Cobweb Empire (2 page)

“What? At peace, you say?” Niobea took a
deep breath also, and began loudly. “And how in blessed Heaven do
you know that she’s at peace? For all we know, she may now be
condemned to eternal damnation, all because of our daughter’s
tainted hands, a girl who’s been touched by death—”

“Why not have the priest come over and judge
for himself if there is indeed ungodly taint here, woman!”

“And so he should! Blessed is your mother
that she had at least received the Last Rites some days ago, else
it would be unbearable for her poor soul, likely burning in the
flames, and her poor body, to wait thus in the unholy darkness. You
will go for Father Dibue, first thing in the morrow, while she lies
thus with us, growing cold in the night—”

“And you think, wife, I don’t know
that—”

“Obviously you don’t know what
your
daughter has done, else you would not be so calm about it—”

“She is
your
daughter too, as much as
she is mine! She is our child, and this thing that happened is a
miracle—”

They could have gone on in this manner for
endless painful moments, but Percy herself interrupted. “I am
leaving,” she said, and everyone heard her, and again the street
was plunged into silence. It was true dark now, and except for the
faint lights coming from parted window shutters and doorways, there
was no illumination. The moon had not risen yet, and no one along
the street dared to bring out and light a torch. Their faces were
plunged in deep shadow, silhouettes backlit by hearth fires. Eyes
glittered. . . .

“Did you hear me, mother? No need to speak
of me at all, I had only come back for a moment, not to stay, but
to see you all, and to say goodbye. It is true, I hoped to stay
overnight, but—I am going now. Going south, and not coming back
again . . . at least not for a long time.”

Alann turned to her, his face twisting with
pain. “Child! What are you saying? Do not let your mother’s muddled
anger drive you away! This is your home, always! You know that! And
whatever you did to Gran, it is for the best! Not an unholy thing,
I say, but rather the opposite! She was indeed suffering, and she
wanted, needed to pass on—”

“I know,” Percy said gently. “But I have to
go, Pa. There is something I must do.” And then she looked at the
knight and his men, and back at her parents. “It is getting late,
and if it is all right with you, my father, I will sleep in the
barn, for this night only. Don’t worry, mother, I will not enter
the house. But you must offer proper hospitality to this knight,
the Lord Beltain Chidair—”

At the mention of the name, everyone
erupted. Chidair was the surname of the enemy; the Dukedom of
Chidair bordered on the Dukedom of Goraque, which was where
Oarclaven was situated, and the two were chronically at war. And
furthermore, only a few days ago—indeed, on the very day that death
had stopped—they had just had a great skirmish, their forces
meeting, battling it out on the frozen surface of Lake Merlait, the
two Dukes and their armies, Ian Chidair and Vitalio Goraque. So,
what was a high-ranking Chidair knight doing here in Goraque lands?
Wasn’t there a truce between them, at least for the duration of the
unnatural cessation of death?

“No need. I will not impose on your
hospitality,” the knight spoke loudly, over the tumult. “I am here
with no intent to harm, merely passing through this village, bound
by common truce with your own Duke. And your daughter, Percy, is
traveling with me. She is hereby under my protection.”

“My Lord,” Alann spoke, taking in this
astounding information with an unreadable face, and barely
inclining his head, while Niobea bowed her head more deeply. “Of
course you are welcome to this house and my own bed. Forgive me,
but we do not have much in the way of comfort that you might be
accustomed to, nor regular visitors.”

“Comfort is a luxury. We have our own
supplies and will make camp here. The barn looks to be adequate for
our needs, considering we were planning to spend the night under
the stars.”

Niobea must have finally found reason. “Oh!
My—My Lord,” she began to stammer. “If I can serve you in any
way—”

But from thereon the knight ignored the
Ayrens, master and mistress both, and signaled his men-at-arms.
They started dismounting, and there was much industry, and
unpacking of items, while horses were led off the road and toward
the back of the small Ayren property, and nearer to the roomy but
somewhat drafty barn, occupied at present by the single Ayren
horse.

Soon, the only thing remaining on the street
in front of the house was a large cart. It was hitched to an
oversized, pale draft horse, and there were several people, mostly
girls, huddled inside. Percy made her way toward it, and, as her
family stared in surprise, she spryly got up on the driver’s seat
and then with a sure hand untied the reins and lightly snapped
them, accompanied with a “Whoa, Betsy!”

Next thing they knew, the cart and its
occupants turned into the Ayren backyard, and Percy fearlessly
guided the very large animal past their small picket fencing, and
to the back, near the old elm tree.

Alann turned to Niobea, with a look of
stunned loss as to what to do next. Niobea’s face was no less
befuddled. The good thing was, she seemed to have forgotten for the
moment what unnatural thing her daughter Persephone had done.
Forgotten that her mother-in-law was lying dead indoors; that there
was no more rhythmic endless sound of a death rattle filling the
house. . . .

“Ma?” the youngest Ayren daughter Patty
said. “Should I heat up some water for tea? I dunno if we have
enough tea for so many people, but I think we might need to use the
really big kettle—”

P
ercy was cold. It
was more than the normal chill of evening, but a cold that had come
from her own
self
, had risen in the pit of her belly and
seeped into her bones from the inside out, immobilizing her, and
making her sluggish.

Even now she moved mechanically and did
things as though she were not piloting her own body, but someone
else—
someone else
was pulling Betsy’s reins, and maneuvering
the cart, and then coming to a full stop near the barn where the
soldiers had already started to make camp.

Someone else
got down from the
driver’s seat; someone else adjusted her listless hair falling
around her bare forehead, where in moments sweat had turned to
ice. . . . Where was that woolen shawl now?

Oh, it was back in the house. She had come
in through the front door and had taken it off carefully and
proudly, and handed it back to her mother. Then, she—no, someone
else—went to her grandmother’s bedside, and did something—

No!

Percy shuddered, coming “awake” inside her
own head, slammed into the present reality, the hardness of the
moment. And here she was, drained of all life, drained dry and made
empty like a hollow cornhusk.

She took a big breath, and it all came back
momentarily, full force—the fullness of power, the cathedral
ringing in her mind. It was an overflowing sound of deep bells, and
she had been
tolling on the inside
with the rich darkness,
even long moments after it was all over—after she had touched
death’s
shadow
at the foot of her grandmother’s bed, held
their hands and pulled the two together—death and the old
woman.

To do it, she had reached deep into herself
where a tiny bit of death’s heart was lodged like a splinter. It
was she, and not someone else.

She
did it.

Gran was dead.

She knew it. And she had named herself.

Death’s Champion.

“Percy!”

Someone had spoken behind her. Percy
recognized the voice of the only man in the cart, and turned around
to look. Vlau Fiomarre, the young dark-haired Marquis, was asking
her something, his voice barely raised above a whisper. He was
dressed as a shabby servant, nondescript. His once-handsome face
was bruised. And his eyes were dark as midnight and almost lifeless
with many days of exhaustion.

Percy was immediately reminded of who was in
the cart right beside him.

The dead girl.

Claere Liguon, the very Royal and very dead
Infanta of the Realm, Grand Princess and daughter of the Emperor,
sat on the other side of Vlau Fiomarre. She was like a neatly
folded, weightless thing of snow, drained of all blood, brittle and
delicate and frozen like spun sugar, covered with the poor disguise
of a cheap woolen cloak once belonging to a palace servant. No one
but her closest travel companions knew her identity, not even the
ordinary ranking soldiers in the knight’s retinue.

“Percy,” repeated Vlau, his eyes glittering
in the near dark. “Remember, it is as we had discussed earlier. You
will not speak anything of her. We will downplay her presence as
much as possible. Please, not a word to your family.”

“Yes, I know.”

And then he added. “What—what has happened
in there? Is it but mistaken nonsense, or did you really somehow
cause your grandmother to
pass on?
”

“I—” Percy began.

“
How
did you do it?” the Grand
Princess herself uttered the question, in a laboring voice that was
like soft mechanical bellows, whistling slightly, as the breath
escaped her dead, frost-filled lungs.

They were all watching her, the other girls
in the cart, Emilie, Marie, Niosta, Lizabette, breaths held, all
staring.

But before another word was said, there was
the sound of quick footsteps from the direction of the house, and
another familiar intrusion saved Percy from having to explain the
impossible.

“Percy, are you there?” Her eldest sister,
Belle, had come hurrying from the front porch, past her stunned
parents, stepping right into the deep snow. She was carrying their
fine shawl, the one that Niobea had dropped.

Belle, lovely and thin, and shivering in her
rough-spun housedress, stood at the side of the cart, ignoring
everyone else there, and thrust the length of quality vintage wool
into her sister’s hands. “Take this, Percy. It is yours now, by all
right. If mother wants you never to enter the house again, then it
is yours.”

“I can’t take this, Belle! You know it’s
hers, and it’s the best shawl we have.”

But Belle made a small stifled sound, and
simply deposited the shawl in her sister’s arms, then turned around
and quickly ran back, wading through a tall snowdrift at some
point, and returned inside the house, having done her single act of
rebellion.

Percy held the shawl awkwardly and watched
her turn the corner, heard her parents’ voices on the front porch,
and Belle’s single exclamation of protest. Then, the front door
banged.

Percy Ayren felt the resounding slam of that
door echo in her gut. She then turned back to the denizens of the
cart. “The barn is somewhat drafty but warmer than the outside. We
can bed down in the hay, next to all the horses—if there’s any room
left after the knight and his soldiers take over. I’m sure we’ll
have plenty of hot water for tea, though there’s never anything
cold-brewed, and not much hope for foodstuff from my Ma and Pa.
Supplies are low this time of year. Oh, and of course we can always
sleep here in the cart. Indeed, we may very well have to.”

And then she added, “Welcome to my
home.”

I
t had turned out
as Percy predicted. After the Chidair men-at-arms made themselves
at home in their backyard and barn, stabling the great war charger
belonging to the knight and the rest of their horses close
together, next to the solitary Ayren family mare in its stall,
there wasn’t much room left for any people in the barn, except for
one small corner. The black knight, Lord Beltain Chidair had no
intention of taking the spot for himself, but Riquar, his bearded
second-in-command, insisted, seeing how his Lord was still somewhat
weak from the prolonged military ordeal of the past week and a
half, and needed a warm place to continue his healing.

And thus, after they had the backyard
campfire going, and after they had all eaten the good bread and
cheese, drunk the tea from the large water kettle that Belle and
Patty carried outside from the house, a few blankets were laid out
on the rushes and hay in the deepest corner of the barn. Percy
moved some old pails out of the way to make room.

The knight was assisted by Riquar out of his
heaviest plate armor, leaving on his hauberk and woolens
underneath, and lay down without much protest. In the moments that
she could glimpse his lean handsome face framed by the soft wisps
of dark brown hair, Percy observed his excessive pallor, the light
sheen of sweat on his brow, and knew that the day had taken its
toll on him, despite his showing of strength all through the
ride.

“Is there anything you require, maybe from
within my father’s house, such as additional blankets, My Lord?”
she asked, standing above the knight while Riquar pulled at some
loose ties of his woolens, adjusting them for his lord’s
comfort.

Beltain, leaning back against a
blanket-covered pile of hay, barely looked up at her, and his gaze
was unfocused at first, because for some reason it now required
effort to keep his eyes open. But his words, however soft and
weary, were precise. “What did you say? ‘My Lord,’ you
said. . . . This is the first time I hear you
address me properly. No more ‘Sir Knight’ or ‘you.’ What happened?
Have you come to your senses?”

Percy felt a rush of fire in her cheeks,
followed by a wash of cold. Good thing it was so dark, with only
the campfire outside casting a warm glow through the opened door of
the barn. Just enough to show his pallor and glittering eyes, while
her own face was backlit in silhouette.

“I don’t know,” she replied plainly. “I
suppose, it being my father’s house, and you being here and not—out
there in the strange forest—”