Then Felix said: “I know the name of the Queen of Arpiar, Ruler of the Unveiled People, Mistress of the lands between the Karayan Plains and the Sevoug Mountains beyond Goldstone Wood. She is Varvare, daughter of Vahe and Anahid, servant of the Prince of Farthestshore.”
“Rosie,” Lionheart whispered.
And with the name came a sudden wash of peace over his soul. Whatever happened now, she was safe. She sat upon her throne, come into her rightful inheritance. He could not hurt her anymore.
“Rosie . . .”
He heaved the heavy bolt out of its brackets and undid the iron locks and bracings. With a groan of relief, the door inched open, and Lionheart saw Felix’s pale face in the lantern light beyond, wearing a spiked Southlander helmet.
“Take it, quick!” Felix said, pushing the sack through the doorway into Lionheart’s arms. “I don’t know how long the drugs will—”
“Not long enough for you, wolf-bit pup!”
A gauntleted hand fell upon Felix’s shoulder and hauled him back. Lionheart cursed and put his shoulder to the door, trying to slam it closed, to drop the bolt again. But strong men on the other side pushed against him, and their combined strength was more than his. The guardsmen broke through, and Lionheart hadn’t time to so much as go for his knife. Two of them fell upon him, pinning his arms and bringing him to his knees. The third struck him three times across his face. Still he struggled against them and might have freed himself.
But more guards poured through the door then, guards who had been waiting in the darkened stairway. Outmatched by far, Lionheart fell on his face, his arms twisted behind him.
“Did you think we were fools to fall for such a trick?” said the guardsman who had struck Lionheart, flexing his fist. He turned to Prince Felix, who stood in the grasp of more strong men who had stripped the helmet and breastplate from him.
“But you drank the wine!” Felix protested, furiously.
“That wine wasn’t drugged,” said the leader of the three. “We were told to play along and let you get the door opened for us. Worked like a charm.”
“Who told you?” Felix turned as a movement in the stairway caught his eye, and he saw Lady Dovetree appear at the top of the stairs, very pretty with her arms crossed over her chest. “You?” he cried.
“Don’t be angry, Prince Felix,” said she. “They’ll probably not hang you, and now I can be certain they won’t hang me either. I love the dear baroness, of course, but not enough to die for her!” And she laughed at this, a cruel sort of laugh that belied any declarations of love.
The Baron of Middlecrescent rose then, cut free from his bindings. He rubbed his wrists thoughtfully, and a guardsman offered him a cloak to cover his naked torso. He drew it about himself with kingly dignity and strode to the doorway without a glance to his right at Lionheart upon the floor, or to his left at Prince Felix. Nor did he look at his wife’s traitorous servant but fixed his gaze straight ahead, moving as though none of them mattered or existed.
But at the top of the stairway, he said over his shoulder, “Bring them.”
12
TWELFTH NIGHT. Twelfth Tithe.
Is this fear? Is this desperation? Is this . . . is this hope?
So many strange sensations, all of them an agony. Oh, to be free of these bodies! Oh, to be made whole once more, to be established, to be strong! To rule and be ruled.
The beating of these many hearts, large and small, all beat as one, joined in purpose.
Our purpose.
My purpose.
She bled out upon her kingdom. She took her own life, and she bled, and she died.
New blood must flow for life to renew. So eat them, devour them, take them deep inside and drink of their lives.
Twelfth Night. Twelfth Tithe.
Then, come Thirteenth Dawn . . . renew!
They traveled the fey Paths of the land as naturally as Foxbrush might have strolled the halls of his mother’s house, and they carried him un-protesting along with them. It was like being swept out with the tide, though his feet trod on uncertain soil beneath. All around him the surviving Faerie beasts of the land were silent with the focused intensity of the hunt. Their desire to drive Cren Cru from this land that had been their home was stronger than their desire for life. Even though, if they succeeded, they themselves would have to leave the land forever.
Foxbrush wondered how many of them, like Nidawi, had lost their former nations to the ravages of Cren Cru and his warriors?
Eanrin, once more a cat, paced sedately at Foxbrush’s side, his eyes half closed and his tail up, but his ears a little back with tension. He indicated by the very lie of his whiskers that he didn’t deem Foxbrush worth bothering with and refused to initiate any talk. Foxbrush, however, was unschooled in the language of cats.
“You know, you don’t have to come along with us,” he said to the cat. “I mean, this isn’t your fight, and . . . well, the poem is a bit vague on the details, so I can’t promise anything. I—”