Shadowheart

  “Don’t you believe him, then?” Vansen asked.

  Chert scowled. “No, the wretched thing is, I do believe him . . . that is what is so dreadful. Even if we see the boy again, he will never be our Flint, not truly.” He nodded toward the carriage where Opal waited for him and lowered his voice. “That is what makes her so sad.”

  “But your boy was always something other than what everyone thought him,” Vansen said slowly. “We none of us truly knew him.”

  “And Opal knows that—she knows it better than we do.” Chert reached out a small, callused hand so that Vansen could help him up onto the carriage steps. “Don’t worry for us too much, Captain Vansen. We Funderlings are a thick-skinned race. We’ll live.”

  “When you’ve had a little while to yourselves, bring whatever you need to the castle and we’ll find you a place of your own there, in the royal residence.” Vansen had spent so long without a real home that he couldn’t quite think of what ordinary folk carried around with them. “Weapons, if you have them. Keepsakes.”

  Chert smiled despite the quiet noises of sorrow coming from the carriage. “Yes, my grand weapon collection, of course. To be honest, I won’t need much room for that. But Opal may have a few pans.” He nodded as he considered. “And I won’t be sad to leave my brother’s house. He’ll be around the place a great deal more now that Cinnabar has convinced the Highwardens to remove Nodule from the Magisters’ Slate for his dangerous meddling, and I’m certain he blames it all on me.” Chert’s smile became a wide grin. “Which gives me a great deal of pleasure, Captain—a great deal of pleasure.”

  When Merolanna’s bewildered driver had at last been allowed to leave the crossroads and the carriage had become just another shadow ahead of them, Vansen and Briony rode back to the castle in the silent company of the royal guards.

  The princess and the guard captain didn’t have much to say on the way back, either. Vansen did not entirely trust words at the best of times, and just now could not summon even one word that would make sense of what he was feeling. Briony was as remote as he had ever seen her.

  This “festive” mood was only enhanced when they were greeted at the causeway by another contingent of guards, this one led by a royal messenger who bowed only long enough for his knee to brush the ground before leaping to his feet and handing Briony a sealed letter from Steffens Nynor.

  “Sweet Zoria,” she said as she read it. “Or whoever it is now to whom we must turn. Mercy upon us all.”

  “What?” Vansen hated the look of alarm on her face, but he hated the look of pain and exhaustion even more.

  “It is Anissa, my stepmother,” Briony said, looking up at the looming castle walls. “She has fallen from her tower window—or she has jumped. She is dead.”

  53

  Shadowplayers

  “... And the gods have given him a pair of beautiful golden arms to replace those which were burned away by the sun. Tessideme, the village where the Orphan was welcomed and celebrated, became the city of Tessis, the center and heart of our Trigonate faith on earth. The Trigonarch himself lives there today ...”

  —from “A Child’s Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven”

  “YOU ARE LUCKY I didn’t have you broughtto to mein in shackles,” Briony told him, her fists clenched so hard her knuckles had gone white. “How dare you!”

  Dawet dan-Faar raised an eyebrow. “How dare I what, Princess?”

  “You know precisely what, you rogue! While I was out of the castle, you went to the Tower of Spring. Anissa fell to her death while you were with her. Do you think I’m a fool, Dawet? You as much as told me you thought she should be murdered!”

  He smiled. “I believe I suggested that it would be dangerous for you to let such a woman live. I was not aware a person could be killed with words.”

  “You were there! You were with her when she died—you pushed her from that window!”

  Dawet cocked his head, his brown eyes as wide and innocent as a fawn’s. “What makes you say such a terrible thing, Highness?”

  “You were seen going in. One of the guards had stepped away— doubtless pursuing some blind of your own—but as he came back, he saw you go inside the tower.”

  He shook his head gravely. “He saw an intruder but did not say anything to him? Did not try to stop the man? Did it ever occur to you that this guard is trying to make up for his own failing, Princess?”

  “He saw you! He did not interfere because he knows you are a friend of the royal family.”

  “He was obviously mistaken, Princess. I was nowhere near the place. Several people will swear I was playing picket with them in a little establishment newly reopened near the West Lagoon.”

  “A gambling den,” she said.

  “You may call it such.” He made a little bow. “Certainly there is an element of chance involved in the pastimes pursued there ...”

  “Enough! I thought you an honest man even in your most dishonest moments, Dawet. Why do you lie to me now? And why did you do what I told you I could not bear to see done? Kill that poor, stupid woman?”

  “That poor stupid woman helped murder your brother.” Dawet’s voice was suddenly hard and serious. “In days to come she would have become a danger to you, too. As to lying—my lady, why would I lie? The only reason I can imagine why anyone who loved you and wished to help might lie to you is so that you can rule as you must, with a clear conscience. Because you, Briony Eddon, are no murderer.”

  She stared at him for a long time, then sagged back in her chair, her face sad and weary. “And what am I to do with you, Dan-Faar?”

  “If I were truly the villain you think me, Mistress, I would suggest you keep me close to you where I might be useful. A prince never knows when he may need the service of a rogue, after all, and I suspect that things are little different for queens.”

  She stared at him for long moments, but the anger had gone from her eyes. “And of course your gambling cronies will swear you were with them all the day.”

  “Of course.”

  She waved her hand. “Go away, Dan-Faar. Go back to your cards and your convenient friends. I have another funeral to arrange.”

  “As you wish, Highness. But I would suggest you bury the late Queen Anissa with the full pomp of her position. She was the mother of your father’s last child, after all. Her tragic accident, so soon after your father’s death, has surprised and saddened all of Southmarch.”

  She could not stifle a bitter laugh. “Gods save me! As always, you are most helpful, Master Dan-Faar. Now go away and at least spare me seeing your face for a tennight or two.”

  “As you wish, Highness.” He bowed, more deeply this time, and went out.

  Vansen was worried, even frightened, by what she told him in the privacy of her chamber. “You cannot let such a man stay in Southmarch! Even if nothing can be proved, you and I both know he is guilty. He is dangerous!”

  “Perhaps. But not to me.”

  “You can’t be sure of that!”

  She reached out and took his hand. “The Kupileia is almost upon us, along with my coronation. I will be the queen. I will be the queen, my dearest captain, and much as I am almost foolish with love for you, I must be the ruler of the March Kingdoms, not you. I know something of Dawet, and I know that he thinks to help me.”

  “Help you . . . !”

  She put a finger on his lips. “He is my problem, not yours, my brave knight. And it occurs to me that whether he meant to or not, Dawet has also proved that I owe Avin Brone an apology . . . but not tonight.” She stood. “Now let’s not talk about any of this any longer.”

  “I am your lover, yes, but remember I am also your constable.”

  “And you are admirable in both occupations. Come with me down to the retiring room. Some friends of mine have returned to Southmarch and I would like you to meet them.”

  “Friends?” Vansen had a dreadful vision of more suitors, more handsome foreign princes, a line of riva
ls stretching out until doomsday. “What sort?”

  “The educated sort. Come, now—let me show you off to the only people who will not judge me badly!”

  “Makewell’s sister forbade him to come, Highness,” said Nevin Hewney. “But we have found someone to take his place. I introduce you to Matthias Tinwright, poet.”

  Briony raised her eyebrow. The shamefaced Tinwright would not meet her eyes. “We’ve met. In fact, we saw each other rather recently. Master Tinwright was trying to kill my infant brother.”

  Now it was Hewney’s turn to look bemused. “Truly? I never thought you disliked children so violently, Tinwright. I underestimated you.”

  While Vansen tried to make sense of this, Briony turned and threw her arms wide. “Finn!” she cried, embracing the third man with a joy that Vansen did his best to ignore. “It is so good to see you again! And you, too, Hewney, disreputable soul that you are.”

  The man named Finn Teodoros drew back, a little red-faced at his greeting. “All thanks to Zosim, patron of players, Princess ...”

  “Not him,” Vansen growled.

  Teodoros looked at him curiously for a moment, then back to Briony. “In any case, all thanks to the gods, we are here—and you are the queen! We should be down on our knees to you, not strolling in at this late hour with a couple of jugs of cheap wine!”

  “By the time we finish both jugs, someone will certainly be on his knees,” Hewney said, “but I suspect it will be young Tinwright.”

  “And this,” said Briony, “is Ferras Vansen, captain of the royal guard and soon to be lord constable. He, more than any other man, saved this castle and my throne.” She ordered one of her pages to fetch cups, then waved to Nevin Hewney. “Now bring that jug over here and let me tell you the truth about everything.”

  Vansen regarded his beloved with growing horror. “Highness ...”

  “You will have some wine, too, Captain. Tallow is in charge of the guardroom tonight and you are at liberty. These are my friends, and here we all are.” She took a cup from the page. “Here—pour! And some for my captain, too. Did you know that he is my lover?”

  “Princess!”

  “It was not hard to guess, the way you keep clutching at his hand,” said Finn Teodoros, grinning. “I hope you are more discreet in front of the paying public.”

  “Yes. But you are my only friends, and I am tired of secrets.” She drank her wine at a gulp, then held out her cup again. “A few more of these, and I will begin declaiming Zoria’s words.” She smiled at Tinwright, who still looked a bit anxious. “I mean no blasphemy,” she said. “Teodoros wrote them for a play, and I played the part of the goddess.”

  “No one could have played it better,” said Finn Teodoros fondly.

  “Chaste as old Zoria herself, too,” grumbled Hewney. “No matter how often I tried to ...” He blinked. “Why is this guard captain standing so close to me? And looking as though he might like to give me a thrashing?”

  “If you are jealous of these fine folk, you haven’t had enough wine yet, Captain,” Briony said, then turned to give Vansen a kiss on the cheek. “I love you,” she whispered, then said much more loudly, “Fill that man’s cup again!”

  Vansen and Finn Teodoros were deep in a slightly frog-mouthed discussion about the Qar, comparing their experiences, Vansen’s mostly personal, Teodoros’ mostly learned from study. Nevin Hewney, perhaps depressed by the lack of available female company or just overcome by all the wine he had downed, had fallen asleep between the two of them, so that they both had to lean forward to talk around his bobbing, bearded head.

  “ . . . But Phayallos says that when the gods walked the earth they could take any form, so why should Zosim, if it truly was him, not simply take the form of a bird or a fiery arrow and fly out of the deeps that way?”

  Vansen shook his head firmly, then shook it again. “Because . . . because . . . curse it, Teodoros, I don’t know. Why should I? He was a god! If you’d have been there, you could have asked him.”

  “I am not so brave, Captain ...”

  Briony, who had been admiring Ferras Vansen’s face, the almost child-like earnestness that appeared so quickly even when he looked his most mature and handsome, did not notice for some moments that Matt Tinwright was standing beside her, swaying slightly from side to side.

  “Yes, Master Tinwright?”

  “Are you . . . do you still . . . I did not want to hurt your brother, Princess. Truly I didn’t. ...”

  “I know, Tinwright. That’s why you are standing free here before me, drunk to the gills on my good Perikal red wine.”

  He frowned. “I thought . . . that Hewney brought the wine ...”

  “We’ve moved on to the royal stores long ago,” she said. “You should sit down again, man, before you fall and hurt yourself.”

  “I . . . I wanted to talk to you, Princess Briony. To thank you for making me your poet.”

  She smiled. “You are welcome.”

  “I have a question.” He licked his lips, clearly uneasy. “Do you remember that . . . that I was writing a poem about you? How you were like Zoria?”

  She nodded, although the memory was very vague indeed. It hadn’t been very good was all she could recall. “Of course, Master Tinwright.”

  He smiled in relief. “Well, I was thinking I might go back to it . . . but I was thinking. That’s what I was doing—thinking about the poem. I was thinking that I couldn’t make a poem about you that didn’t have anything about . . . about, you know, the things that happened. Here and while you were in Syan. I’ve been asking people. Trying to find out the truth.”

  “I’ll be happy to answer your questions, Matt,” she said kindly. “But not tonight. Tonight is for merriment.”

  “I know!” He waved his hands as though accused of theft. “But I was thinking and thinking about how the whole thing has been like . . . well, like one of Finn’s or Nevin’s plays from the very first.”

  “I’m not certain I understand.” She looked over to Vansen and Teodoros, still talking like fast friends—or maybe Finn just fancied her guard captain. She could hardly blame him. “Like a play?”

  “All of it. Like a puppet play. Someone was always behind everything we saw. From what I’m told ...” he screwed up his face, trying hard to get it right, “from what I’m told, Zosim was behind it all, pretending to be Kernios. But Hendon Tolly thought it was someone else, a goddess—he sometimes seemed to think it was Zoria herself! But it was all Zosim wearing disguises, do you see? Just like a player!”

  “I suppose ...”

  “All of it like a play. You were a princess, but you disguised yourself, just as in so many stories. The villain of the piece hid in the shadows and had others do his bidding, like that southern king, that autarch. That’s just like one of Hewney’s plays, too. But what really made me stop and wonder was when I thought, ‘but if Zosim was behind it all, but he was beaten in the end ... who did that?’”

  Briony, a little the worse for wear herself after several cups of Perikal, could only shake her head. “Who did what?”

  “Beat Zosim. Tricked him and defeated him.”

  “Well, the boy Flint, that I told you about earlier . . . he claims that part of Crooked lives inside him. ...”

  “Exactly!” said Tinwright loudly, then blushed. “Yes, Highness. And when you told me that, I really got to thinking. You know the stories from the old days about how Kupilas beat Kernios and Zosim both, right here!” He frowned. “I mean, down underneath the earth. You know, don’t you?”

  “I have heard many stories in the last year. But yes, I know about what Kupilas was supposed to have done to Kernios and Zosim and the rest.”

  “But who else was there all the time? Who else was present when that all happened?”

  Briony was beginning to wonder if it might be time to end the festivities. “I don’t know, Master Tinwright. Whom?”

  He smiled in pink-cheeked triumph. “Zoria was—Zoria, the Dawnflower. She was the
re. Kernios killed her for betraying him—or at least that’s what the stories say. But what if she didn’t die, like Zosim didn’t die? What if she stayed alive in those . . . whatever places?”

  She looked at him and realized that he was not quite as drunk as he looked. “It’s . . . it’s a fascinating idea, Master Tinwright ...”

  “It was your Zorian prayer book that saved me from your archer, you know.” He said the words very carefully, then smiled when he had successfully navigated the sentence. “It was over my heart and stopped the bolt. Zoria’s hand. Your prayer book. Do you see?”

  Briony didn’t know what to say. “I suppose ...”

  “Very well. One last question, Princess. I heard you’re building a shrine to the forest goddess Lisiya. Can I ask you why?”

  “Demigoddess. Because . . . because I promised if I survived that I would build one for her. I would rather not say anything more about it. Why do you ask?”

  He nodded. “Can I show you something I found in a book?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin volume, then fumbled it open. “It’s written by Phayallos. He wrote a lot about the gods ...” Tinwright squinted as he turned pages. “Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “ . . . And these goddesses and demigoddesses, especially Lisiya of the Silver Glade and her sisters, were commonly called the Handmaidens of Zoria, and strove to see that the Dawnflower’s wishes were carried out in the world, that Zoria’s worshipers were rewarded and her foes were thwarted.” He closed it, spoiling his moment of triumph a bit by dropping the book on the floor.

  “Master Matty is drunk!” laughed Finn Teodoros. “Time to take him home.”

  As Finn and Matt Tinwright helped Hewney onto his feet, Briony could not help asking the young poet, “And will you continue with your poem?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, his eyes shining. “I have so many ideas—it will be the best thing I ever did! I was miserable because . . . because of a woman . . . but now I know why. I was meant to do this!”