The Barrow (31 page)

At the mention of those two words,
black
and
heart
, Annwyn's mind woke up. She took a deep breath of air, a long gasping intake as though she had been underwater. She struggled for a moment, trying to focus, pulling herself from the supporting grips of her handmaidens and trying to stand on her own.

“My Lady, are you sure you are all right?” whispered Malia at her side.

Annwyn didn't respond. She swayed slightly, like a reed in the wind, and tried to take a step forward. Her body felt awkward, alien, as though it had not been used for months and the muscles had atrophied. Thirst and hunger struck her to her core.
When did I last eat?
she wondered, then shook her head.
That doesn't matter. That name. I know that name. Why do I know that name?

That name is why I am here.

“Right, I've heard of him,” said Sir Helgi, frowning. “He's the one that supposedly killed six men during all that fighting up at the University a few years ago, yes, but was never charged? Doesn't look too dangerous to me.”

Stjepan's gaze scanned the mourning crowd, took in the high hill of the city with its halls and towers, swept out to sea and eyed ships tacking in the bay or resting at anchorage. Gulls, terns, pelicans and cormorants floated and circled in the air above, keeping a respectful distance from a single vulture high above them. He listened to the wind, heard the distant rattle of the city rising up behind them, the call of sea birds, the crash of wave and surf. He sniffed the air, smelt perfume and incense and the salty brine of the bay, and somewhere near the hint of something dead and rotting. He felt inconsolably sad.

“. . . Rumors are flying everywhere about how he died,” Gilgwyr was saying. “It's probably why there are so many people here; their curiosity has overcome their fear.”

Coogan and Cynyr glanced at each other. “So,” said Coogan after a moment. “How
did
he die?”

“Map had a curse on it, apparently,” said Stjepan with a shrug, and then he grimaced. “Harvald wound up burning a copy of
De Malifir Magicis
of Ymaire. Presumably he was trying to use it to remove the curse. Fucking book was priceless. He was supposedly trying to use a Middle Tongue translation of it as well, perhaps without realizing that the translation was flawed.”

“Did the map survive?” asked Cynyr, his mad-dog eyes glinting.

“Nope,” said Stjepan, shaking his head. “Burned to ash, along with whatever notes or copies he was trying to make.” They all stared at the ground for a moment.

“Shame, that,” said Coogan with a sigh. He frowned. “
De Malifir Magicis
? Isn't that book forbidden? How'd he get a copy of it?”

“Somehow he broke into the Forbidden Rooms of the Library,” Jonas said quietly.

Coogan's frown grew deeper and Cynyr whistled. “How many times did we try that when we were students?” Cynyr asked. “And he managed it by himself? How the fuck did he do that?”

“They're not sure,” replied Jonas. “He had a particularly strong talisman upon his person, an unusual source of great occult power; it was undamaged, and the Magisters have locked it away for safekeeping, but the thought is that it might have aided him in overcoming the wards.”

“What the fuck? Where'd he get it from?” asked Coogan.

“No one knows. Official word is going to be that he died in a . . . research accident, attempting to decipher a particularly venomous curse,” Jonas said quietly. “But there's all sorts of questions that have drawn unwanted attention. Where he got the talisman, how he got into the Forbidden Rooms and found the book he was looking for; what the curse was on, since the map was destroyed; what spell he was casting when the curse killed him. And why he was trying to do it at all, since it clearly wasn't Court business and he lied his way into the Rare Books hall, claiming to be on a mission from Lord Rohan.”

“That takes some balls,” laughed Coogan. “Well, unless it was true.” He seemed to think that possibility even more amusing.

“Do you suppose anyone knows what we were up to?” Erim asked Stjepan furtively. “They asked so many questions . . .”

“I'm not sure. I don't think all of the Magisters were entirely convinced of our ignorance of Harvald's actions and intentions, some of them know our lot too well,” said Stjepan. He shrugged. “But it doesn't matter anymore. There's nothing left of the map, and we don't even know if it was real to begin with . . .” he trailed off slowly, and frowned, as he saw that Harvald's sister had turned toward him and seemed to be looking in his direction.

“Islik's balls, it'll haunt my dreams the rest of my life,” groaned Gilgwyr. “That we might've had in our grasp a map to the Barrow of Azharad, a map to
Gladringer.
And instead . . . our hands close on empty air. I can't believe that bastard burned the fucking map.”

“And by doing so likely saved us from the curse that claimed him. Are you so ungrateful?” Erim asked, glancing at him with narrowed eyes.

Alas, poor Erim, you have no idea the depth of my ingratitude
, thought Gilgwyr sourly.

Annwyn's gaze fell upon a man on the other side of the plaza. Athairi, tall, lean, weathered, dark-haired, dark-eyed. A dark humor seemed to be upon him, as though his core was filled with sadness and hate.
That's him
, she said to herself.
Who else could it be? Black-Heart.

Her head swam, and her eyes fluttered, and she teetered for a moment as she tried hard to focus. She blinked her eyes open, and just like that he was looking at her from across the plaza. Their eyes locked, and suddenly she felt clear-headed for a moment, as a spark of fear leapt like lightning up her spine. There was an intense sternness in his expression, a sharpness to his gaze, that filled her with trepidation. But at the same time she thought she saw something else there. Curiosity? Compassion? Did she imagine it?

She stepped forward with difficulty, her body unresponsive to her commands. She took one hesitating step, then another, and slowly started to make her way across the plaza, her eyes still locked with his.

“My Lady?” asked Malia, as she started to follow the mistress of her house across the plaza. “What are you doing?” Ilona and Henriette quickly joined her in flanking Annwyn, fluttering about her, but she ignored them and kept her stumbling steps forward. Her other handmaidens trailed behind them, confused. Malia looked over her shoulder for the lord of the house, but three elderly women were besieging Arduin and his two closest knights, busily and loudly explaining that they had been the midwives at Harvald's birth. She tried to signal Arduin with short waves of her hand, but he didn't see her.

“Frallas!” she hissed at a matronly blonde handmaiden. “Get the Lord. Quickly!”

Stjepan frowned as Harvald's sister started walking toward him, trailed by her worried entourage. There was something wrong with her; she almost looked like she was ill, or drunk, she was moving slowly and carefully, almost as if every step took a conscious effort and placed her in danger of toppling over. There was no question now that she was looking straight at him through her veil, her clear blue eyes locked to his. He stepped forward almost involuntarily, wondering what she was doing.

Erim noticed Stjepan move forward and followed his gaze. She blinked when she saw the woman moving toward them. Even with her features partly obscured under a lace mourning veil, it was obvious that she was one of the most beautiful women that Erim had ever seen. “Who is
that
?” she asked Stjepan. She had seen the woman with the tall, protective Aurian lord by the bier. “Is that Harvald's sister and her husband?”

“The man's their older brother Arduin. The Lady Annwyn is unmarried . . .” Stjepan trailed off. He took another step forward as she continued her odd approach.

“A beauty like that, daughter to a landed Baron, unmarried?” Erim asked, but Stjepan ignored her.

Gilgwyr, hearing her question, chimed in. “Ah. The Lady Annwyn was once a fixture of the Court, a beauty of great renown . . . But a scandal has all but guaranteed she will die a spinster. She fell in love with a gallant young knight of Tilfort . . .” He trailed off, joining Stjepan and Erim in staring at Annwyn; everyone in their immediate circle had their eyes on her now. There was no question she was intent on approaching them, approaching Stjepan in particular, in her peculiar stumbling gait.

She was mumbling and moaning to herself as she moved toward them. Her handmaidens moved up around and behind her, uncertainty and distress in their expressions as they tried alternately to help her and stop her, but she ignored them utterly, pushing through their offered arms, intent upon reaching Stjepan. Quiet spread through the nearby crowd of mourners as more and more turned to watch the strange proceeding. Closer, closer, step by excruciating step she struggled, until she was standing before him.

They stood for a moment, looking into each other's eyes.

“My Lady?” he asked in a low voice, standing very still as though afraid to move and hence startle her to flight.