Riggan listened to Aengas’ questions with worried interest, then gave a long reply, at one point raising his hands over his head and gesturing to the roof of his cramped cell.
“He says she has three faces—the Summoner, the Silence, and the Mother of Tears.” Aengas paused. The jailer had leaned in to hear better, so he glared at the man until he stepped back again. “I am impressed by the madman’s knowledge of old tales,” Aengas continued, “but it all seems straightforward to me. He has foul dreams and thinks his dreams are true. And it is not unusual for people to believe the gods speak to them, whether the Morriga or Brynioch himself—King Lluth’s own daughter suffered from a madness like this, I have heard it told.”
“Perhaps, but his answer seemed longer. What else did he say?”
“I heard something about, ‘Behind her are older ones, older still, old as the rain, old as the stone.’ That must be the gods.”
The madman’s words made Tiamak itch, although he did not know why. “I am still uncertain. Ask him to name these old ones.”
Aengas gave Tiamak an odd look, but spoke to the prisoner again. Riggan, agitated, waved his hands in the air and let loose a burble of Hernystiri; Tiamak recognized a single word—duircha, or “darkness”—and his heart stumbled a little.
“He does not know their names, but he says their shadows are the light of other worlds, and that the stars are their eyes.” The factor’s wide face now creased in a frown of unease. “Tiamak, my swamp-paddling friend, where could this creature have learned such things? Could he once have been a priest or scholar? But if so, what was he doing working in the Hayholt’s kitchens?”
“A king and several high and holy knights have labored in those kitchens,” Tiamak said. “Do not underestimate the place.” But he did not feel as light-hearted as his words made him sound. “Surely that cannot be all he said, Aengas. I heard the word ‘darkness.’ What was that?”
“Ah, yes,” Aengas said. “It troubled me too. He said something like, I do not know why they speak to me or who they are, but their silent voices are the true names of darkness—” He suddenly looked not just disturbed but startled. “But hold—why does that sound familiar, dear man?”
“Because you were reading it only yesterday or the day before.” Tiamak’s heart seemed to grow cold in his chest. “‘The true name of Darkness is made of these silent voices,’ were the exact words. Do you remember them now?”
Aengas’s broad face turned a paler shade, and despite the dank air of the cell, a sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. “‘The true name of Darkness . . .’ Gods, yes, I remember it now—‘and Darkness itself is wound all through these whisperless whispers, and even a godly man may lose his wits and even his immortal soul when they call him.’ I wish at this moment I were a more religious man, Tiamak, because I could use such comfort. Those are the words of Fortis the Recluse.”
“Yes.” Tiamak spoke almost in a whisper, as if someone beside the slack-faced warder might be listening. “Straight from the pages of the Treatise. Ask the prisoner if he can read, Aengas.”
Riggan shook his head in shame. “He says he cannot,” Aengas reported.
“And I believe him. Ask him if he knows the name of Bishop Fortis.”
Again the prisoner shook his head, then spoke in a rush of words, looking more fearful by the moment. “He does not know it, and he says he is a man who loves the gods and does not wish to be burned. He did only what he was told, he said.”
“And who told him?” Tiamak asked.
“He says it was the Morriga,” said Aengas after listening to the reply. “But he says the lady of three faces whispered in his dreams for many moons, until he knew it was a true summons. He says he is not the only person who can hear her, for the whispers are grown very loud of late.” Aengas took a deep breath and let it out with a shudder. “Do you know, I suddenly find myself disliking the smell and dampness of this place, friend Tiamak. I would like to leave.” He gave his bearers a command; they bent to hoist the litter.
Tiamak nodded his agreement, but he knew that what they had heard here could not be so easily left behind.
Pasevalles had finished his business for King Simon, as well as some boring but important letters of his own, but it was still more than an hour until the bells in Holy Tree Tower called him to the midday meal. He decided to take advantage of this unexpected freedom to spend some time reading in his private room at the top of the residence where no one would disturb him. But he had only made it to the top of the third floor landing before he was reminded that his secret hiding-hole was no longer entirely secret.
“Lord Pasevalles! I thought I might find you here.”
He was tired, distracted, and worried, not at all in the mood to dally with Idela in conversation or otherwise, but he put on a smile as she made her way up the long staircase. “And find me you did, my lady,” he said as she reached him. “Your Highness is a Hound of Love, who always runs down her quarry.”
She looked around quickly to make sure they were alone, then kissed him warmly upon the lips. “Since I am a woman as well as a hound, do you call me a she-hound, Lord Chancellor? It is true enough, I suppose—I am your bitch and will do as you command.”
“Ssshh! My lady! Not so loud.” The princess had pushed up against him, and for a moment he worried she might jostle one or both of them off the landing and down the steep staircase. “Please, sweet Idela, if you wish to talk this way, let us at least go to my room, where we do not have to worry about offending the sensibilities of those who might hear us.”
“As you say, Lord Chancellor. You command me, after all. I am merely your servant—your pet.” But her hand was fumbling at his buttons in a most un-servantlike way, and it was all he could do to gently detach her fingers from his jerkin.
“Enough,” he said. “I am delighted to see you, dear princess, light of my heart. But not here. Let us go up.”
“As you wish, although there is no one to see us. Even the chambermaids come up here but seldomly.” She stepped back. “Ah, and since I am your servant, you must chastise me, dear Pasevalles.”
He was relieved to have calmed the situation. “Why?”
“Because I forgot that I had something of yours.” She lifted the hand that until now she had kept at her side. “See? You dropped this at the bottom of the stairs. I have carried it all this way for you.”
He took the folded letter from her. His fingers trembled. “You . . . found this?”
“Yes. I saw you drop it from across the front hallway.”
“But the seal is broken.” He looked from the wax to the letter written on fine Perdruinese parchment. “Did you read it?”
For a moment, just a moment, something flickered in her eyes—guilt, perhaps. “No! It must have come open when you dropped it. I would not read something private of yours, beloved!”
“You are not telling me the truth, Princess.”
Again he saw a flash of unease. “Very well. No, I did not read it, but I could not help noticing that it was from Nabban. From Lord Drusis, the duke’s brother.” She put a finger against his lips. “Ssshhh, do not scold me. I would never tell anyone, but you may tell me. Are you trying to arrange peace between him and his brother? Is it something to help the queen with her mission?” She was smiling now. “You can share with me, beloved. You know I want only to help you do what is best for the kingdom. After all, it will all be my son’s kingdom someday.”
“Yes, it will,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Wait—look there. Is that your father coming?”
Surprised, she turned to look down to the chamber below. “I do not see him—”
Pasevalles put both hands against her back and shoved hard. Idela’s arms flew up as if she were merely miming surprise. She struck first against the wall several steps below, then tumbled heels over head, rolling down the narrow, circular staircase until he could not see her anymore. He quickly made his way down the steps and found her lying some distance below, head hanging over the edge of a step, one arm bent awkwardly behind her, dress flung up, and legs splayed, precisely as if someone had dropped a child’s rag doll.
He crouched beside her. The princess dowager had bloody scrapes on her face and hands and a red bubble at the corner of her mouth, now swelling outward, now shrinking back. When he leaned close he could hear the dry gasp of her breath, slow and ragged but fairly steady.
Pasevalles shook his head and then stood. He pressed the sole of his boot down on the side of Princess Idela’s head, ignoring the way her eyes rolled beneath the half-closed lids, then twisted his foot until he heard the bones of her neck snap. He hid the letter from Nabban in the waistband of his hose, then began to call for help, shouting over and over until the stairwell echoed.