At the Queen's Command (44 page)

The
pasmorte’
s voice came listlessly. “It doesn’t matter. Their magick does not affect me.”

Behind him came shouting and two more shots. One hit Quarante-neuf in the lower back. He grunted. He twisted, putting his body between the Tharyngian soldiers and Owen. Owen peeked past and continued sidling along the winding path.

The Tharyngians spread out, their faces serious. An officer snapped orders. The two men who had shot reloaded their muskets with quick and efficient motions. But as they came to reinsert their ramrods beneath their barrels they slowed. Their intensity slackened, their ferocity melted into wonder. Their hands opened and guns fell forgotten.

Owen dared not open his left eye for fear of being seduced by whatever the Ryngians saw. Small creatures with spindly limbs, woven from branches and decorated with moss and mushrooms, played coy games of hide and seek. They peered from behind trees, the light melody of giggles playing through the air. Men laughed and darted forward, stumbling. They emerged from the snow, faces covered, laughing all the more in that tone men reserve for acknowledging their foolishness before women they desire.

Military discipline vanished. The officer bowed, sweeping off his hat, then straightening. He offered a gloved hand to a gnarled dryad. He took the creature into his arms as he might a Duchess at some grand Feris gala. They began to dance—he, surprisingly well for wearing snowshoes. His men scattered, chasing other phantom lovers further into the woods.

“We have to get away from them.” Owen turned back south, then stopped.

Another of the creatures had emerged. Whereas the others had been made of sticks, this one had stout saplings for limbs and the bole of a tree for a body. Where branches might have topped it, lightning-blasted wooden spikes formed a crown. The creature sat there, knees drawn up, arms wide, eyeless and yet clearly watching them.

Words formed in low murmurs, seeming to vibrate up through the ground. “You
know
the dangers, yet you come. You do not
seem
stupid.”

Owen removed his arm from Quarante-neuf’s shoulder and stood as straight as he could. “There are things outside the path which are worse than whatever fate awaits me here.”

“The abomination.”

The creature referred to du Malphias’ fortress, and a moment’s thought revealed why. The walls were formed of this thing’s bones, and its creation ate into his domain. The
pasmortes
, mindlessly pursuing directives, might well have carved into places men would have avoided by instinct alone.

“The abomination’s creator is my sworn enemy.” Owen chose his words carefully, not sure how Quarante-neuf would react. He wondered if du Malphias’ magick could hold sway on the winding path, but Quarante-neuf’s continued existence and the hints of pain in Owen’s legs gave him a very clear answer.
Or did it?
He felt more the gunshot wound and the piercing of the nails than the shooting pains his steps had produced before.

“You came to my realm. What is it you wanted from me?”

“We came wanting nothing.”

Bass notes thrummed through Owen.
Laughter?

“Men always want something.”

“I just want to go home.”

“Of course you do.” The creature climbed to one knee, towering over them. “You brought my children playthings.”

Owen looked back, but aside from the dancing officer, he could see none of the other soldiers. Laughter echoed from the hillsides, and Owen braced himself for screams of terror.

“What will happen to them?”

“Do you care?”

“They are men like myself, I must care.”

More deep laughter thrummed through Owen. “You say that because you think you must. You think yourself superior because you have risen above the other animals. Even though these men wished to kill you, you think you must care because you share a kinship. But, in truth, you do not care. You fear you will die as they will. Admit it.”

Owen nodded. “And I pity them.”

“You tell yourself it is pity, manling, but you disguise the true reason. Guilt. And this is what sets you apart from the animals, this feeling of guilt. Your most useless emotion, sour and bitter, yet one you are trained to accept as inescapable.”

Owen
did
feel guilty. Whatever pain and terror the Tharyngians would know was the result of his leading them onto the winding path. But he had not forced them to follow. They were rational individuals who had made a decision to follow. They were fully responsible for their own actions, and the consequences fell fully on their heads.

The creature leaned forward. “You are a bright one, aren’t you? You have figured it out.”

Owen shook his head. “Guilt is not useless. Without it, we would do horrible things again and again. We would be lawless.”

“You would be
wild
, as you once were, free to own the world. Free to be our favored pets again, instead of a pest which must be exterminated.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you refuse to let yourself understand.” The creature sat back. “You believe you know the way of things, the way things were intended. In your creation stories, man knows the forest—the
garden—
existed before he did. He places himself above it, to hide his fear of it.

“No matter. You wish to know what will become of them.” The arms swung wide. “They will know the greatest pleasures, and then the greatest fears. They will be alone, and terrified, and after we have drained them of all emotion, they will die. Their flesh and blood will nourish our bodies as their emotions feed our souls.”

Owen watched the Tharyngian officer and read the pure delight on his face. He turned away again. “It won’t be fast, will it?”

“Excruciatingly slow.”

“And us?”

The giant creature stood. “I find myself in your debt. Not sufficiently that I can release you, but if you would perform for me a service…”

“What? Lure more in?”

“You will do that, and more.” The creature swept a branched hand down, clearing away snow and a layer of wet leaves. He revealed an oval sheet of ice. “I require a drop of your blood, and for you to peer into this frozen glass.”

Owen nodded.

The creature extended a branch and probed his wound in a manner not wholly gentle. Owen winced. The creature offered no apology and dabbed a drop on the ice. The rest of the blood, as nearly as Owen could tell, sank into the branch and a green bud rose in its place.

“Look, manling.”

Owen knelt beside the translucent ice, hands on either side, and stared down. It shifted to a mirror. For a heartbeat he did not recognize the reflection. Ragged beard, unkempt hair, sunken eyes. Captivity had not been kind. Then the ice cleared. He saw his wife, Catherine, standing, staring at him, her face full of hatred.

“No, Catherine!” He thrust a hand forward to touch her, but his fingers crumpled against the ice. It became translucent again, the droplet of blood having vanished.

Owen looked up. “She doesn’t hate me.”

“It is not what
is
, but what
will be,
because of choices you make.” More laughter rippled up through the ground. “Her love withers, but you shall remain ignorant until too late.”

Owen’s stomach collapsed in on itself. He pounded his fist against the ice, trying to shatter it. Neither it nor his hand broke, but he fervently wished for either. He wanted to destroy that future, and if he hurt himself, so much the better.

Because, as the image became clear, and as he saw the woman’s face emerge from shadows, for a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, he’d feared it was Bethany. And when it turned out to be his wife, just for another heartbeat, he felt relief.

Quarante-neuf pulled him back upright, then faced the creature. “You would have the same of me?”

“No.” The creature reached out and touched the green bud to Quarante-neuf’s forehead. In the space of three heartbeats the bud flowered fully, leaves sprouted green and huge, then became red and gold and dropped away.

Quarante-neuf staggered, sinking to his knees. “I understand.”

Owen turned. The
pasmorte’
s face had become a lifeless mask. “What did you do to him?”

“Accelerated a process which you had begun.” The creature stepped back. An avenue opened to the east. “I know you both. I know your lives will be full of misery. I shall enjoy that, therefore I shall let you live.”

Owen stood and helped Quarante-neuf up. “You said that what I saw was the future. Is there a way to change it?”

“A few ways, if you choose carefully. If you remember what you truly are. But you won’t. It is that friction, between what you want to think you are and your true nature, which will be the source of your misery.” Laughter trembled up through the earth and snow. “You torture yourselves so well.”

The creature pointed along the path. “Go. You will find your world different, but much the same. Go, sons of Mystria, knowing your future has earned your freedom.”

Owen threw an arm around Quarante-neuf’s waist and led the
pasmorte
up along the path. He didn’t see any other dryads lurking around trees, and did not bother to look back. The creature would be gone, all traces of the Tharyngians would have vanished. All he had of the winding path was its truth—misery—not the illusion of peace.

“What did it do to you, Quarante-neuf? What did you see?”

“It does not concern you, Captain. As it said, it made faster what you had started.”

“Are you dying?”

Quarante-neuf managed a short laugh. “Not a task that requires doing twice. No, my vitality is not ebbing.”

“Good.” Owen stopped and hunched over. “I’m afraid mine is.”

The
pasmorte
straightened up. “I can carry you.”

“No, my friend, just let me rest. A few more steps. Let us crest the hill and then I shall rest.”

Quarante-neuf threw his left arm around Owen and looped the man’s right over his shoulders again. The
pasmorte
’s steps remained strong. He held Owen up easily. With each step it seemed as if he was becoming stronger, showing no fatigue or consequences of having been shot.

Then Owen laughed.
It is because you are becoming weaker.

They crested the hill and everything changed again. An east wind blasted them full in the face, driving wet snow. Owen staggered back a step, hoping to return to the winding path’s sanctuary, but it no longer existed. Instead of being on the side of a hill, they had just emerged into a meadow.

“I don’t understand.” Owen shielded his face with a hand. He had to scream above the shrieking wind. “This can’t be.”

Quarante-neuf laughed. “Where we just were could not be, Captain. This place
is
. Luckily, I know where we are. Come.”

They kept walking. Quarante-neuf, anyway, walked. He dragged Owen through drifts and kept him moving when Owen wanted to stop. “You cannot, Captain, you’ll freeze. You will die if you do not keep moving.”

“That’s better, my friend, than causing what I saw. My wife hating me.”

“Is that truly what you saw?”

“The expression on her face. My fault.”

“But you can change it. He said that.”

Owen collapsed, curling into a ball. “I can’t take another step.”

“And I can’t let you come to harm.”

Owen patted the
pasmorte’
s leg
. “
That is du Malphias’ magick speaking. Save yourself. If you save me, I will kill him.”

Quarante-neuf knelt, and gathered Owen into his arms. “What I feel is not his magick. It is the magick of what a friend feels for a friend.”

How long he traveled in Quarante-neuf’s arms Owen could not say. The blizzard had made the world a timeless, silver-grey tunnel. When night fell it became colder. He would have frozen to death, save for the
pasmorte
’s warmth.

Finally Quarante-neuf set him down. Owen opened his eyes and found his surroundings vaguely familiar.
This place. This is the Frost house.
“How did you know?”

Quarante-neuf did not answer. He stood over Owen and pounded on the door. He waited and pounded again, then backed down the steps.

Owen reached out even as he heard footsteps on the other side. “No, you cannot go.”

The
pasmorte
shook his head. “I am dead, but I
remember
. For this reason, I
must
go.”

The door cracked open, yellow light pouring into the storm. Of Quarante-neuf, Owen could only see a dim silhouette being devoured by the storm. Snow had filled his footsteps and, by the time Owen had been stripped of his clothes, bandaged and lowered to bed, there would be no sign of Quarante-neuf’s passing.

Chapter Forty-Five

May 13, 1764

Government House, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

P
rince Vladimir had always found the long delay in communications with Norisle to be a blessing. The swiftest response he had ever had to a missive had been three months, and that was on a matter of no consequence. In general, the more serious the request, the slower the response. And while that suggested due deliberation at the highest levels of government, the replies most often had an offhand quality that suggested no one read his reports nor did any sober thinking on the problem.

Within a day of Captain Strake’s miraculous return, the Prince had interviewed him. Within a week, Owen had come to the estate and helped update the model of du Malphias’ fortress. The Prince had written a fully detailed report with all cogent facts included—he left out specifics of Owen’s escape since that would have undercut the reliability of his testimony—and sent it with Colonel Langford back to Launston on the tenth of December.

And then he had waited.

And waited.

News trickling in from Norisle had not been good. The war in Tharyngia did not go well. General Ahab Smalling had made Lord Rivendell look very much the master of war. Smalling had managed to squander the few advantages the Laureates had given him. Lord Rivendell had led through neglect; Smalling managed every tiny detail, demanding reports on powder and shot expenditure by soldier—expecting unit survivors to provide that data for their fallen comrades. He wasn’t above flogging those who failed to comply. This included the dead sergeant of a squad that had been wiped out in a rearguard action.