Cobweb Empire

Was it a trick of the candlelight, but her eyes, so very blue, for a moment appeared as black as night.

  Chapter 4

  “I want you to grant me my final death,” Claere Liguon said to Percy Ayren.

  Vlau Fiomarre heard those words issuing out of the dead girl’s lips, and it struck him like thunder.

  “No!”

  Before he could stop himself, before he even knew what force was driving him, the exclamation came forth unbidden, and he was leaning forward in the cart, staring at her with a wild expression on his face.

  Percy, meanwhile, pulled hard at Betsy’s reins and abruptly stopped the cart.

  “What?” she said, turning around fully to stare at the Infanta.

  Everyone else was staring also. Even the soldiers stopped riding, and gathered in a cluster around them. The knight rode back a few paces and paused directly at the side of the cart closest the Grand Princess. From the side of his eyes, Vlau Fiomarre momentarily noted the knight’s careful attentiveness. But mostly, Vlau’s attention was upon the Infanta, while a fever arose in his mind, an urgent impossible storm of . . . grief.

  The Infanta’s white, sallow face, frozen like a delicate mask, was trained upon Percy.

  The other girl was looking at her with a shocked expression, and then a gathering frown.

  “I am sorry to startle any of you with such a pronouncement,” said Claere, her breath coming like clockwork. “Maybe I should have waited until we were stopped, so I could speak to you alone, Percy. Maybe—but I am unsure if I might have had the requisite courage to ask. This way, at least, I ask in public, and make it more formal, more real.”

  “What—what exactly are you asking me, Your—Claere?” Percy said very quietly. She had nearly used the Imperial form of address before the unsuspecting soldiers, nearly giving the Infanta away, but stopped in time.

  “You know what I ask. Do for me whatever you have done for your grandmother, Percy, and help me pass on.”

  It was certain that none of the soldiers had known up to that point that it was the Emperor’s daughter, riding in that peasant cart. And likely, most of them had no inkling of the Infanta’s undead condition. But now, everyone knew that a dead girl was among them. . . .

  “I—” Percy clenched the reins so hard that Betsy was making unhappy snorting noises at the extreme pull on her harness.

  Vlau felt his head growing so cold, so impossibly cold, and the sweat of fear was gathering on his brow. “No,” he said again, this time more rationally. “You cannot take your leave of this world just yet.”

  The Infanta suddenly turned to him and her great smoky eyes were trained fully upon him. “What does it matter to you—Vlau?” She too had almost said, “Marquis.”—“Why in heaven’s name would you protest something you have been fighting so ardently to achieve? I thought you wanted me dead!”

  At that last part, everyone looked at Fiomarre. Several girls exchanged startled, unbelieving glances of confusion.

  “What had once been intended . . . no longer matters in the least,” he retorted, finding that he had to speak in this somewhat convoluted manner now, for he could not reveal anything—neither his role in her death to the others, nor his present feelings to her. Not a thing, to anyone! And least of all, could he admit the extent of the cold, grieving, passionate darkness rising within him—not yet, and possibly not ever. And thus he had to feign indifference and practicality. “You cannot die just yet, for there are things in this mortal world you must still do.”

  “What things?” The Infanta was looking at him with a strange, indescribable expression, a combination of despair and serenity, and something else hidden even deeper beyond. Vlau could not fathom what it was, but it held him, mesmerized him . . . and thus he steadily returned her gaze.

  “He is right,” said Percy. “First of all, what you ask is such a serious thing, that I am afraid to even consider it right now.”

  “But you can do it!” The Infanta swiveled her stiff frozen head again to look at Percy.

  “Yes, I can. But—but I am not sure I should.” It was obvious that Percy was painfully struggling to express her conflicted thoughts. Ever since last night, she had seemed extremely unlike her usual steady self—the self that Vlau Fiomarre was used to seeing—and was instead like an uncertain child, a bundle of vulnerable indecisiveness. This request was apparently the last straw. “I mean,” she continued, stumbling in her words, “Gran was one thing, it was what I’d set out to do all along. And that poor pig, well, that was something else that had to be done. But you! You are—” Here Percy sharply went silent because, Vlau guessed, she had almost said, “you are the Emperor’s daughter.”

  The black knight must have made a similar conclusion, because he spoke up in a loud commanding tone. “Enough. It is clear this discussion is untimely. Let us keep moving now, and you can continue this—whatever this is—when we come to our next stop on the road.”

  Percy frowned and threw him one sharp glance, but did not argue. She turned her back on the passengers in the cart, deep in thought, and took up the reins.

  They resumed moving forward along the snowy road, past endless shabby hedges and fields, and occasional poverty-ridden homesteads, in the direction of Letheburg.

  Vlau gathered himself, maintaining an impassive demeanor, and watched from the corner of his eye how the doll of ice and spun glass, the sculpted undead creature at his side, sat motionless in the cart, retreating into herself. She raised the hood of her coat and now even her face was obscured.

  And Fiomarre, next to her, imagined her face as it had been in those moments, and the new grief ate at him slowly, softly, turning into despair.

  Percy drove Betsy forward mindlessly, holding on to the reins with a fixed grip, and she thought: the Infanta of the Realm has just asked me to kill her.

  Holy God in Heaven, what was she to do? Death’s Champion, indeed! Percy was a pitiful mess. She did not know what she was doing. . . . Possibly, she was still in shock.

  No, that is not true. I know exactly what I am doing. . . .

  Percy exhaled a breath held far too long, then ventured to look around her—at the slowly receding sparse bushes laden with snow on both sides of the road, at the knight’s men riding alongside the creaking cart, chain mail and plate armor gleaming in the occasional bursts of winter sun past the cloud mass. The black knight himself was far up ahead on his great warhorse, Riquar at his side. They did not look back even once.

  At some point, long moments later, things began to lose tension, and the girls in the cart started chatting softly.

  Percy threw a dazed glance backward, and saw the Infanta was motionless and hooded, while the dark young man seated next to her had an occluded expression, and seemingly watched the passing road.

  “Did I somehow miss it,” Lizabette spoke up suddenly, “but isn’t there supposed to be a scraggly forest at this point, as we get closer to Letheburg? Why are there only tedious fields, and not a tree in sight? Are we on a different road?”

  Marie and Niosta, the only other remaining girls in the cart, looked around them, and then Niosta said, “There’s no other road, there’s only this one. Hmm, it seem’ like ’ere should be some trees now. I remember when my sis Catrine an’ I were here last, headed in the other direction, there were trees, an’ rotted stumps aplenty.”

  “Yes, that’s what I remember too,” said Lizabette. “Unless I am mistaken completely and we still have some ways to go.”

  “I don’t know,” Percy said, watching Betsy plod forward. “I’ve never been this way before, never been this close to Letheburg.”

  Little Marie stayed quiet and simply shrugged.

  A few hours later, somewhat past noon, as the road meandered and curved around new hillocks that seemed to spring up before them out of nowhere, and it was apparent there was no forest anywhere, the black knight called a stop at the foot of one such rise next to a semi-circle clearing. They made camp in a spot that was not completely in the open, as would ha
ve been the case had they stopped earlier in the open fields.

  “We’ll stop here for a meal and rest,” he said, after approaching the cart. He was looking at Percy directly.

  She nodded, not quite meeting the gaze of his slate-blue eyes, and slowed down Betsy.

  The soldiers moved all around them, horses were led off the road, and soon a fire-pit was fashioned out of bits of twigs and frozen mossy earth underneath cleared snow.

  The girls scattered around the shrubbery to answer calls of nature, and there was some friendly general conversation, as the men-at-arms opened travel bags, and got out the bread and cheese and leftover sausage. There was even a small flagon of ale that started making rounds.

  Percy stood fiddling with Betsy’s feedbag when she heard the Infanta’s measured soft voice behind her.

  “When you are done with your task, I would speak with you, Percy,” said Claere Liguon, with unusual dignity, standing upright with difficulty, one lily-white hand holding on to the railing of the cart. At her side stood her death-shadow—a loyal eternal sentinel, a faint human shape, billowing like a smoke-stack of quivering darkness. . . .

  “Just a moment,” Percy mumbled, and turned away, and continued handling the bag of grain, slowly, reluctantly, then adjusting Betsy’s harness with dawdling movements.

  Vlau Fiomarre approached the Infanta from behind.

  “Please . . .” he said in a whisper, and reached out to place his hand on Claere’s slim shoulder. His strong fingers dug into her skin, but her dead flesh was unaware of the pain that she otherwise would have been feeling. “Before you do this thing, I must speak with you. Come this way!”

  The Infanta obeyed, or rather, was maneuvered a few paces away, where they stood in relative privacy near a tall hedge, while the campsite bustled around them in the rising smoke from the cook fire.

  Vlau’s fingers were still upon her, holding her shoulder in a vise.

  “What would you have me do or not do now, Marquis?” she said, raising the gaze of her great eyes upon his own. Her expression was blank, emotionless—truly dead now. But her voice retained a tiny last vestige of life, as expressed through a tone of bitterness and irony.

  He stared, his dark intense face leaning over her, inches away. There was a rising fury there, barely contained, as he observed this thing before him, this cold dead thing that he himself had made. . . .

  Why did he bother with her now? What was it? Was it not over now, everything, since the events of Death’s Keep? Had it not been revealed that the Infanta was not the Cobweb Bride, and hence had nothing left in the world to do, no reason to go on, no damned purpose?

  She had sat down in the snow then, having given up. And they had talked to her—Percy especially, had spoken to her, words of encouragement and hope.

  While he—he, the murderer who had plunged the accursed dagger into her poor fragile heart—he had no purpose remaining to him also. Neither hate nor revenge for his family’s foul maltreatment at the hands of her father the present Emperor—none of it mattered any longer.

  “What would you have of me?” she repeated, jerking him out of a dark madness, a momentary reverie of memory and regret.

  “You cannot die!” he responded fiercely in a near-whisper. “I cannot allow it!”

  Her eyes were impossible to describe.

  “I am dead already, Marquis. Enough! It is too late to change it. And now, in the name of God, if there is any honor left within you, you must allow me the only possible peace I may yet have—oblivion.”

  “No—”

  “No indeed. We are done speaking!”

  And having uttered this, she forcefully disengaged herself from his grip, then moved away with slightly jerking movements, and retreated along the hedge in an even more secluded spot, to await Percy.

  Percy was taking her time with Betsy, more than usual, and overheard some of their pointed, strange exchange.

  Lord, but she did not want to face the Infanta, not for this. She just couldn’t. . . .

  Percy braced herself, and turned around, having tarried long enough. She walked through the snow, powder crunching underfoot, and stopped before the dead Grand Princess and her death-shadow.

  “Your Highness . . .” Percy bit her lip.

  Not far away, she noted Vlau Fiomarre still stood in place, watching them with his relentless, burning gaze. His lips were moving, whispering: “No . . .”

  “Percy Ayren. Thank you for your courtesy. We may speak in private here. And, I would have you perform the act now.”

  “Your Highness—are you absolutely certain?” Percy felt a bone-deep cold rising inside her, a growing sense of remoteness, so that she was pulled deeper within herself, seeing the world through a thicker layer of distance. Indeed, her vision warped and doubled. First she could see the Infanta’s death shadow right alongside her, then it would wink out of awareness, then reappear again as Percy struggled to focus.

  “Yes . . . I am certain. Please, do it. Do not make me beg again, for I might not have the strength to proceed.”

  “But—would you not rather return to your parents at Court, and maybe say your goodbyes? Maybe you will reconsider, since there is no going back on this kind of thing—I mean—”

  A pair of great beautiful eyes framed by sunken hollows watched Percy.

  “Please . . .” Claere Liguon said. “That I am still here has been a miracle of additional time given me. . . . I should not be here. . . . It is wrong, and I do not belong among the living. That you have the ability to set me free is another miracle. Only, if I may ask you—afterwards, when it is all done—return my body to the Emperor, my father, to be laid to rest in our ancient family crypt, as has been the Liguon way always. . . . And now, please proceed!”

  Percy felt her heart breaking.

  The death shadow stood poised, as though realizing it was time.

  Percy heard the darkness rising, the churning in her mind, the layers upon layers of morass, opening inside her like a starless night, and the tolling of bells. Meanwhile, in the real world the sun came out momentarily and shone a bleak spot of radiance upon the white receptive face of the Infanta, her soft wisps of ashen hair. Somewhere behind them, high above, a bird sped by, calling. . . .

  Percy removed her mittens, stuffed them in her pocket. The crisp winter air rushed in to numb her fingers. She stepped forward and took the cold dead hand of the Grand Princess, feeling it like a shock of ice, feeling the dead girl tremble. . . .

  “I am ready . . .” said Claere Liguon, closing her eyes.

  And with her other hand, Percy reached out and drew her fingers toward the sentinel shadow—

  All at once, from everywhere around them came a terrible crashing noise.

  Percy started. The overflowing ocean of darkness in her mind instantly receded, while that deep unspeakable place slammed shut. With a cry of alarm she dropped the Infanta’s hand, and spun about. They both stared as the campsite filled with new riders, and there were foot soldiers coming from all directions—down from the top of the hillock and around from the road—and there was the neighing of horses, battle cries and hoarse yells of men-at-arms.

  The next few seconds were absolute chaos.

  “Oh God!” uttered Claere Liguon, forgetting herself, forgetting everything that almost happened.

  The Chidair soldiers had been peacefully eating when the attack came, but they were impeccably trained to react within seconds.

  As three mounted knights in full armor came bearing down upon them from the top of the rise, and at least half a dozen soldiers on foot rushed in from every direction, the black knight—who had been seated near the fire and drinking from a mug with the others—sprung up like lightning, casting his mug aside, and grabbed his nearby sword from the bundle at his feet.

  “To arms!” he cried, and the men-at-arms reacted swiftly, and steel was drawn from scabbards everywhere.

  They clashed in seconds.

  The stranger foot soldiers, dressed in poor
motley rags and wearing no noticeable military colors, sought to overpower, but the Chidair soldiers struck back fiercely. And, in moments, enemy limbs were hacked off by the better-trained Chidair, while the strangers wallowed on the ground.

  The first of the three knights, disguised by a dull battered helm and lowered visor, brandishing a heavy flanged mace, made directly for Lord Beltain Chidair, recognizing him as the leader—but it was a grave mistake.

  Beltain leapt forward, despite his imperfect physical condition. And before the attacking knight could bring down his mace, he found himself pulled out of his saddle and onto the ground, grappled down by the black knight, while his mount ran wild. The two of them rolled, then Beltain was up first, and pounded at him from above with his gauntled fist and the flat of his great sword, then the pommel, in a thunder stroke—Percy noted in those wild instants of hyperawareness—as though even in this instance he wanted to grant a modicum of mercy.

  “Surrender, or lose your limbs!” Beltain cried hoarsely.

  But the knight underneath him made no answer.

  And soon it became obvious something else was not quite right.

  For one thing, there was no blood. . . . By this time in such a skirmish, the snow would have been painted bright red. Instead, there was nothing.

  Indeed, as the Chidair men defended themselves, their enemy did not bleed, and instead, they themselves soon received gashes and cuts that discolored the snow.

  The other two knights, seeing how easily their comrade was felled, suddenly turned around, and retreated, their horses laboriously riding up the same hillock they had descended moments ago—all in silence.

  The foot soldiers however were not so easily driven off.

  The girls were screaming. Marie cowered near the cart while Niosta and Lizabette dove directly underneath it. The Chidair soldiers offered them some protection and stood their ground, defending the general area of the campsite and their own horses.

  “A sword! Someone, give me a sword, now!” Vlau Fiomarre exclaimed a few feet away, as abruptly from behind the hedge another three drably clad attackers surfaced and made directly for the Infanta and Percy.