The gimp-legged sergeant who served as castle armorer was setting out fresh quivers of arrows along the stained trestle boards and lining up spears, shouting orders to a dozen pages at once. His face turned pale and scandalized when he saw her. “My lady! Get within!”

  Ignoring him, Taniquel went to the wall racks and took down a bow and wrist guard. The leather wristlet was new and stiff. She held it out to him and extended her left arm.

  “My lady— Your Majesty! You must not endanger yourself! The King—”

  “Oh, dear. Oh, my lady! What are you doing?” Piadora skittered to a halt at the armory door.

  “Strap it on me or I will do it myself!” Ignoring the whimpering girl, Taniquel held up the bow, demanding, “Is this the best you have?” and proceeded to rattle off a string of orders.

  A moment later, with the wrist guard tightly in place, two arrow cases tucked under her right arm and the bow in her left hand, Taniquel raced back up the battlement stairs. She’d lost the simpering child somewhere, maybe to the nearest water closet. From here, where a small contingent of archers waited, the bulk of the Ambervale forces were only now coming into view. Thank Aldones, the captain of the archers recognized her.

  “We must destroy the Ambervale cavalry,” she said, knowing this meant targeting the horses as well and hating the idea. The captain nodded.

  Taniquel chose her place with the other archers, calculating where her first arrow might create the most confusion. The flag bearer rode a dusty chestnut with a bobbed tail. As she took aim, the black-and-white diamond pattern of the Ambervale pennants shook loose in the breeze. She loosed her arrow and bent to notch another, not pausing to determine whether she’d hit her target. She shot again and again, rapidly emptying her first quiver.

  Screams marked where arrows found their targets. The ground below churned with bodies, men and horses, spears, swords, and shields. Now Taniquel held her hand, lest she strike one of her own men. The forces were so entangled, interweaving so quickly that not even the most skillful archer could have picked out only the enemy.

  With a blaring of horns, Padrik burst upon the scene. His men caught the Ambervale cavalry from behind. But Deslucido’s forces did not scatter. They must be brave men, seasoned men, to turn and fight instead of scattering.

  Blessed Evanda, if only we’ve weakened them enough so that Padrik may win through to the gates before it’s too late!

  “We must let him in as soon as may be!” She saw immediately in the captain’s eyes the same mindless terror in her own.

  We must not open the gates!

  Her head pounded as if she’d been kicked by one of the warhorses down below. Must not—why?

  Because it is not real—it is a spell! Because some laranzu down there wants Padrik trapped outside his own castle! Caught and held until the army drawing even closer could do its work.

  “Ah!” Taniquel cried out as if she’d been pierced by one of her own arrows. She threw down her useless bow and ran for the stairs.

  She took them two at a time, reckless. So many precious minutes had already been wasted in the thrall of that laran command. If she’d gone at a saner pace, she might have turned back, but as it was, she practically fell over her own feet and k
ept going. When she thought of opening the gates, raw fear surged through her. An iron grip tightened around her heart.

  No, I will not open them. I will only see if they are all right. Yes, that was it—to run her hands over their solid bulk, to make sure they would hold, to test the weight and strength of the crossbar. . . .

  Taniquel kept saying the words to herself, even as she curled her fingers around the thick, use-polished wood. For an awful instant, the crossbar would not budge and she feared she had not the strength to move it. A moment’s doubt and she would be lost. But Padrik’s coridom had kept the seasoned wood smoothly oiled. It slid the length of her hand, then her arm.

  “Your Majesty! What are you doing?” the armorer bellowed at her.

  She must not take her eyes from the task, watching the massive bar slide along its tracks. Not opening the gates, no never that, but closing them tight. She must not think of anything except throwing her weight into it, keeping the castle safe. . . .

  Rough hands grabbed her, jerked her back. Her concentration shattered. Panic shrilled along her nerves, the sick sharp-tasting fear of the spell. With horrified eyes, she saw the bar now clear away from the center, the gates parting under the weight of the crushing bodies outside. The old armorer shoved past her, placed both hands against the opening gates. For an instant, they held. Then something heavy, a horse’s body perhaps, thudded against them and they sprang apart. Scorch marks streaked the outer surfaces where the firebombs had struck.

  Released from the narrow spit of land where they had been penned, men and horses spilled into the courtyard. The clash of steel and the screams of the wounded rose above the shouting. Within moments, the courtyard became a churning, muddy bedlam. Foot soldiers mixed with mounted. Ambervale black and white dotted the colors of Acosta. Everyone seemed to be struggling in a different direction.

  The armorer, who had leaped aside as the gates swung open, pulled Taniquel toward the stronghold steps. Heart pounding, she searched the chaos below. Just outside the gates, she caught a glimpse of Padrik’s immense white horse. She saw then that he was still fighting to win past the first Ambervale rally, was having to push through not only his enemies but his own men, who were still gallantly trying to hold the gates.

  “My lady!” The armorer screamed above the din. “You must get within!”

  Reluctantly, she saw the sense in his words. She could do nothing here, not even if she were to put on armor and take up a sword, the way she heard some lawless women did. Unable to take her eyes from the battle before her, she allowed herself to be drawn to the open door and into the arms of her waiting women. Their voices fluttered about her like the cooing of anxious doves. The darkness of the castle entrance surrounded her.

  Her last sight as the door swung shut was of Padrik’s huge white horse rearing above the heads of the fighting men, the red blotch behind its shoulder where a spear struck. She heard the animal’s scream, cut off suddenly, and then . . . so slowly she thought her heart would break . . . horse and rider stretched upwards toward the sky and toppled. The battle surged over them just as the doors blocked her sight.

  14

  For a long minute, Taniquel could not breathe. Her heart froze within her body. The close darkness of the entrance smothered all her senses. As if a veil lifted from her eyes, the moment of shock passed. She lifted her chin. She was comynara of the blood of Hastur and Cassilda, as well as Queen of Acosta. She had no time for sentiment or weakness.

  She swept through the inner gates, where the household guards stood at attention, and into the central hall. The three senior counselors—once her husband’s and now hers—waited, faces grim. None of them had put on their formal robes of office, for they were not men who ordinarily prized the appearance of rank. The eldest had helped tutor her along with Padrik. In the back of her mind, she could almost hear his voice painting the dull facts of history and protocol in vivid colors. Gavriel was his name, nedestro son of a minor branch of Elhalyn, come here as a youth in the days of Padrik’s father to make his way in the world.

  “The gates are breached and my lord fallen in battle,” she told the counselors. With an iron will she had not known was hers, she kept her voice steady. “We must prepare to receive the invader.”

  Gavriel nodded imperceptibly. The slight movement steadied her beyond any words.

  “Let us prepare quickly.” She motioned to the castle coridom standing with his cadre of servants. He stepped forward and bowed to her.

  “There will be wounded to attend to,” she said. “See that a place is prepared for them. Summon the chief surgeon and have anyone with healing skill made ready. We will need hot water, bandages, salves, and beds.”

  As he bowed again and turned to give instructions to his people, Taniquel studied the hall. Tapestries covered the stone walls, some of them faded, already ancient when she came here as a child. A few shone with brighter colors, including the scene of Cassilda and Camilla which she and her ladies had finished only last Midwinter. The great carved throne gleamed with polish, although the cushions were a bit threadbare. Not a spot of dust marred the room, for the coridom and his housekeepers were nothing but efficient. Watery gray light sifted through the high slit windows to blend with the soft yellow of the wall sconces. The immense fireplace, stones in shades of gray pieced together in an exquisite mosaic depicting the Acosta eagle, stood dark and cold, for winter had passed and Padrik was not one to waste fuel on ostentation.

  Rapidly, Taniquel gave orders for every candle and torch to be lit. She passed over the fireplace, for there would not be time for a proper blaze. “You and you and you—” she pointed to the three ladies who seemed to still have their wits about them. “Come with me.” They scrambled after her as she strode off toward her chambers. Piadora, the pregnant girl, waited there, face blotched with tears. She opened her mouth but closed it again when she saw Taniquel’s expression.

  In the dressing chamber, Taniquel went to the huge wardrobe, carved in an ornate style of flowers and swans. She jerked open the doors. The profusion of colors and textures assaulted her senses—the gown of peacock silk dripping with silver-edged lace, long tunics stiff with gold-and-purple embroidery on soft wool the color of the finest Acosta wines, the cloak trimmed with snow-leopard fur, and boxes of headdresses, fans, gloves and slippers. The mingled smells of cedar incense and rosemary filled her head. She pointed to the gold brocade gown.

  “That one.”

  “My lady?” squeaked Verella Castamir, a sweet young willow of a girl from the Venza Hills.

  Taniquel’s temper came perilously close to the breaking point. What did these idiots think, that she would meet Deslucido—or her victorious husband, if by some miracle he had survived, though by the pangs which split her heart, she had no hope there—with her hair every which way, wearing an old, mud-stained dress?

  “Quickly!”

  Given something familiar to do, a routine they knew as intimately as the insides of their own boudoirs, the ladies sprang into action. Verella unlaced and eased the amber-colored dress over Taniquel’s head, Rosalys unstrapped the wrist guard and wiped away the mud with rose-scented water, while Betteny, the third, readied the laced, boned linex undergown and silken hose. By the time the brocade was settled into place, Piadora had joined in, helping to hook the rows of tiny yellow-diamond buttons. The gown’s neckline was higher than was currently fashionable, but it hugged her breasts and hips, flaring out from a waistline which came to a low point in front to give the illusion of greater length of torso. Delicate spider-silk lace touched with gold threads hung from the wide sleeves.

  “Colors,” Taniquel said, and a moment later, wore two tartan sashes, Acosta and Hastur. The gold of the gown and its unadorned bodice set them off perfectly.

  Verella and Betteny stood ready with powder and paint, brushes and combs, crystal bottles of scented oils, matching jeweled hair netting and a necklace of precious copper filigree.

  Just as Rosalys held out the velvet-lined box
of rings, there came a tap on the door. At Taniquel’s command, a young Acosta officer entered. Bright blood soaked the cloth over his right shoulder.

  Taniquel brushed aside the box of rings. She had run out of time.

  “M-m—Your M-m—” He threw himself to his knees before her, head bowed. His shoulders trembled with weeping.

  He’s barely a child, she thought, although she was but a few years older. She knew, with deadly certainty, what he was struggling to say. With that fragmentary laran which had been deemed not worth training, she knew.

  “I saw him fall,” she said. Would she be repeating those words all day?

  Oh, Padrik!

  “He—he is slain, lady. He is—” Another spasm shook the boy’s frame. With a visible effort, he gathered himself and looked up at her. Mud and tears streaked his beardless face “You have come from Captain Branciforte? Then return to him with this command. He is to offer a truce to the Deslucido forces in order to negotiate the terms of surrender. Let the fighting cease, let there be no more bloodshed. I will receive their representatives in the throne room.”

  The boy scrambled to his feet, bowed deeply, and departed.

  “Attend me.” In an instant, Taniquel assessed her ladies, holding on to one another, eyes wide, visibly shaking. They had been raised to nothing more challenging than a complicated embroidery stitch or how to decline a second dance with a suitor they found unappealing. If they turned into rabbit-horns in the face of battle, that was hardly their fault.

  Taniquel schooled her voice to gentleness. “And whatever happens, remember that you are nobly-born and serve a Queen.”

  Taniquel entered the throne room through the side door which Padrik had always favored. With a courtly word of welcome, Gavriel offered his arm and escorted her up the dais steps.

  The coridom had done his work well. The hall blazed to rival the sun on Midsummer Day. Gold and velvet glowed like gemstones, and even the age-faded tapestries shone. A few courtiers, ladies and men too old to fight, stood talking in whispers. As one, they bowed to her, all except the lady sitting on the bench against the far wall, comforting a sobbing page. The two steel-gray wolfhounds that had been Padrik’s favorites paced and circled the base of the throne. The bitch growled as Taniquel approached, but the dog ran to her and licked her hand.