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CHAPTER ONE

A Joust

I think this man wants to kill us, Hurricane,' Neil told his mount, patting the stallion's neck. Then he shrugged, took a deep breath, and studied the sky.

He'd always reckoned the sky was the sky'changeable with weather, yes, but essentially the same wherever you went. But here in the south, the blue of it was somehow different, bolder. It went with the rest of the strangeness'the rambling sun-drenched fields and vineyards, the white-stuccoed houses with their red tiled roofs, the low, gnarly oaks and slender cedars that spotted the landscape. It was hard to believe that such a region existed in the same world as his cold, misty homeland'especially now, with the month of Novmen half-done.

Skern was probably under a kingsyard of snow right now. Here, he was sweating lightly beneath his gambeson and armor.

The wonder of it did not escape Neil. He remembered his awe at first seeing Eslen, how big the world had seemed to a boy from a small island in the Lier Sea. And yet these last months the world had seemed to shrink around him, and Eslen Castle had become little more than a box.

Now the world seemed larger than ever, and that brought for him a sort of melancholy happiness. In a world this spacious, the sadness and fears of Neil MeqVren were not so large a thing.

Even that mixed pleasure brought with it a certain amount of guilt, however. The queen lived in constant danger, and leaving her for any reason felt wrong. But she had chosen this road for him, she and the shades of Erren and Fastia. Surely they knew better than he what was the right thing to do.

Still, he ought not to enjoy himself.

He heard shouting, and realized that the man in the road didn't care to be ignored in favor of the sky.

'I'm sorry,' Neil called back, in the king's tongue, 'but I can't understand you. I am not educated in the speech of Vitellio.'

The man replied with something equally unintelligible, this time addressing one of his squires. At least Neil guessed they were squires, because he reckoned the shouting man to be a knight. He sat upon a powerful-looking horse, black with a white blaze on the forehead, and it was caparisoned in light barding.

The man also wore armor'of odd design, and awfully pretty, with oak leaves worked at the joints, but lord's plate nevertheless. He carried the helmet under his arm, but Neil could see that it was conical in shape, with a plume of bright feathers arranged almost like a rooster's tail. He wore a red-and-yellow robe instead of a tabard or surcoat, and that and his shield bore what might be a standard' a closed fist, a sunspray, a bag of some sort'the symbols meant nothing in the heraldry familiar to Neil, but he was, as he had been reflecting, very far from home.

The knight had four men with him, none in armor, but all wearing red tabards with the same design sewn on them as the shield. A large tent had been erected by the side of the road, flying a pennant with the sunspray alone. Three horses and two mules grazed in the pastures along the side of the rutted red road.

One of the men shouted, 'My master asks you to declare yourself!' He had a long, bony face and a tuft of hair on his chin trying to pass for a beard. 'If you can do so in no civilized language, then speak what babble you will, and I shall translate.'

'I'm a wanderer,' Neil replied. 'I may tell you no more than that, I fear.'

A Joust

A brief conversation followed between the knight and his man; then the servant turned back to Neil.

'You wear the armor and bear the weapons of a knight. In whose service do you ride?'

'I cannot answer that question,' Neil said.

'Think carefully, sir,' the man said. 'It is unlawful to wear the armor of a knight in this country if you do not have the credentials to do so.'

'I see,' Neil answered. 'And if I am a knight, and can prove it, then what will your master say to that?'

'He will challenge you to honorable combat. After he kills you, he will take possession of your armor and horse.'

'Ah. And if I am merely masquerading as a knight?'

'Then my lord will be forced to fine you and confiscate your property.'

'Well,' Neil said, 'there is not a large difference in what I call myself then, is there? Fortunately I have a spear.'

The man's eyes went round. 'Do you not know whom you face?'

'I would ask, but since I cannot give my name, it would be impolite to require his.'

'Don't you know his emblem?'

'I'm afraid I do not. Can we get this over with?'

The man spoke to his master again. For answer, the knight lifted his helmet onto his head, couched his lance beneath his arm and lifted his shield into position.

Neil did the same, noticing that his own weapon was nearly a king's yard shorter than his foe's.

The Vitellian knight started first, his charger kicking up a cloud of red dust in the evening sun. Neil spurred Hurricane into motion and dropped the point of his spear into position. Beyond the rolling fields, a cloud of blackbirds fumed up from a distant tree line. For a moment, all seemed very quiet.

At the last moment Neil shifted in the saddle and moved his shield suddenly, so the enemy iron hit it slantwise rather than straight on. The blow rattled his teeth and scored his shield, but he swung his own point to the right, for his enemy was turning in a similar maneuver. He hit the Vitellian shield just at the edge, and the whole force of his blow shocked into the knight. Neil's spear snapped, its head buried in the shield. As he went by, he saw the Vitellian knight reel back in the saddle, but as he turned, he discovered that the fellow had somehow managed not to fall.

Neil grinned fiercely and drew Crow. The other knight regarded him for a moment, then handed his lance to one of his men and drew his blade, as well.

They came together like thunder, shield against shield. Crow beat over and rang against the ViteUian's helm, and the strange knight landed a blow on Neil's shoulder that would certainly have taken the arm off if not for the steel it was sheathed in. They tangled like that for a moment, horses crushing their legs between heaving flanks, but they were too close for hard blows.

Hurricane broke free, and Neil wheeled him around, cutting almost instinctively.

He caught his foe right at the neck and sent him crashing to earth. The black horse stamped fiercely and stood to protect his master.

Amazingly, the knight came shakily to his feet. His gorget and the thick cloth wrapped beneath it had stopped the edge, but it was a miracle that his neck wasn't broken.

Neil dismounted and strode toward his opponent. The Vitellian cocked his sword back for a swing, but Neil shield-rushed him, sending him staggering back a step. Neil used the opening in distance to make a cut of his own, hitting the shoulder of the man's weapon arm. The armor rang like a bell, and the foe's blade clattered to the ground. Neil waited for him to pick it up. Instead, the knight dropped his shield and pulled off his helmet, revealing a face rounded by middle age, tousled black hair streaked silver, a well-tended mustache and goatee. His nose was a bit shapeless, as if it had been broken too many times.

'You are a knight,' the man admitted, in accented but comprehensible king's tongue. 'Even though you will not name yourself, I must yield to you, for I believe you have broken my arm. I am Sir Quinte dac'Ucara, and I am honored to have faced you in combat. Will you guest with me?'

A Joust

But before Neil could answer, Sir Quinte fainted, and his men rushed to his side.

Neil waited as Sir Quinte's men peeled him out of his armor and washed him with a perfumed rag. The shoulder bone was indeed broken, so they made a sling for the arm. Sir Quinte revived during the process, but if the shattered bone caused him pain, he showed it only a little, and only in his eyes.

'I did not speak your tongue before,' he said, 'because I did not know you, and it would not be meet to speak a strange language in my native land. But you have bested me, so Virgenyan shall be the language of this camp.' He nodded at his dented armor. 'That belongs to you,' he managed. 'As does zo Cabadro, my mount.

Treat him well, I beg you'he is a fine horse.'

Neil shook his head. 'You are generous, Sir Quinte, but I have no need for either. I must travel light, and both would slow me.'

Quinte smiled. 'You are the generous one, sir. Will you not extend that generosity to telling me your name?'

'I may not, sir.'

Sir Quinte nodded sagely. 'You have taken a vow. You are on secret business.'

'You may guess as you like.'

'I respect your wishes,' Sir Quinte said, 'but I must call you something. Sir zo Viotor you shall be.'

'I don't understand the name.'

'It is no more than you named yourself, 'the wanderer.' I put it in Vitellian so you can explain who you are to less educated folk.'

'Thank you then,' Neil said sincerely.

Sir Quinte turned to one of his men. 'Arvo, bring us food and wine.'

'Please, I must be going,' Neil told him. 'Though I thank you for the offer.'

'The hour is late. Lord Abullo dips his chariot to the world's end, and even you'great warrior though you may be'must sleep. Honoring my hospitality could not hinder your quest by much, and it would give me great pleasure.'

Despite Neils protests, Arvo was already spreading a cloth on the ground.

'Very well,' Neil relented. 'I accept your kindness.' Soon the cloth was covered in viands, most of which Neil did not recognize. There was bread, of course, and a hard sort of cheese, and pears. A red fruit revealed countless tiny pearl-like seeds when husked. They were good, if a bit of a bother to eat. A yellowish oil turned out to be something like butter, to be eaten with the bread. Small black fruits were salty rather than sweet. The wine was red and tasted strongly of cherry.

It occurred to Neil only after they began eating that the food might be drugged or poisoned. A year earlier, he would never have even imagined such a dishonorable thing. But at court, honor and the assumptions it carried were more a liability than anything else.

But Sir Quinte and his squires ate and drank everything Neil did, and the thought left him. However strange his appearance and standard, Sir Quinte was a knight, and he behaved like one'he would no more poison Neil than would Sir Fail de Liery, the old chever who had raised him after his father had died.

Vitellio suddenly did not seem so strange, after all.

The Vitellians ate slowly, often pausing to comment or argue in their own language, which to Neils ears sounded more like singing than speaking. Dusk gave way to a pleasant, cool night. Stars made the heavens precious, and they, at least, were the same stars Neil remembered from home.

Except that in Eslen one rarely saw them. Here, they dazzled.

Sir Quinte switched back to the king's tongue somewhat apologetically. 'I am sorry, Sir Viotor,' he said, 'to leave you outside of the conversation. Not all of my squires speak the Virgenyan tongue, nor does my historian, Volio.' He gestured at the oldest of his men, a square-headed fellow with only a fringe of gray hair on his scalp.

'Historian?'

'Yes, of course. He records my deeds'my victories and losses. We were arguing, you see, about how my defeat today shall be written' and what it portends.'

'Is it so important that it be written at all?' Neil asked.

A Joust

'Honor demands it,' Quinte said, sounding surprised. 'Perhaps you have never lost a duel, Sir Viotor, but if you did, could you pretend that it never happened?'

'No, but that is not the same as writing it down.'

The knight shrugged. 'The ways of the north are different' there is no arguing that. Not every knight in Vitellio is answerable to history, either, but I am a Knight of the Mount, and my order demands records be kept.'

'You serve a mountain?'

The knight smiled. 'The mount is a holy place, touched by the lords'what you call the saints, I believe.'

'Then you serve the saints? You have no human lord?'

'I serve the merchant guilds,' Sir Quinte replied. 'They are pledged to the mount.'

'You serve merchants?'

The knight nodded. 'You are a stranger, aren't you? There are four sorts of knight in Vitellio, all in all. Each overguild has its knights' the merchants, the artisans, the seafarers, and so on. Each prince' we would say meddissio'each meddissio also commands knights. There are the knights of the Church, of course.

Finally, the judges are served by their own knights, so they cannot be intimidated by any of the others to render corrupt decisions.'

'What about the king?' Neil asked. 'Has he no knights?'

Sir Quinte chuckled and turned to his squires. 'Fatit, pispe dazo rediatur,' he said. They took up his laughter.

Neil held his puzzlement.

'Vitellio has no king,' Quinte explained. 'The cities are ruled by meddissios.

Some meddissios rule more than one city, but no one rules them all. No one has ruled them all since the collapse of the Hegemony, a thousand years ago.'

'Oh.' Neil could imagine a country with a regent, but he had never heard of a country without a king.

'And,' Sir Quinte went on, 'since I serve the merchant overguild, they want records to be kept. Thus I have my historian.'

'But you also said something about portents?'

'Ah, indeed,' Sire Quinte said, raising a finger. 'A battle is like the casting of bones or the reading of cards. There is meaning in it. After all, it is the saints who choose which of us defeats the other, yes? And if you have defeated me, there is meaning in it.'

'And what does your historian see in this?'

'A quest. You are on a most important quest, and much hangs upon it. The fate of nations.'

'Interesting,' Neil said, trying to keep his face neutral, though inwardly, his curiosity was aroused.

'Therefore, of course, I must join you. The saints have declared it.'

'Sir Quinte, there is no need to''

'Come,' the knight said. 'We have banqueted. I am injured and weary. You must at least be tired. I beg you, share the hospitality of my camp for the night.

Tomorrow we shall make an early start.'

'I must travel alone,' Neil said, though more reluctantly than he might have expected.

Sir Quinte's face flattened. 'Do you mistrust me? You have defeated me, sir. I could never betray you.'

'Sir Quinte, I have learned to my great chagrin that not all men'and I mean no disrespect'but not all men who lay claim to honorable behavior do follow it. My destination is secret, and must remain so.'

'Unless your destination is the hamlet of Buscaro, I cannot imagine what it might be, whether secret or no.'

'Buscaro?' Neil had a map, but he wasn't very good at reading it. He had been a little uncertain of his route since leaving the Great Vitellian Way.

'That's the only place this road goes. Are you certain you don't need a native guide?'

Neil considered that a moment. If he was lost, he'd lost more than just his way'he'd also lost time. If he had gone astray, he would eventually have to ask directions of someone.

But not necessarily a group of armed men.

Still'

He returned his gaze to Sir Quinte's earnest-looking face and sighed. 'You do not deceive me, sir?'

A Joust

'Echi'dacrumi da ma matir. By my mother's tears.'

Neil nodded. 'I'm searching for the coven Saint Cer,' he said reluctantly, 'also known as the Abode of Graces.'

Sir Quinte whistled. 'Then you see, it is the will of the saints that you should meet me. You chose the wrong path several leagues ago.' He waggled his finger at Neil. 'It is no shame to admit you need a guide.'

Neil considered that. If Sir Quinte was an enemy, he could easily follow him, and with his men take Neil whenever it was his pleasure' at night, with no warning. At least if he was among them, he knew where they were. And he would know if they sent a messenger with the news.

'I accept your offer, sir,' Neil replied. 'I would be happy of your help.'

Still, he slept very lightly that night, with his hand on the pommel of Crow.

The next morning dawned cool and clear, with a slight frost on the grass. Sir Quinte's squires had his camp broken down and packed before the sun even cleared the horizon. They followed back down the road Neil had come up, and within two bells had turned onto a track that might have been left by a few goats.

'This is the road to the coven Saint Cer?' Neil asked, trying to hide his skepticism. He was still more than uneasy with his decision to confide in the Vitellian, and was careful not to let any of the knight's men entirely out of his sight.

'A shortcut,' the knight explained. 'You went wrong back at the crossroads after Turoci, on the river. This will take us to the proper road in half the time. And my guess is that time is not your ally.'

'You are right there,' Neil replied earnestly. The sooner he found Anne and returned to Eslen, the sooner he could resume his protection of the queen.

'Never fear, then. I'll have you at the coven before the stars come out tonight.'

The cultivated landscape grew wilder as they went on. One of Sir Quinte's squires produced a stringed instrument that resembled a small lute with too few strings and began to sing a jaunty melody Neil understood not a word of. Still, the tune was pleasing, and when the lutist finished, he struck up another.

'Its a tragedy, this song,' Sir Quinte explained, 'about the doomed affair between a knight and a lady in a coven. Very sad.'

Neil felt a melancholy smile flit across his face.

'Ah!' Sir Quinte exclaimed. 'There is a lady involved then! In the coven?'

'No,' Neil said. 'A lady, yes, but she is very far from the coven.'

'Ah.' Sir Quinte chewed on that a bit. 'I am sorry, Sir Viotor, for my questions. I did not see the pain in you before. Now it marks you like a coat-of-arms.'

'It's nothing,' Neil replied.

'It is far from nothing. I fear no sword or lance, Sir Viotor, not even yours.

But love'that can lay the tallest giant low.' He frowned and started to say something, then began again, much more softly. 'Take care, Sir Viotor. I know nothing of your love, and would ask no further questions, but it seems to me that your lady must be forever lost, perhaps passed beyond these fields we know.

If that is the case, you must be certain you know your heart, for your heart will hear her voice and try to answer. It may betray you to Lord Ontro and Lady Mefita and their dreary kingdom when you still have many deeds to accomplish here among us.'

Neil felt a sudden catch in his throat, and for a terrible moment thought he might weep. He swallowed it down. 'You seem to think you know a lot about me, Sir Quinte.'

'I know that I presume. Let me presume one thing more, and then I shall remain silent. If you seek audience with the departed through the sisters of the coven, I would advise against it. The price is terrible.'

'You've lost me entirely now,' Neil admitted.

'Do you know nothing of where you go? Lady Cer and Lady Mefita are aspects of the same sahto, what you call a 'saint' in the kings tongue. The ladies who dedicate to her'while holy, and of the Church'learn the arts of murder and the language of the dead. You

A Joust

will never in your life want to cross even an initiate of that order, Sir Viotor.'

Neil had a sudden vision of the lady Erren, in the fortress of Cal Azroth, surrounded by the slain bodies of her enemies, most with no visible mark upon them. He remembered that she had trained at Saint Cer.

'That I believe most sincerely, Sir Quinte,' he replied.

They entered a region of vineyards, rows of vines that stretched to the tops of the hills surrounding them, and Sir Quinte changed the topic to wine, about which he seemed quite knowledgeable. Dusk approached, and Neils doubts about his companions crept and faded, then crept back again. But, if they meant him harm, why had they not seized the opportunity? He was outnumbered.

Perhaps they still needed something from him. Anne, for instance. If the women of Saint Cer were all as fearsome as Erren, they could not walk or fight their way in. They would need Neil to bring her out with the queen's word.

That would be the time to be wary.

Sir Quinte was as good as his word on one issue, at least'before the sunset, they followed a curve around the base of a hill and came upon the coven Saint Cer.

Or, rather, the ruins of it, for the coven had been put to the torch. At first sight, Neil kicked Hurricane into a gallop, but he had ridden only a hundred paces when he slowed the horse to a walk.

There was no smoke. This place had burned long ago.

But was this even the coven Saint Cer? He had only Sir Quintes word.

Behind him he heard the faint snick of steel coming from scabbard, and he realized that he had finally put Sir Quinte and the others at his back.