Hell, the dead man said. Ive got hell.
And he flowed into me, cold as dying, edged like a razor.
I felt my mouth curl in a smile. I heard my laughing over the rain.
A knife is a scary thing right enough, held to your throat, sharp and cool. The fire too, and the rack. And an old ghost on the Lichway. All of them might give you pause. Until you realize what they are. Theyre just ways to lose the game. You lose the game, and what have you lost? Youve lost the game.
Thats the secret, and it amazes me that its mine and mine alone. I saw the game for what it was the night when Count Renars men caught our carriage. There was a storm that night too, I remember the din of rain on the carriage roof and the thunder beneath it.
Big Jan had fair hauled the door off its hinges to get us out. He only had time for me though. He threw me clear; into a briar patch so thick that the Counts men persuaded themselves Id run into the night. They didnt want to search it. But I hadnt run. Id hung there in the thorns, and I saw them kill Big Jan. I saw it in the frozen moments the lightning gave me.
I saw what they did to Mother, and how long it took. They broke little Williams head against a milestone. Golden curls and blood. And Ill admit that William was the first of my brothers, and he did have his hooks in me, with his chubby hands and laughing. Since then Ive taken on many a brother, and evil ones at that, so Id not miss one or three. But at the time, it did hurt to see little William broken like that, like a toy. Like something worthless.
When they killed him, Mother wouldnt hold her peace, so they slit her throat. I was stupid then, being only nine, and I fought to save them both. But the thorns held me tight. Ive learned to appreciate thorns since.
The thorns taught me the game. They let me understand what all those grim and serious men whove fought the Hundred War, have yet to learn. You can only win the game when you understand that it is a game. Let a man play chess, and tell him that every pawn is his friend. Let him think both bishops holy. Let him remember happy days in the shadows of his castles. Let him love his queen. Watch him lose them all.
What have you got for me, dead thing? I asked.
Its a game. I will play my pieces.
I felt him cold inside me. I saw his death. I saw his despair. And his hunger. And I gave it back. Id expected more, but he was only dead.
I showed him the empty time where my memory wont go. I let him look there.
He ran from me then. He ran, and I chased him. But only to the edge of the marsh. Because its a game. And Im going to win.
5
Four years earlier
For the longest time I studied revenge to the exclusion of all else. I built my first torture chamber in the dark vaults of imagination. Lying on bloody sheets in the Healing Hall I discovered doors within my mind that Id not found before, doors that even a child of nine knows should not be opened. Doors that never close again.
I threw them wide.
Sir Reilly found me, hanging within the hook-briar, not ten yards from the smoking ruin of the carriage. They almost missed me. I saw them reach the bodies on the road. I watched them through the briar, silver glimpses of Sir Reillys armour, and flashes of red from the tabards of Ancrath foot-soldiers.
Mother was easy to find, in her silks.
Sweet Jesu! Its the Queen! Sir Reilly had them turn her over. Gently! Show some respect He broke off with a gasp. The Counts men hadnt left her pretty.
Sir! Big Jans over here, Grem and Jassar too. I saw them heave Jan over, then turn to the other guardsmen.
Theyd better be dead! Sir Reilly spat. Look for the princes!
I didnt see them find Will, but I knew they had by the silence that spread across the men. I let my chin fall back to my chest and watched the dark patterning of blood on the dry leaves around my feet.
Ah, hell One of the men spoke at last.
Get him on a horse. Easy with him, Sir Reilly said. A crack ran through his voice. And find the heir! With more vigour, but no hope.
I tried to call to them, but the strength had run from me, I couldnt even lift my head.
Hes not here, Sir Reilly.
Theyve taken him as a hostage, Sir Reilly said.
He had part of it right, something held me against my will.
Set him by the Queen.
Gentle! Gentle with him
Secure them, Sir Reilly said. We ride hard for the Tall Castle.
Part of me wanted to let them go. I felt no pain any more, just a dull ache, and even that was fading. A peace folded me with the promise of forgetting.
Sir! A shout went up from one of the men.
I heard the clank of armour as Sir Reilly strode across to see.
Piece of a shield? he asked.
Found it in the mud, the carriage wheel must have pushed it under. The soldier paused. I heard scraping. Looks like a black wing to me
A crow. A crow on a red field. Its Count Renars colours, Reilly said.
Count Renar? I had a name. A black crow on a red field. The insignia flashed across my eyes, seared deep by the lightning of last nights storm. A fire lit within me, and the pain from a hundred hooks burned in every limb. A groan escaped me. My lips parted, dry skin tearing.
And Reilly found me.
Theres something here! I heard him curse as the hook-briar found every chink in his armour. Quickly now! Pull this stuff apart.
Dead. I heard the whisper from behind Sir Reilly as he cut me free.
Hes so white.
I guess the briar near bled me dry.
So they fetched a cart and took me back. I didnt sleep. I watched the sky turn black, and I thought.
In the Healing Hall Friar Glen and his helper, Inch, dug the hooks from my flesh. My tutor, Lundist, arrived while they had me on the table with their knives out. He had a book with him, the size of a Teuton shield, and three times as heavy by the look of it. Lundist had more strength in that wizened old stick of a body than anyone guessed.
Those are fire-cleaned knives I hope, Friar? Lundist carried the accent of his homelands in the Utter East, and a tendency to leave half of a word unspoken, as if an intelligent listener should be able to fill in the blanks.
It is purity of spirit that will keep corruption from the flesh, Tutor, Friar Glen said. He spared Lundist a disapproving glance, and returned to his digging.
Even so, clean the knives, Friar. Holy office will prove scant protection from the Kings ire if the Prince dies in your halls. Lundist set his book down on the table beside me, rattling a tray of vials at the far end. He lifted the cover and turned to a marked page.
The thorns of the hook-briar are like to find the bone. He traced a wrinkled yellow finger down the lines. The points can break off and sour the wound.
Friar Glen gave a sharp jab at that, which made me cry out. He set his knife down and turned to face Lundist. I could see only the friars back, the brown cloth straining over his shoulders, dark with sweat over his spine.
Tutor Lundist, he said. A man in your profession is wont to think all things may be learned from the pages of a book, or the right scroll. Learning has its place, sirrah, but do not think to lecture me on healing on the basis of an evening spent with an old tome!
Tutor Lundist, he said. A man in your profession is wont to think all things may be learned from the pages of a book, or the right scroll. Learning has its place, sirrah, but do not think to lecture me on healing on the basis of an evening spent with an old tome!
Well, Friar Glen won that argument. The sergeant-at-arms had to help Tutor Lundist from the hall.
I guess even at nine I had a serious lack of spiritual purity, for my wounds soured within two days, and for nine weeks I lay in fever, chasing dark dreams along deaths borderlands.
They tell me I raged and howled. That I raved as the pus oozed from slices where the briar had held me. I remember the stink of corruption. It had a kind of sweetness to it, a sweetness thatd make you want to hurl.
Inch, the friars aide, grew tired of holding me down, though he had the arms of a lumberjack. In the end they tied me to my bed.
I learned from Tutor Lundist that the friar would not attend me after the first week. Friar Glen said a devil was in me. How else could a child speak such horror?
In the fourth week I slipped the bonds that held me to my pallet, and set a fire in the hall. I have no memory of the escape, or my capture in the woods. When they cleared the ruin, they found the remains of Inch, with the poker from the hearth lodged in his chest.
Many times I stood at the Door. I had seen my mother and brother thrown through that doorway, torn and broken, and in dreams my feet would take me to stand there, time and again. I lacked the courage to follow them, held on the barbs and hooks of cowardice.
Sometimes I saw the dead-lands across a black river, sometimes across a chasm spanned by a narrow bridge of stone. Once I saw the Door in the guise of the portals to my fathers throne room, but edged with frost and weeping pus from every join. I had but to set my hand upon the handle
The Count of Renar kept me alive. The promise of his pain crushed my own under its heel. Hate will keep you alive where love fails.
And then one day my fever left me. My wounds remained angry and red, but they closed. They fed me chicken in soup, and my strength crept back, a stranger to me.
The spring came to paint the leaves back upon the trees. I had my strength, but I felt something else had been taken. Taken so completely I could no longer name it.
The sun returned, and, much to Friar Glens distaste, Lundist returned to instruct me once more.
The first time he came, I sat abed. I watched him set out his books upon the table.
Your father will see you on his return from Gelleth, Lundist said. His voice held a note of reproach, but not for me. The death of the Queen and Prince William weigh heavy on him. When the pain eases he will surely come to speak with you.
I didnt understand why Lundist should feel the need to lie. I knew my father would not waste time on me whilst it seemed I would die. I knew he would see me when seeing me served some end.
Tell me, tutor, I said. Is revenge a science, or an art?
6
The rain faltered when the spirits fled. Id only broken the one, but the others ran too, back to whatever pools they haunted. Maybe my one had been their leader; maybe men become cowards in death. I dont know.
As to my own cowards, they had nowhere to flee, and I found them easily enough. I found Makin first. He, at least, was headed back toward me.
So you found a pair then? I called to him.
He paused a moment and looked at me. The rain didnt fall so heavy now, but he still looked like a drowned rat. The water ran in rivulets over his breastplate, in and out of the dents. He checked the marsh to either side, still nervy, and lowered his sword.
A man whos got no fear is missing a friend, Jorg, he said, and a smile found its way onto those thick lips of his. Running aint no bad thing. Leastways if you run in the right direction. He waved a hand toward where Rike wrestled with a clump of bulrushes, the mud up to his chest already. Fear helps a man pick his fights. Youre fighting them all, my prince. And he bowed, there on the Lichway with the rain dripping off him.
I spared a glance for Rike. Maical had similar problems in a pool to the other side of the road. Only hed got his problems up to the neck.
Im going to fight them all in the end, I said to him.
Pick your fights, Makin said.
Ill pick my ground, I said. Ill pick my ground, but Im not running. Not ever. Thats been done, and we still have the war. Im going to win it, Brother Makin, its going to end with me.
He bowed again. Not so deep, but this time I felt he meant it. Thats why Ill follow you, Prince. Wherever it takes us.
For the moment it took us to fishing brothers out of the mud. We got Maical first, even though Rike howled and cursed us. As the rain thinned, I could see the grey and the head-cart off in the distance. The grey had the sense to keep to the road, even when Maical didnt. If Maical had led the grey into the mire Id have left him to sink.
We pulled Rike out next. When we reached him the mud had almost found his mouth. Nothing but his white face showed above the pool, but that didnt stop him shouting his foulnesses all the way. We found most of them on the road, but six got sucked down too quick, lost forever; probably getting ready to haunt the next band of travellers.
Im going back for old Gomsty, I said.
Wed come a way down the road and the light had pretty much gone. Looking back you couldnt see the gibbets, just grey veils of rain. Out in the marsh the dead waited. I felt their cold thoughts crawling on my skin.
I didnt ask any of them to go with me. I knew none of them would, and it dont do for a leader to ask and be told no.
What do you want with that old priest, Brother Jorg? Makin said. He was asking me not to go; only he couldnt come out and say it.
You still want to burn him up? Even the mud couldnt hide Rikes sudden cheer.
I do, I said. But thats not why Im getting him. And I set off back along the Lichway.
The rain and the darkness wrapped me. I lost the brothers, waiting on the road behind. Gomst and the gibbets lay ahead. I walked in a cocoon of silence, with nothing but the soft words of the rain, and the sound of my boots on the Lichway.
Ill tell you now. That silence almost beat me. Its the silence that scares me. Its the blank page on which I can write my own fears. The spirits of the dead have nothing on it. The dead one tried to show me hell, but it was a pale imitation of the horror I can paint on the darkness in a quiet moment.
And there he hung, Father Gomst, priest to the House of Ancrath.
Father, I said, and I sketched him a bow. In truth though, I was in no mood for play. I had me a hollow ache behind my eyes. The kind that gets people killed.
He looked at me wide-eyed, as if I was a bog-spirit crawled out of the mire.
I went to the chain that held his cage up. Brace yourself, Father.
The sword I drew had slit old Bovid Tor not twenty-four hours before. Now I swung it to free a priest. The chain gave beneath its edge. Theyd put some magic, or some devilry, in that blade. Father told me the Ancraths wielded it for four generations, and took it from the House of Or. So the steel was old before we Ancraths first lay hands upon it. Old before I stole it.